Shadowfall

16

“I believe I've discovered who called upon castellan Mirra,” Gerrod Rothkild said. “The one who brought her that swatch of linen in the middle of the night, soaked in blood.”

Kathryn stood out on her hermitage’s balcony, leaning on the balustrade. The day had proven to be warm, the first kiss of true spring. The rains of the past quarter moon steamed from the damp grounds of the courtyard, trapped between the four stone walls of Tashijan. The air was redolent with flowering buds from the giant wyrmwood tree blooming just these last few days, opening honeyed petals of snow-white. The branches of the wyrmwood dappled the balcony with their shadows, while across the courtyard, Stormwatch Tower climbed endlessly upward, basking in the sun like a sword raised on high.

It seemed too pleasant a day for such dark conversations. It should be night with rain falling. She sighed and turned to her friend. Gerrod’s bronzed armor sparked in the patches of sunlight, as if on fire.

“What have you discovered?” Kathryn asked.

Gerrod turned from the balcony and strode back into her rooms. Such words were best spoken in private, away from the open courtyard. Voices could carry oddly, echoing from the yard’s walls.

Kathryn followed him inside, closing the balcony doors.

Gerrod reached to his neck and retracted his helmet with a whir of mekanicals. His pale features seemed even paler. He ran a hand over his shaved scalp. The tattoos of his mastered disciplines stood out starkly, looking more like wounds than ink. “What I’ve found is most odd.”

Kathryn crossed and poured them each a tiny glass of rose wine. “Tell me all.”

“I was able to loosen the stableman’s tongue, the one who took the stranger’s horse,” Gerrod said, accepting a glass. “Though the groomsman proved stubborn. But what was sealed with gold finally broke under more.”

“What did he tell you?”

“Unfortunately not as much as I’d wished.” His frown deepened, along with the furrow across his brow. “He knew nothing of what the man carried or what his purpose was in coming so late on so road-worn a horse. But he did know that the man had traveled from Chrismferry.”

“And as I recall,” Kathryn said, “he returned there again after meeting with Castellan Mirra.”

Gerrod nodded. “The stableman also managed to note a detail about the man. At the man’s collar, he wore a stitching of oak and twig.”

Kathryn’s eyes widened. “A healer?”

“So it would appear.”

“By why would a healer bring something so foul to the castellan and in such a guarded manner?”

“That I can’t answer.” Gerrod stared at her with those penetrating green eyes, shining with sharp intelligence. “But my gold did buy one additional bit of information.” A bit of wry amusement glinted.

“What?”

“A name.”

Kathryn lowered her wineglass to the table. “The stableman caught his name?”

“Not exactly. The healer left his ride behind, taking a fresh horse for the long trip back.”

“He took one of our windmares,” Kathryn said, remembering the man’s urgency. He had needed speed to return to Chrismferry, borrowing an air-graced horse.

“And he rode in on the same,” Gerrod commented. “One by the name of Swifttail. This detail, of course, the stableman happened to note. He might miss a man’s name, but such a blessed bit of horseflesh would not escape his eye.”

“And how does this help us?”

Gerrod stepped to the table and picked at a piece of hard cheese left from her midday meal. He raised a brow inquiringly, asking permission.

“It seems what you bought in gold I must pay in cheese,” Kathryn said.

He cut a chunk and gingerly used his armored fingers to nibble at its edge. He washed it down with his wine, sighing contentedly, then continued. “It is lucky that Swifttail’s heritage was well-known to our stableman. His knowledge of all the First Land’s horseflesh is quite extensive. He spent most of a morning reciting Swifttail’s lineage.”

“And where does this lineage lead us?”

“To a stable as distinguished as our own. A private stable.”

“In Chrismferry.”

“Indeed… at the Conclave of Chrismferry to be exact.”

“The school?” The Conclave was the oldest and most illustrious of Myrillia’s institutes of training for young handmaidens and — men. Many of the Council of Masters had once taught there or still consulted.

“And the Conclave has only one healer in residence,” Gerrod said. “A fellow by the name of Paltry. I did some investigation and found he matched young Penni’s description of Castellan Mirra’s night visitor: black haired, fair of features.”

Kathryn narrowed one eye. “Healer Paltry. Why does that name sound familiar?”

“He also serves as the private physik to the High Wing of Chrism. You may remember hearing how the man saved several of his Hands from the pox scourge that struck the city two years ago.”

Kathryn nodded. “Of course. And now you think it was this healer who brought the bloodied swath to Castellan Mirra.”

“I am confident he is the one.”

“But why? To what end?”

“That’s something that will require further investigation in Chrismferry.”

“I can send a cadre of knights-”

“And alert all of Tashijan, including Warden Fields.” The name was spoken with a thick scowl. Fields had been instituting changes throughout the Citadel, not all well received. He had trimmed control of the Council of Masters, giving Master Hesharian powers to dictate without a quorum from the rest of the council. Power was concentrating into fewer and fewer hands, and all of those under the thumb of Argent ser Fields.

“What do you propose then?” Kathryn asked.

“There is an early-morning flippercraft headed to Chrismferry. I hope to be aboard it. I’ll make an excuse of needing to consult the libraries in the city. Once there, I can make some discreet inquiries, see if I can trace the source and reason for this strange visitation by Healer Paltry.”

Kathryn shook her head. “I don’t want you to go alone. You’ll need an escort.”

“I can fend for myself. And I am armored.” He tapped a fist on his thigh with a clank.

“No.” A firm tone entered her voice. “I want a sword at your side and someone who knows how to use it. You’ll take Perryl with you. To lessen suspicion, I can send him as courier to the court at Chrismferry. As castellan, I have some authority.”

“At least for the moment,” Gerrod countered dourly.

She sighed and glanced to the door, sensing the tracker and beast at her threshold. “He keeps me on a short enough tether as it is. And once Tylar is captured”-her voice caught in her throat-“or killed, my use to the warden will end.”

“I’m not so sure,” Gerrod said more softly. “He eyes you most salaciously at times. I think his plans for you don’t end with Tylar’s capture.”

Kathryn remembered Argent’s talk in his chambers, a hint at some possible union between them. For the good of Tashijan… and in turn for all of Myrillia. Such had been his rhetoric these past days as new laws were posted to doors and common rooms, justifying the concentration of power. And she was no exception.

“Perhaps Perryl should stay at your side,” Gerrod said.

Kathryn rested her hand on the diamond pommel of her sword. “I have a blade… and know how to use it.”

Gerrod reached and took her hand from her sword. “Still, beware. Trust no one, not even your fellow knights. Shadowcloaks are good at hiding one’s heart as well as form.”

She reached and hugged him. “You should take the same advice in Chrismferry. It seems something foul is at work there… something that struck at the heart of Tashijan.”

“Not just Tashijan,” Gerrod mumbled and broke the embrace. He raised his helmet. “Perhaps its reach extended as far as the Summering Isles.”

Kathryn studied the bronze figure. “The slaying of Meeryn? You think it’s all tied together?”

“A master’s first lesson is to be suspicious of a chain of circumstance. Something stirs beneath all this. It hides behind many faces, but wears only one.”

Kathryn felt the chill of certainty in his words.

“Hopefully I’ll learn more from Healer Paltry.” Gerrod bowed his head. “Step carefully, Kathryn.”

“And you do the same.”

The bullhound growled, crouched at a cross passage ahead.

Kathryn stopped at an arm raised by Tracker Lorr. “Barrin smells something,” the wyldman said. “Stay here.”

Kathryn felt no fear. One bullhound or the other was always scenting something. It made for crossing from one end of Tashijan to the other a major undertaking, full of sudden stops and hissed warnings. But she had wanted to hand the courier message to Perryl herself. She carried it in the inner pocket of her shadowcloak, sealed with wax, imprinted with the castellan’s mark. She had spent the afternoon composing the letter, addressing it to the one person she most trusted in Chrismferry. He would be able to assist Perryl and Gerrod in their inquiries.

Kathryn glanced to the bit of sky shining through a high window. The sun was close to setting already. At this rate, by the time she got the letter into Perryl’s hands, he would miss the dawn flippercraft.

Behind her, the hulking mass of the other bullhound filled half the corridor. Hern kept watch on their trail. How they could smell anything beyond the rangy reek of their own pelts and fetid breath was a mystery.

Lorr moved to Barrin’s side. The tracker’s amber eyes narrowed. His loose hair was secured behind his ears with a strap of leather. He had a pair of blades out, one in each hand. Kathryn had seen him impale a rat at a hundred paces, a tidbit of fresh meat for his companions. He scouted the crossing of passages.

Kathryn leaned against a wall. There was no use protesting such caution. Tracker Lorr had been given his duty by Warden Fields. He would brook no other authority.

He waved her forward. “Clear.” Lorr sniffed the air. Bred to be a tracker in the ancient forests of Idlewyld, he had been blessed with Grace, his senses of smell heightened by air, his skill at woodlore gifted by loam. He cocked his head high, his profile clearly showing the slight protuberance of the lower half of his face as he scented the air.

“There’s an old trail of blood through here,” he said. “I would’ve missed it if not for Barrin here. Someone was killed nearby. Murder, I’d say, from the tang of fear in the air.”

Kathryn moved to his side. “How old is the trail?”

“No older than the turn of one moon.” He glanced back at her.

Kathryn studied the crossroad of corridors. Her first worry was for Castellan Mirra. “Are you certain?”

“Blood is blood,” he said and waved Barrin down the hall.

“Can you follow the trail?”

Lorr shrugged. “Certainly, until the blood runs out. Barrin and Hern may be able to follow it even farther. But what of this letter you wanted delivered? The trail is old. It can wait the night.”

Kathryn shook her head, sensing a need for urgency. “No, we must pursue it.” She nodded for him to follow.

He balked for a moment, clearly wondering if it was wise to lead his charge along such a path. But his eyes drifted to the trail with beastly longing. Blood was in the air. There was a track to follow.

Finally he huffed at Barrin and pointed. The bullhound continued down the new passage, nose close to the stones. This passage led into parts of Tashijan that had seen little use in ages.

Warden Fields had been correct in his assessment of the current state of affairs, here and across Myrillia. The number of knights and those who sought to serve the gods had been slowly eroding over the past four centuries. So slow was the attrition, it was hard to note, like water wearing a path through stone.

They continued into the lonely passages. Rooms were boarded up, even some windows. Dust grew thicker as they wound down a twisting narrow stairway. Older footsteps disturbed the grime, coming and going.

Lorr would stop and finger some of the steps. “Fresher,” he said. “Other trackers have been this way.”

“So the blood trail has already been followed,” Kathryn said, disappointment hardening her words. She pictured the scores of men and women, trackers and knights, even ilk-beasts, who had searched for Castellan Mirra. None had met with success. If this path had already been followed…

Lorr straightened. “There are no sharper noses than those of a bullhound. Where others have given up, we may push farther.” A hint of excitement rushed his words. “We move on.”

As they searched, Kathryn remembered stories told of Chrismferry. The colossal, ancient city was so broad of scope and breadth that vast areas had fallen into disrepair and returned to wildlands within the heart of the city. Most of the city folk seldom traveled past their own four city blocks. The rest was foreign lands.

The same was true here, Kathryn realized. Tashijan was the size of a small city, half above ground, half below, but much had fallen away and was forgotten. Knights and masters stuck to the corridors they knew. Few ventured into those hidden corners. Warden Fields had warned about the impossibility of defending against Tylar’s attempt to enter Tashijan. It had too many forgotten battlements, entries, and secret halls. Kathryn saw the proof of that here.

Lorr was finally forced to light a torch as the corridors grew too dark… though Kathryn suspected the light was mostly for her benefit. The wyldman’s eyes glowed with a trace of Grace.

“The blood trail grows too thin for me to follow,” Lorr said, halting at a spot where the corridor branched in three directions. He knelt and studied the stone. “Someone used a blessing of air to breeze away the dust, hiding their footsteps.”

“So we can go no farther?”

“We have bullhounds,” said Lorr.

Barrin had already wandered ahead and sniffed at the three passages. He grumbled at the one on the left. A rope of drool dripped from one corner of his lip and sizzled on the stone, etching it. Hern, behind them, simply stood on guard, tongue lolling, waiting on his master.

“This way,” Lorr said, stepping toward the left passage. “Careful of the drool.”

Kathryn followed behind Lorr. The corridors here were low and narrow. Barrin filled the entire passage ahead, Hern behind. Kathryn felt an intense pang of unease. No one knew she was down here… and bullhounds had the capability for consuming all, even the bones, of their prey.

Was that how Castellan Mirra had vanished? Into the gullet of such monsters? Kathryn’s steps began to slow. Her hand drifted to the pommel of her sword. Had she walked willingly to her own doom?

They continued for another quarter bell, moving in line, slipping from one passage to the next, climbing crumbled stairs.

A hiss from Lorr drew her attention. He pointed ahead. Barrin had entered a cavernous room. Lorr followed next. He waved for Kathryn to stay at the entrance.

With torch in hand, Lorr moved into the room. The firelight danced shadows on the high-raftered room. It looked like a small gathering hall. Tiered benches circled the walls, though one section had collapsed down upon itself.

Barrin hunched over a mound in the room’s center.

Kathryn held a fist to her throat as Lorr’s approaching torch revealed a sprawled body, naked, white as bone, arms out wide, legs together. The head was blocked by Barrin’s shaggy shoulder. Lorr circled the body, eyes on the form.

Kathryn could wait no longer. Castellan Mirra…

She hurried into the room. Hern shambled after her, always her shadow.

She rushed to the body on the floor. She quickly saw her mistake. The bared loins revealed the slaughtered figure was a man, not a woman, not Castellan Mirra.

Kathryn stumbled to a stop, aghast.

The man’s throat had been cut, his chest cleaved open. A trough, hacked crudely from the stone floor, circled his body. His wrists, also slashed, hung over the trough to either side.

Lorr lowered his torch.

Blood, crusted and dried, caked the trough.

“They bled him like a pig,” Lorr said, spitting to the side.

Barrin hung back. The great beast mewled softly, almost fearfully. What could scare such a monster? What did its sharpened senses discern that theirs did not?

Kathryn crossed around and knelt by the man’s head. Three stripes darkened his features, from the outside corner of the eye to each temple. A knight. She did not recognize the young man, but he must be new to his third stripe. It appeared freshly tattooed, which meant he had just been gifted with the full Grace of a Shadowknight, his blood freshly blessed, ripe and potent. Such knights were often quickly placed among the Hundred, to bend a knee and serve one of the gods. His disappearance could be easily hidden.

She stood up. Hern made a gruff snort off to the side.

Lorr and Kathryn moved together to one side of the room.

A well opened in the floor there, an old hearth, similar to the Hearthstone in Tashijan’s Grand Court. Only this hole did not dance brightly with flame.

Lorr leaned his torch over the pit. It was filled with broken branches, cracked and charred. Kathryn blinked as a flicker of torchlight revealed a leering skull, blackened by soot, one cheekbone crushed, peering out among the branches.

She instantly saw her mistake.

It was not branches that filled the pit, but…

“Bones,” Lorr said, almost a moan.

Kathryn swung away, her stomach churning. Whatever fire had been lit in this pit had been fueled with flesh. She stared at the prostrate, slaughtered young man. Knights. The pit was full of the bones of murdered knights.

“A lair of Dark Grace,” Lorr said with a fierce growl. “Here in Tashijan. We must tell the warden.”

Kathryn eyed the dead knight. His arms had been forced wide, legs together, forming a cross, encircled by a ring of blood, once surely aglow with fresh Grace.

A ring of fire.

Horror iced her heart.

The symbolism of the body’s position and ring was plain. A similar insignia was worn on many a knight’s arm following the ascension of Argent ser Fields. It was the new warden’s badge.

The Fiery Cross.

Kathryn hurried with Lorr back into the inhabited sections of Tashijan. Both were glad to escape such a foul place. Barrin still led the way; Hern followed.

“I won’t keep my tongue,” Lorr continued his tirade, stalking down the halls. “I’ve hunted with Ser Fields since his earliest campaign. I will not listen to your suspicions.”

Kathryn kept pace with the man. “That dark work back there was done by someone in the Fiery Cross. You know I’m right. I can see it in your eyes. Maybe Argent… Warden Fields was not involved.” She had to force out those last words. She had no doubt of Argent’s complicity. “But someone in the Fiery Cross… his group… led that rite. And it wasn’t the first.”

Lorr sighed heavily. He had seen the charnel pit. His eyes, hard and flinty, still shone with the horror of it all. “Mayhap you’re right. But should the warden not be given word?”

Kathryn gripped the diadem pendant at her neck. The diamond, though made of paste, still signified her position. “I am the castellan of Tashijan, second only to the warden. As some part of the Fiery Cross was involved in this most foul murder, it is right for the warden to step aside in the investigation. He’s compromised for his involvement with the Cross. So I must step forward.”

“And what do you plan on doing?”

“First, swear you to secrecy.”

Lorr glanced harshly at her.

She faced him down. “We must not alert the Fiery Cross to our knowledge or all involved will vanish into the shadows, unpunished and unknown. That must not happen, not until we are ready to snare them all.”

Lorr marched ahead, shoulders hunched. Finally he grunted a grudging assent. “I will keep silent for the moment.”

Kathryn hid her relief. If Argent knew what they had discovered, he would not let them live until the next dawn. She had to avoid the warden until she could determine some plan… which meant consulting with her friend Gerrod before he left.

“I must speak to Master Rothkild,” Kathryn said. “We’ll forgo delivering the letter for the moment.”

Lorr nodded.

Reaching the central main staircase, Lorr started down the wide steps, led by Barrin. The large bullhound’s hackles still bristled. A few knights and masters gave the beast a wide berth, pressing against the wall.

They wound down deep under the Citadel, leaving the last rays of the sun behind and entering the subterranean domain of the Masters of Disciplines. She prayed Gerrod was still in his chambers.

The answer stepped around the next bend in the stair.

Master Hesharian gasped aloud as he came face-to-jowl with the slavering Barrin. The man’s large bulk stumbled back a pace, tripping on a step. Before he fell, his arm was caught in the bronze fingers of his companion, Gerrod Rothkild.

“Skaggin’ monsters,” Hesharian huffed, steadying himself. He shook free of Gerrod’s grip. “What are you doing down here?” His piggish eyes took in Lorr, the bullhounds, and Kathryn.

Lorr opened his mouth to speak, but Kathryn stepped forward. “How fortunate a meeting. I had hoped to discuss a matter with Master Rothkild.”

Hesharian glanced to Gerrod, then back to Kathryn. “We’ve been summoned to the field room by Warden Fields. It seems our godslayer has made landfall.”

Gerrod’s features remained unreadable behind his bronze helmet.

Kathryn kept her own face calm. “Where?” she asked.

“Where else… somewhere off in Foulsham Dell.” He spoke the name with clear distaste. “Warden Fields has doubled the night’s shift and calls all leaders to the meeting. I’m surprised you did not receive a summons.”

“I’ve been away from my rooms for the past two bells. Perhaps the message awaits me there.”

“I’m sure that is so.”

Gerrod stirred. “If that’s the case, then certainly Castellan Vail should proceed directly to the field room with us.”

Hesharian glared at the two bullhounds, clearly not wanting their company. But he could not discount Gerrod’s offer.

They all continued as a group back up the stairs. No one spoke. The bullhounds grumbled, but a cuff from Lorr silenced them.

Kathryn slowed her step, allowing Master Hesharian and Lorr to drift ahead, vanishing for stretches behind the curve of the stair. Hern was their only companion, padding after them, eyes wide.

“Why have you been summoned?” Kathryn asked. It was strange that Gerrod was called to this meeting. He was not even a member of the Council of Masters, though it was rumored he was next in line for one of the seats.

“It seems,” Gerrod whispered, “that word of my departure at dawn has reached the ears of the warden. He has some duty to request of me when I travel to Chrismferry.”

Kathryn felt a chill skate across her skin. How had Argent learned so quickly of Gerrod’s plan to leave by flippercraft? And why this sudden summons?

Gerrod motioned back down the stairs. “Why were you coming down here?”

Kathryn did not like discussing this on the open stair, but she feared she might not have another chance. “Lorr and I discovered something of hideous import.” She described the body, its mutilation, the charnel pit.

“Strange,” Gerrod mumbled.

“What do you mean?”

“The body was left there, sprawled, mutilated, and abandoned. Does that not strike you as odd? Though the rite was clearly performed in a lonely, abandoned corner of Tashijan, why not hide their crime better? At least dump the body into the pit. Why leave it to be so conspicuously placed?”

“You think it was left on purpose?”

Gerrod nodded ahead. “You said that Lorr led you to the body, he and his hounds. Maybe someone wanted it to be found.”

Kathryn shook her head. “But why? Lorr is the warden’s man. Why would Argent want to implicate the Fiery Cross in some bloody rite?” She remembered the genuine horror on the wyldman’s face.

Gerrod stared questioningly at her.

“No,” she said firmly. “Lorr had no foreknowledge about what we would find.”

“Then perhaps he was set up also. A fresh blood lure tracked in the corridors. Meant to lead him and his hounds to the site.”

“But why? To what end?”

“Maybe there is another party seeking to discredit or expose the Fiery Cross. They couldn’t operate in the open, so they led someone they could trust to the spot, either hoping you’d take on the burden or to at least warn you.”

“But who? Why the need for secrecy?”

“If we’re right about Argent’s involvement with the death of Ser Henri and perhaps Castellan Mirra, then whoever is left of their trusted circle may be trying to help you now, fearful to approach directly, but knowing you must not fall under Argent’s sway. The new warden can be convincing.”

Kathryn remembered her morning meeting with Argent ser Fields a few days back. He had an answer to every one of her concerns, calming suspicion with a ready explanation. He had argued that the Fiery Cross was nothing more than an organization of knights and masters interested in returning Tashijan to full glory during this time of world strife. It had seemed plausible.

No longer.

“What about this tracker?” Gerrod said. “Will he speak? If Warden Fields finds-”

“He’s promised to keep silent for the moment.”

“Do you trust him?”

They wended around another bend in the stairs. Ahead lay the landing that led to Tashijan’s field room. Lorr and Hesharian climbed off the stairs, following the massive bullhound. Lorr glanced back at Kathryn, his hard eyes shining. He motioned her forward, while whistling under his breath to Hern.

The bullhound behind Kathryn pushed her and Gerrod forward.

Lorr spoke as she passed him. The field room lay halfway down the corridor. “I’ll see to watering Hern and Barrin. I’ll meet you outside the field room when you’re done.”

They stepped away. Gerrod glanced askance at her, his question still unanswered. Do you trust him?

She considered, then nodded to Gerrod, surprised at her answer but still sure. “I do.”

She had seen how Lorr cared for the great wooly beasts, firm but kind, demanding but patient. She also saw the deep wound in his eyes at finding the slaughtered young man. There was a well of depth hidden behind that hard countenance. He would not break his word.

Hesharian reached the door to the field room ahead of them, clearly glad to escape the company of the bullhounds. He inspected his white robe for bits of stray fur or any hole burned by a spatter of hound saliva.

A pair of young Shadowknights stood post on either side of the door. One swept forward and opened the way.

Kathryn eyed the young men, picturing another, the knight slaughtered and bled. A pang of sorrow and anger fired through her. She strode into the field room.

It looked the same as when last she was there, except the far windows overlooking the tourney grounds were unshuttered, open on the twilit skies. Torches hung at each corner, well away from the racked rolls of maps and documents.

The same men stood around the scarred wyrmwood table. Keeper Ryngold of the house staff, the black-stubbled knight Symon ser Jaklar, whose sneer seemed a permanent stamp, and of course, at the table’s head, Argent ser Fields.

The warden straightened from the map of Tashijan pinned to the table’s surface. Small silver tokens marked the placement of men throughout the Citadel. His one eye took in the latecomers, settling on Kathryn.

“Castellan Vail,” he said with good cheer. “I feared you would not receive the summons in time. My man Lowl has been scouring the Citadel attempting to find you. It seemed strange that someone accompanied by two hulking bullhounds could be so hard to find.”

“Tashijan is large,” she answered, waving to the map. “Plenty of places to hide.”

Keeper Ryngold chuckled, a strange sound among so many dour and black-cloaked figures. His purple surcoat and the silver baldric of his station stood out brightly. “Such is the problem we face now,” he said. “How to guard a place with so many secret corners?”

Symon ser Jaklar’s sneer deepened.

Warden Fields merely sighed. “But we do have new allies.” He stepped aside to reveal a figure limned against the twilight skies, half lost in the darkness, easy to miss. A Shadowknight. He turned to face them, his masklin lying around his neck, exposing his face, as was custom in this room.

Kathryn flinched at the man’s appearance, his bone-white features, snowy hair, eyes a silvery red.

“May I present Darjon ser Hightower,” Argent introduced. “Formerly of the Summering Isles, now here to lend his service and counsel to the capture of Tylar de Noche.”

Kathryn waited for the introductions to finish. Hesharian nodded to the stranger, his arms folded into the long sleeves of his robe. Kathryn used the time to study the newcomer. His expression remained stern and unwelcoming. He seemed disinterested in the proceedings. Something about the man’s eyes disturbed her-not the odd color, but something deeper, a coldness that went beyond an absence of warmth.

But more important, what held her transfixed was the absence of stripes on his face. Yet he wore a Shadowcloak and his eyes clearly shone with Grace.

This did not escape the notice of Master Hesharian. “Why are you unmarked, Ser Hightower?”

“It is a long story,” the knight said. The only emotion was a crinkling of a brow, irritation.

“He is indeed a sworn and accepted knight,” Argent insisted. “It was a mishap at birth, a blessing went awry, that left his skin unable to bear any pigment, natural or otherwise.”

Darjon gave Argent a baleful look.

“But enough of these introductions. We have plans to settle now that we know the godslayer has made landfall here.”

“In Foulsham Dell?” Kathryn asked.

“So word has come from one of our knights in the Dell. There is some confusion. Tylar de Noche apparently attacked Lord Balger, actually absconding with the god’s hand, so the story is told. Balger attempted to apprehend Tylar in the swamps but with no success. The search continues there, but we must not assume the godslayer is still among the swamps. His appearance at our borders confirms his goal. To come here.” Argent’s eyes fell upon Kathryn. “To come for you.”

Kathryn felt another pair of eyes fix to her. Darjon’s attention felt like a wash of icy waters.

“But we will be prepared,” Argent affirmed. “We have knights coming in from surrounding realms to aid in the capture of the godslayer. Our numbers have swelled to two thousand.”

Kathryn now understood why the hallways seemed so crowded of late. It was becoming such that one couldn’t turn a corner without bumping into another knight.

“Before we get down to details here…” Argent turned his attention to the last member of this council who had yet to be addressed. “Gerrod Rothkild, it has come to my attention that you will be leaving us, to proceed to Chrismferry on a research trip, is this not so?”

Kathryn forced herself not to react. She and Gerrod had decided only earlier in the day to search for clues in Chrismferry. How had Argent known? Kathryn noted Master Hesharian seeming to take particular attention in the dirt under one of his nails. Gerrod also glanced to the head of the Council of Masters. Plainly he must have informed the council to get permission to leave, and word had reached Argent through his fat puppet.

Gerrod bowed his head. “I am indeed heading to Chrismferry at dawn. I wish to consult the ancient library of Nirraborath and to obtain a few alchemic items.”

“Good… very good. I was wondering if you’d be willing to do a favor for the Citadel. Master Hesharian has assured me you’d be most cooperative.”

“If it is in my capacity to comply, I certainly will.”

“I have a parcel that I wish carried by a most trusted hand to Chrism’s castillion. It may be delivered to the keeper of the house there. Keeper Ryngold has already dispatched a raven to announce your coming. I hope that wasn’t presumptuous.”

“Not at all. There is an alchemy shop I wish to visit in the shadow of the castillion.”

“Thank you. Visit Keeper Ryngold’s chambers before retiring to obtain and secure the parcel.” Argent’s attention swung away, as good as a dismissal. His gaze again fell upon Kathryn. Argent smiled but the warmth did not reach his one eye. “Am I to understand that you need a courier to dispatch a message to Chrismferry? Mayhap Master Rothkild could deliver that also?”

Kathryn stood very still, attempting to keep from letting any sign of shock showing. No one knew about the letter except Gerrod, herself

… and Lorr. She pictured the tracker. Moments before she had professed her trust in the man. Was it misplaced? But she had only told Lorr about the letter and her wish to visit Perryl when she was ready to leave her chambers. The tracker had not been out of her sight after that.

So how had Argent found out?

She cleared her throat. “That is most kind, Warden Fields, but Master Rothkild and I have already discussed the matter in private.”

Then again, did she have any privacy? Argent clearly was enjoying this moment. Was that all the purpose of the show here? To illustrate to Kathryn how much a stranglehold Argent had on her comings and goings, on her most intimate moments and plans? He must have spies everywhere.

She refused to let him rattle her. “This matter is best handled by a Shadowknight.”

Argent nodded and waved away the question. “So be it. You are the castellan of Tashijan.”

Master Hesharian wore a thick smirk at these words.

Argent began to turn away, then swung back toward Kathryn. “If that’s the case, mayhap you’d best deliver your letter without further waste. We can handle matters from here on our own. It’s all a tedious matter of shuffling knights anyway.”

Again she was being dismissed, shut out of the proceedings here. She did not protest this time. She had only to picture the young knight, naked and bloody, to want to flee as fast as she could from the warden’s presence.

They spent another few moments bowing out, but soon Gerrod and Kathryn were free of the field room. She found Lorr already awaiting her with Barrin and Hern. The pair of bullhounds sat on their haunches. Stubbed tails wagged at the sight of her.

Lorr straightened with a curry brush. He had been combing down Barrin. “That was nigh quick. Hardly worth the long climb.”

Kathryn frowned at him. Argent had only been pulling her string, making sure his puppet would still respond.

“Are you off to your chambers?” Lorr asked, nodding down the hall.

“It is late,” Gerrod said. “I could deliver the letter to Ser Corriscan.”

“No, I’d prefer to see Perryl myself.” Kathryn was in no spirit to be ensconced in her hermitage. The day had been too bloody, too disturbing. She wanted nothing better than to go to the stable, saddle the fastest horse, and ride until she could forget all this. But she’d settle for a bit more walking. Besides, she needed to explain all to Perryl, to see if he knew of any strange disappearances among his young knights. It was a place to begin her own investigations. “I’ll accompany you as far as his floor, then,” Gerrod offered.

Kathryn smiled her grateful thanks.

They continued back to the stairs, Barrin and Lorr in the lead again. Kathryn felt an odd comfort in the presence of the two hulking bullhounds.

They walked in silence for a long stretch.

Gerrod finally spoke, whispering to keep their words private. “You know what that was all about, don’t you?”

Kathryn nodded. “He’s flexing his muscles.”

A nod. “Our warden grows bolder, more assured of his position and security. And rightly so, I’m afraid. Tashijan bows at his feet.”

“Not all of Tashijan,” Kathryn said fiercely. “There’s us… and whoever might have led us to that bloody chamber. You mentioned before that a shadowcloak hid more than just a knight’s face. I think there are more folk on our side than is plain to see.”

“You may be right, but to fight for Tashijan, it can’t all be done in shadows.”

Kathryn knew the truth of his words. Eventually swords would have to be raised and sides chosen.

At last they reached the landing to Perryl’s floor. It was one of the lowest of the Citadel’s boarding levels, for the knights new to their cloak. Gerrod said his good-byes as he continued down to the subterranean levels of the masters.

Once Gerrod was out of sight, Kathryn and Lorr exited the stair and followed through the warren of narrow passages and low doors.

Kathryn remembered her first years in these halls. It had been a happier time, free of subterfuge and heartache.

She heard laughter from some of the rooms and the rattle of bone cups. The characteristic sour stench of stale ale persisted, soaked into the very stones of this hall. Somewhere farther down the hall a brief scuffle of swords, knights challenging one another, testing, competing.

She wended her way through the maze of corridors to reach Perryl’s cell. “Over there,” she said, pointing out the proper door. She glanced to make sure she had the letter and that the name upon it was not smudged. Satisfied, she crossed to the door and knocked upon it.

Barrin and Hern took up posts on either side, all but filling the hallway. Lorr kept behind her.

There was no answer. Maybe he was gone, off with friends.

She knocked harder.

A scuffle of noise sounded beyond the door. Someone was home.

“Perryl…” she called through the planks of the door.

Silence answered her.

“Perryl, it’s Kathryn.”

A moment of silence, then a muffled response. “Come inside… but be quick about it.”

Kathryn tried the door. It was unlatched. She shoved it open. A small hearth crackled to one side of the greeting room. Beyond an archway, the bedchamber lay dark.

A cloaked Shadowknight stood by the hearth, facing the flames. “Close the door. Latch it.”

She obeyed, though she knew instantly the figure was not Perryl. The shoulders were too broad, the figure sturdier of frame. Even cloaked from head to foot, Kathryn knew the stranger was far older than the young man she had come to see.

“Where’s Perryl?” she asked.

“Gone… disappeared… no one knows where… but there was blood on his bed.”

Kathryn pictured the slain knight in the Fiery Cross. Fear gripped her. If Argent knew of her letter, did he know whom she planned to send?

“Wh… who are you?”

The Shadowknight turned, his face hidden by a wrap of masklin, his stripes plain to see. “Don’t you know me?”

Kathryn stared into his eyes. The room spun, her knees weakened. Time slipped from the past to the present.

“Tylar…”