Shadowfall

18

Tylar kept his back to the fire, but he felt none of its heat. He stared at Kathryn. Her auburn hair had been plaited into a single braid. Her form was clothed in black. A shadowcloak lay swept behind one shoulder and draped to her ankles. He stared, unblinking. She hadn’t changed. How could that be? Even now her blue eyes carried the same mix of doubt and confusion as when last he had seen her, seated before Tashijan’s court.

Tylar was unprepared for his reaction. He had never intended to come across her. He had planned on avoiding the upper reaches of the Citadel where the warden and castellan kept their rooms. But here Kathryn was, standing before him.

Met with those eyes, Tylar could not move. A part of him wanted to lunge out, pull her into an embrace, kiss those lips, taste the woman to whom he’d pledged his heart… but another wanted to simply lash out. How could she have doubted him? Hadn’t she known him better than any woman? And still even deeper down, a final part of him wanted to drop to his knees and beg her forgiveness for all he had done, all he had cost them both.

He tried speaking. “Kathryn…” But any further words died to ash in his mouth.

She turned her eyes away. Tylar found he could move again and stepped toward her. She stepped farther away. He relented and spoke the words that needed to be declared. “I didn’t slay Meeryn.”

“I know,” Kathryn mumbled, her back to him. “And I know you didn’t murder that family of cobblers five years ago.”

Tylar stumbled at this. “How-?”

Kathryn cut him off. “The story is long.” She glanced to the door. “It’s not safe for you here, Tylar. Why did you return?”

“To clear my name. To expose the true slayer of Meeryn.”

She glanced quickly back at him and away, but Tylar caught the flash of pain in her eyes. Her gaze dropped to the floor. Anger fired her words. “How does coming here help you?”

“A burden was placed upon me by Meeryn,” Tylar said, and he briefly recounted Meeryn’s death and her final words to him. “She cured my broken body but left me with this duty, this mystery.”

“ Rivenscryr? What does that mean?”

Tylar frowned. “According to Fyla of Tangled Reef, the word is a name in ancient Littick, the god’s name for the talisman that sundered their world four thousand years ago.”

Kathryn swung back around. “You mean the Godsword?”

He nodded.

“Why mention such a dread thing?”

“That’s the answer I came here to find. Tashijan’s libraries are the best in all of Myrillia. I’ve brought others to help me search.” He motioned to the dark doorway to the neighboring bedroom. His companions appeared at his signal, stepping out of hiding, all draped in shadowcloaks. One carried a sword in hand.

“May I present Krevan,” Tylar said, “formerly known as the Raven Knight.”

Kathryn’s eyes widened in shock. Her eyes traveled to the ancient sword in his hand. Serpentfang could not be mistaken.

There was no time for lengthier introductions as the others pushed into the small room, crowding it. Tylar named each in turn. “This is Rogger, a scholar turned thief. And Delia, one of Meeryn’s former Hands.”

Delia bowed her head. “Castellan Vail,” she said formally.

“And lastly Eylan, Wyr-mistress from the Lair.” The tall woman in leathers eyed Kathryn up and down, apprising her as a threat.

Once finished, Kathryn stared about the group. She’d been so focused on Tylar, she’d not considered that their might be others hiding in the next room. “How did you all get in here? Why are you in Perryl’s rooms? And what’s become of Perryl?”

Rogger nodded to Kathryn. “The last is as much a mystery to us as it is to you, my dear castellan. As to entering Tashijan, it was not hard when you’re accompanied by a cadre of knights.” He picked at the edge of the cloak he wore about his shoulders.

“Though we can’t use the Grace in them, a cloak is a cloak. Hiding the ordinary just as well as the extraordinary.”

Tylar waved him back. “Perryl was the only person I knew I could trust here,” he explained.

Kathryn winced at these words, but remained silent.

“It took only a few discreet inquiries to find our way to Perryl’s domicile. We’d only just arrived and found him gone when you came knocking.”

“You mentioned blood on his bed.” Kathryn glanced to the back bedroom.

“Not much. A splattering of drops across his sheets. But a table was overturned. There had clearly been a struggle.”

Kathryn paled visibly. “They’ve taken him.”

“Who?”

“The Fiery Cross.”

Tylar scrunched his brow, remembering rumors of such a clandestine order within the ranks of the Shadowknights. “How do you know this?”

A knock interrupted any further words.

“Castellan Vail,” a voice said at the door.

Kathryn waved them to silence. “What is it, Lorr?”

“I just wanted to make sure you were secure.”

“I’m fine, Lorr. Perryl and I are just finishing up.”

“Very good.”

Kathryn backed farther into the room. Her voice lowered. “I have no time to explain more. We have to get you away. I’ll see to Perryl, but I know who might help you with your research into the Godsword.”

“Who?”

“Master Gerrod Rothkild. A friend. I can give you directions to his rooms and will leave a note bearing my seal introducing you.” She turned to a table by the hearth and found a piece of parchment. She quickly scribbled a note.

Tylar watched over her shoulder, making sure what she wrote wasn’t a betrayal. The content of the note was brief with a promise to explain more. It asked the master to extend his trust of Kathryn to Tylar’s party. She sealed it with melted wax and impressed the castellan’s seal into it using her ring.

She handed the note to Tylar. “Stay hidden. I’ll leave first and take my guard and his hounds away.”

“Hounds?” Rogger asked. “What hounds?”

Kathryn glanced to the thief. “Warden Fields knew Tylar was coming here. He mistook his intentions. He thought… that Tylar was coming for me.”

Rogger grinned. “Baiting a trap.” He glanced to Eylan. “It seems everyone’s been doing that lately with Tylar.”

“Yes,” Kathryn mumbled, “but I guess the bait here wasn’t attractive enough for the godslayer.”

Before Tylar could respond, Kathryn headed to the door. “Wait a quarter bell to be sure,” she said. “Then follow my directions down to Gerrod’s room.”

Tylar met her at the door, stopping her from leaving. He whispered his words. “We’re placing all our trust in you.”

“You did that once before… and look what happened.”

Tylar stared again into her eyes. He saw none of the doubt of a moment before, just sorrow.

“Keep hidden,” she repeated. “And move swiftly. All of Tashijan is alerted.”

Tylar fell back behind the door as she pulled the latch.

With the release, the door flew open, throwing Kathryn back and knocking Tylar against the wall.

Across the threshold, a great shaggy beast lunged into the room, as tall as a man and as massive as a bull. It roared, claws digging, hackles raised. Saliva sizzled through the threadbare rug.

On the floor, Kathryn crabbed out of its way, but her cloak tangled her.

Heart pounding, Tylar leaped off the wall, dagger in hand, and flew to stand between the beast and Kathryn. It snapped at him. Tylar twisted to the side. It caught the edge of his cloak, yanking. Before losing balance, he raised the dagger and plunged it into the hound’s eye.

The beast howled and tossed its head, ripping the dagger from his fingers and whipping Tylar away. He struck the wall again, hard, hitting his head. Lights dazzled. He sank to the floor.

Krevan appeared along with Eylan at the bedroom door, swords in hand. At the door, a beastly looking man stepped behind the haunches of the hound. He bore daggers in both hands, his eyes aglow with Grace.

A wyld tracker.

Head aching, Tylar watched Kathryn rise to her feet, arms out, warding away both friend and foe.

“Stop!” Kathryn shouted, her voice firm with command. She had to end this.

The man claiming to be the Raven Knight kept his wary stance, as did the Wyr-woman at his side.

“No one move!” she ordered.

Barrin crouched low to the floor, lips rippled back, baring fangs in pain and fury. The dagger’s hilt still protruded from his left eye.

Lorr’s features matched the ferocity of his wounded bullhound, but he kept his stance at the door. “Castellan, come to me,” he said through gritted teeth.

Kathryn held her place. “Lorr, call off Barrin and Hern.”

The tracker’s eyes narrowed in suspicion.

“Lorr, do as I say!”

With an angry grunt, he coaxed Barrin to drop to his belly. The bullhound moaned, rubbing its impaled eye with the edge of a paw, but the blade had been embedded deep, into bone and nerve. A whimpering flowed from it as the pain worsened.

“Wait,” said Tylar. He pushed up from the wall and rubbed the back of his head. He moved toward the bullhound. “There’s no reason to continue its suffering.”

Lorr stepped toward Tylar. “If anyone is to end Barrin’s misery, it will be me.” He raised a dagger.

“No,” Tylar warned sharply. “That’s not necessary.”

Kathryn joined them. “Lorr, do as he says.”

Tylar crept slowly up to the wounded side of the bullhound. He reached toward the dagger’s hilt. Barrin snapped at him, coming close to taking off Tylar’s arm. A slather of tossed saliva struck Tylar’s cloak, burning holes clean through.

“Can you hold him still?” Tylar asked Lorr.

“Be quick.” The tracker swore under his breath but moved to Barrin’s other side. He bent and whispered in his ear. Barrin’s head rolled toward Lorr, wanting reassurance.

Tylar used the moment to dart forward. But rather than driving the dagger into the hound’s brain, he snatched the dagger free and jumped back.

Barrin jerked his head up and pawed again at his eye. Kathryn expected blood and ichor to pour from the pierced globe. But when Barrin stared back at Lorr, his eye was unharmed, as if it had never been stabbed.

“How could this be?” the tracker gasped.

“A bale dagger,” Tylar said. “A gift from Lord Balger. It heals as fast as it cuts. There should be no lasting harm.”

Lorr’s eyes remained narrowed, but their edge of fury slowly faded. Still, he kept both daggers in hand and his beasts at ready. The bullhounds fully blocked the only exit, waiting for their master’s whistle to tear into those trapped here.

“You are the godslayer,” Lorr said, staring hard at Tylar.

“I slew no god,” he said with exasperation.

“He speaks the truth,” Kathryn said.

Doubt still shone there. Tylar’s compassion had bought them a moment, but nothing more. Kathryn sought some way to convince the tracker, but they didn’t have much time. With all the commotion here, word would soon reach Argent or one of his cronies. But how to convince Lorr to let them all go?

Help came from an unusual source. A figure pushed between the Raven Knight and the Wyr-woman. It was the handmaiden to Meeryn. A slim young woman. Kathryn had forgotten her name.

Lorr had not. “Delia…” He stumbled forward a step. “It can’t be…”

“We are ill-met here, Tracker Lorr.”

“How did you…?” He glanced to Tylar, then back to the handmaiden. “What are you doing here?”

“Helping my friends,” she said with a sad smile. “Like I did with you and your wolf pups when I was a child. I still remember the one named Eyesore, the runt with the twisted back leg.”

Something between a smile and a grimace formed on the tracker’s face. “The tough old ranger died four years back. During a campaign with your father.”

“Oh, no…” Genuine sorrow echoed in her voice.

Kathryn glanced to Tylar.

“She’s Argent’s daughter,” he said.

Kathryn studied the slip of a girl. Brought to her attention, she now noted the similarity in features.

Lorr continued. “Delia, you were a chosen of Meeryn. I remember, when I first heard, I was right near to bursting with pride.”

Now it was Delia’s turn to widen her eyes in surprise. “How… You knew?”

“Though your father may have forgotten you, I have not. Not my little wolf girl.”

Tears rose and brimmed the maiden’s eyes.

Lorr seemed uncomfortable by the raw emotion. He glanced around the room. “But now you serve those accused of Meeryn’s death.”

“Falsely accused.” Delia wiped at her eyes brusquely. “The true murderer is whom we seek to expose.”

Lorr stared hard at the handmaiden, as if he were trying to use his keen sight and altered senses to read the truth, to search for enchantment upon the girl he once knew.

Kathryn knew she’d best press the matter. “Lorr, we must be away. They came for information that I think Master Gerrod might supply. We must not keep them.”

Lorr shook his head. “They’ll never make it. All the passages down to the master’s levels have been barricaded tight with guards. None can pass from the upper levels to the lower without a full search.”

“What if Kathryn goes herself?” Tylar asked. “She can inquire about Rivenscryr from her friend.”

“Lorr would have to come with me,” Kathryn said. “His absence would be noted. And what about you all? You can’t stay here.”

As proof to her words, shouts sounded distantly, coming from the main stair.

Lorr stirred. “Castellan, do you truly trust these folks?”

Kathryn stared at Tylar. Though he wore the same face, much had changed in him-then again much had not. She looked at him now with eyes aged by years and heartache, no longer so naive. He had always been a caring and generous man. In the past, she had let herself doubt this in a moment of panic, confusion, and shock. But she was no longer that woman either.

“I do trust him,” she mumbled and turned to Lorr.

The tracker nodded. “Then there might be a way. But we’ll all have to go together. I can show them a passage that is surely unguarded. A passage that isn’t a passage.”

“What about Perryl?” Tylar said.

Kathryn clenched a fist on the hilt of her sword. She pictured the young knight’s straw hair and easy manner. She had a hard decision to make. “If what you say is true,” she said, “then there’s too much at stake. Lorr and I will search for him after you’re gone. Until then, all we can do is pray he’s safe.”

Tylar hesitated, but finally nodded. Like Kathryn, he knew the weight of duty.

Kathryn turned to the doorway. “Show us, Lorr.”

Tylar and the others pulled their cloaks and hoods back up. Lorr backed Barrin and Hern out into the hallway.

The noise of approaching boots grew louder. A call reached them. “What’s all this uproar?”

Lorr shoved through the bullhounds to face the leader of a cadre of guards. Kathryn held her breath. What if he betrayed them?

“Just a tussle between a couple of hungry dogs,” Lorr grumbled. “So unless you feel like joining them for dinner, you’d best clear on out.” At a hand signal from the tracker, Hern growled with a great show of teeth.

The leader backed away several steps.

Lorr continued. “What is it about you skaggin’ knights?” He waved back to Tylar and the other cloaked figures. “Always come running when you hear a dog bark, but you need some real fighting done and you’re nowhere to be found.”

The guard leader scowled at the insult. “You’d best watch your tongue, tracker.”

Hern growled again.

“And you and your knights better watch more than your tongues.”

The knight waved him off. “Take your beasts out of my halls.”

Lorr sneered and shoved through his dogs. “Continue to the hall’s back stair,” he hissed as he passed Tylar. “The main stair will be too crowded.”

“But don’t we want to get down to the Masterlevels?” Tylar asked. “Those back stairs only lead up.”

“Exactly.”

Tylar marched behind Kathryn as she followed Lorr up the stairs. One of the tracker’s bullhounds led the way, the other trailed behind. Despite the tracker’s willingness to help, he refused to drop his guard. He kept them all pinned between his beasts.

Rogger climbed behind Tylar. Delia kept to his side. Beyond them trailed Krevan and Eylan. Before entering Tashijan, they had left Corram, along with Krevan’s six other Shadowknights, to guard their mounts in case a quick escape proved necessary. They had dared not move too large a group into Tashijan, lest they turn too many an eye, and the other Shadowknights’ cloaks were needed to disguise Tylar, Rogger, Delia, and Eylan.

Tylar now regretted not bringing a few more knights.

They climbed past another three landings. Where was this tracker taking them? The muscles of Tylar’s neck ached from the strain of this night. The fetid breath of the two bullhounds filled the narrow passage. Still, the beasts did succeed in driving other knights off the stairs and out of their way.

At last, Lorr grunted. “We’ll head out here.” The tracker checked the landing, then continued their parade through Tashijan. The halls widened at last.

Rogger moved up to one side of Tylar, Delia the other.

The thief nodded to Kathryn. He dropped his voice to a whisper. “So? How does it feel to see your betrothed again?”

Tylar had no desire to discuss such matters with Rogger-not until he could sort out his own feelings. But he was also conscious of Delia’s presence at his side. She had avoided his eye ever since Kathryn had walked through the door. He remembered Delia’s whispered words back in the Lair. It’s no oath that binds me…

Though neither of them had firmed their feelings beyond tentative motions, he owed Delia an honest answer to Rogger’s question as much as himself. “I… I don’t know.”

Before more could be said, Lorr waved. “Hurry now.”

All had noted the many eyes following their passage. The bullhounds were difficult to miss. Someone would surely raise some inquiries. Word would eventually rise like smoke to the warden’s chambers far overhead.

The hall ended a short ways ahead at a set of double doors.

Tylar recognized where they had been led. He frowned in confusion.

Beyond the doors lay the Grand Court of Tashijan, the giant amphitheater that served as the major gathering place for both knight and master.

Kathryn shook her head. “How does this help us? There’s no exit to the Masterlevels through here.”

Lorr ignored her and tried the door. He tugged without success. “Locked…”

“All the doors into the court will be,” Kathryn said. “The last they were opened was for Argent’s naming ceremony.”

Lorr tried the door again, finally kicking it in frustration.

The doors were made of stout oak, banded in iron, strong enough to blunt even an ax blade. The bronze lock required a key from Keeper Ryngold.

Rogger moved from Tylar’s side. “Allow me.” He slipped a slender pick knife and a bent fork from an inner pocket. Using his tools, he tinkered with the lock’s inner workings.

At the entrance to the hallway, a group of knights and house staff had stopped to watch. Kathryn nodded to them, arms crossed. As castellan, few would question her actions directly. At the door, Rogger’s labors were hidden behind the bulk of the bullhounds. The thief finally proved his skill. A tumble sounded from the doors. Rogger stood and pulled the latch. The wide doors easily swung open.

As the few knights at the other end of the hall moved on, one tarried a bit longer, eyes narrowed. Surely everyone had been alerted to watch for anything suspicious… and their activities, along with the presence of the bullhounds, were certainly out of the ordinary.

Word would spread.

Lorr grabbed one of the oil lamps from its hanger in the outside hall and swung it toward the door. “Inside… hurry.”

Tylar and the others pushed into the dark amphitheater.

The dome of the roof stretched far overhead, beyond the reach of the lone lamp. Closer at hand, rings of tiered seating spread outward and climbed forty levels, disappearing into the gloom.

Lorr led the way down the few stairs to the main floor. His two bullhounds spread to either side, moving low to the ground, suspicious of the giant open space.

Tylar gaped upward. He remembered gatherings here in the past: the raucous crowd of knights, the laughter, the arguments. The empty hall now seemed haunted, and with the darkness closed around them, somehow smaller. But more than anything, Tylar felt how little he belonged here now. It wasn’t just the stripping of his knighthood. What had once filled him with pride and a sense of purpose, now seemed pale and false. He had seen too much to ever wear the cloak as easily as he once had.

Kathryn glanced at him. Did she sense that about him? Did more than time and pain separate them? On the way up the stairs, Kathryn had briefly told him about her fears concerning the Fiery Cross, about Argent’s connection, about some bloody sacrifice she had stumbled upon, pointing toward the Cross’s involvement in some dark rites. Did her cloak still rest well on her shoulders?

Ahead, a dim glow shone from the floor, the only other source of light. Tylar knew what it marked. The Hearthstone. The heart and hearth of Tashijan. The flames of the fire pit had lit ceremonies dating back to before the coming of the gods, to the barbarous times of human kings. Grace kept its fires always glowing. It was quiet now, waiting to be stoked again.

Reaching the central dais, they circled around the Hearthstone. Kathryn eyed it with a sickly look on her face. Clearly she was remembering another pit, full of knights’ bones, charred and broken. Tylar also felt a twinge of unease. Was Perryl already among those bones?

Lorr led them past the arch of seats on the dais and continued to the back wall.

“Where are we going?” Krevan asked, irritated at the tracker’s reticence to explain.

The tracker reached the wall and held up his lamp. It shone off a plate of bronze that stood the height of a man.

The Shield Gong.

It was struck to summon all of Tashijan to the court. Its voice traveled throughout Tashijan.

Tylar finally understood Lorr’s purpose.

Of course…

The gong covered the opening to a funneling tunnel. This narrow passage was not meant for the tread of knight nor master. Its maze of corkscrewing channels echoed the gong’s ringing throughout Tashijan.. from the tower tops to the subterranean warrens of the masters.

Lorr grabbed an edge of the bronze gong and pulled it back, exposing the unguarded tunnel.

Rogger nodded with respect. “A passage that isn’t a passage,” he said, repeating Lorr’s earlier cryptic message. “How did you think of this?”

“Before undertaking Castellan Vail’s guardianship,” Lorr said, “I studied the maps of Tashijan. The first thing a tracker learns is the lay of the land, whether forest, mountain, or castle.”

Without further ceremony, they all pushed into the tunnel. Krevan and Lorr shoved the gong back with their shoulders, raising it enough for the bullhounds to enter. They dared not leave the hounds behind. If anyone should come to investigate, the presence of the bullhounds would expose them.

Taking care, Krevan and Lorr lowered the gong back in place. It would not serve them to have the gong sound now, awaking all of Tashijan.

Lorr squeezed ahead with the lamp. The low ceiling kept them all crouched. He led the way. The echo tunnel twisted and turned, branching and forking. They had to trust Lorr’s sense of direction and memory, but wyld trackers were well known for their ability to keep to a trail.

No one spoke, and they all walked as softly as possible, fearful that their tread or voice would echo outward.

Lorr continued his determined pace. Finally he took a left fork and followed its spiraling path. Light appeared ahead, and they soon found themselves at a grate. By now the tunnel had squeezed to the point that they were half-crawling. The bullhounds slunk on their bellies.

“This should be the third descended level of the masters,” Lorr said.

Tylar helped the tracker lift the grate free and set it aside. They all gladly stumbled out into the regular hallway.

“I know where I am,” Kathryn said, sounding surprised. “Master Gerrod’s quarters are down another level. It’s not far.”

Kathryn now led the way, moving swiftly. The halls were thankfully all but empty. The masters were sticking to their quarters. With a godslayer afoot, the guarding of Tashijan had been left to the knights. Still, a few maids and the occasional baldpated master did widen their eyes at their passage. Kathryn nodded in a perfunctory manner.

At last, they reached a door. Kathryn knocked.

A small peek window opened in the door. All Tylar saw was a flash of bronze.

“Kathryn?” a muffled voice said.

“Gerrod, open the door.”

The small window closed and a bar was thrown back. The door swung open.

Tylar stared at the squat, bronze figure. It took half a breath to hear the whir of the mekanicals. An articulated suit. All he could see of the man inside were a pair of moist eyes that surveyed the party with Kathryn, then settled to Tylar.

“I think you all should come inside,” the master said, stepping aside.

Kathryn took comfort from the familiar surroundings and the stolid companionship of her friend. The room’s braziers-sculpted into eagle, skreewyrm, wolfkit, and tyger-all burned brightly. Myrr and winterroot scented the air.

Gerrod offered her his chair by the fire, but she refused, still too agitated to sit.

Lorr kept watch with the bullhounds outside. Tylar and his four companions stood warily.

Gerrod paced the length of his room. “The Godsword,” he said after hearing Tylar’s story. “It is indeed named Rivenscryr, but only in the most ancient of Littick texts. If Meeryn used this word, then she meant you to know the truth behind the sword. Its oldest stories and legends.”

“What do you mean?”

Gerrod sighed-or maybe it was just his mekanicals-as he faced Tylar. “Most stories say that Rivenscryr was destroyed when the home of the gods was sundered. This is not true.”

Tylar frowned. “It still exists.”

“In a form, yes. It had not been so much destroyed as exhausted after the Sundering.”

“Go on,” Tylar said. “Explain yourself.”

“There is much I don’t know. A great war occurred among the gods. Someone forged Rivenscryr as a weapon. But it was too potent. Something went wrong. It shattered all, friend and foe alike. Even their world.”

“The Sundering,” the handmaiden mumbled.

“Yes, but Rivenscryr survived and was carried here with the gods as they fell to Myrillia. Echoes of themselves were cast high and low. The gods lost parts of themselves. All that was dark went down to the naether, while all that was light went up to the aether, forming the naethryn and aethryn.”

“And what were we left with here in Myrillia?” Rogger asked.

“Gods made flesh, as gray as any man.”

“And the Godsword?” Kathryn asked.

“Rivenscryr fell with the gods to Myrillia, but it was spent, empty, exhausted. Nothing more than a dire talisman of the war that ended all, destroyed all. It left no victors, only the defeated.”

“But if it fell here,” Tylar asked, “how come no one’s ever seen it? What does it look like?”

Gerrod stared into the hearth. “There is only one text that mentions its appearance. It was written by Pryde Manthion, the last of the ancient kings of Myrillia. The hide parchment is vaulted in the Bylantheum in the Ninth Land. It is written in the dead language of that country. Only a small handful of scholars can still read it. Titled Shadowfall, it recounts the coming of the gods to Myrillia. In the text, Pryde Manthion tells of a god who came to ground, bearing a great sword. ‘Of light and shadow,’ he describes it. ‘Borne by a figure of blood and bone.’ ”

Gerrod grew silent.

Kathryn had learned to read the subtleties of expression in a man of bronze. Gerrod’s head hung, his chin resting on his collarbone. One arm was half-raised toward the flames, not to warm them, but in a warding gesture. Gerrod was reluctant to speak.

Kathryn stepped beside him. She kept her voice low, meant for his ears only. “Gerrod, if you know more, please speak it. A dark time is upon all of Myrillia. Now is not the time for more secrets.”

His arm lowered, relenting. “Manthion tried to steal the sword at this weak moment, but his fingers passed clean through. When he described the blade as light and shadow, it was not poetic. That was all the blade appeared to be to his hand. But as his fingers brushed this strange blade, he heard the screaming of a shattered world. It unmanned him. He fled in terror.”

“And you think this sword is Rivenscryr?” Tylar asked. “Why is this tale any more substantive than the other thousand legends about the Godsword?”

Gerrod kept his face to the hearth. “Because in the ancient tongue of the Ninth Land, light and shadow are ryvan and screer.”

“Rivenscryr,” Kathryn said.

Gerrod nodded. “Pryde Manthion may be the only mortal man ever to truly see the sword. He named it, not the gods.”

Silence spread throughout the room. Kathryn still sensed something that Gerrod was afraid to speak. But before she could press him, Tylar moved closer.

“What became of the sword? Did this ancient tome say?”

A slow shake of the head answered Tylar.

“What else?” Kathryn asked, laying a hand on Gerrod’s shoulder. He shuddered under her touch. “You know something else.”

“ Know is a strong word among scholars. It is fraught with hubris. The best to describe what I will say next is suspect.” Gerrod took another few breaths. “I fear to speak it aloud.”

“Truth is often gray,” Tylar said softly. “But it’s still the truth.” He glanced at Kathryn. She understood this all too well.

“Tell us what you suspect,” she said. “It will be up to us to act or not.”

Gerrod turned to face the group. “Pryde Manthion saw a god with a sword, a blade he described as ryvan and screer, light and shadow. The gods took this name for their own, Rivenscryr. But what of the bearer of this sword, the one who came to Myrillia with it? Manthion described the figure as one of blood and bone.” He took another deep breath. “In ancient Manth, the words are krys and ymm.”

Stunned silence met his words.

“The first god seen by man,” Gerrod said. “If this god took Pryde Manthion’s name for the sword, did he take his own name, too? Krys and ymm.”

“Chrism…” Tylar said, more a moan.

Gerrod stared at Tylar. “To find Rivenscryr, you know where you must go next.”

“If Chrism arrived with the Godsword, he may still possess it.. or know where to find it.”

“But be warned,” Gerrod finished. “If Chrism arrived in Myrillia with the sword, could he also be the one who wielded it, who shattered their world?”

Tylar shook his head. “The answers will be found only in Chrismferry.”

Gerrod stepped from the fire. “Then I’ll help you get there. But first we need to draw off the wolves.”

Tylar stood two steps below the landing that separated the masters’ subterranean realm from the upper Citadel. The others gathered below him, all wrapped in shadowcloaks and masklins. A wall of Shadowknights blocked their way.

Kathryn faced them, flanked by the bullhounds and backed by Lorr.

“Castellan Vail,” the knight in charge said, a bulky fellow with porcine eyes. “All faces must be bared. None may pass from upper to lower without inspection.”

“Ser Balyn, we are not passing from upper to lower, but the reverse. Do you believe the godslayer has burrowed into the Masterlevels, through solid rock, and now rises to attack Tashijan?”

The knight hesitated. “I have my orders.”

“From Warden Fields… or the Fiery Cross?” Kathryn jabbed a finger at the badge pinned boldly on the knight’s chest.

“They are one and the same.”

“Not all follow the Cross. And those who have volunteered to protect me… against all… wish to stay anonymous. I have given my word, and I won’t let it be broken upon your stiffness.” Kathryn waved to Lorr. “I’m sure Warden Fields has informed you of Tracker Lorr’s assignation to me, by his own writ, a man loyal to the warden. If he vouches for my guardians, then that is as good as the warden’s, is it not?”

Ser Balyn shifted his feet.

Tylar grinned behind his masklin. Over his years with Kathryn, he had been the brunt of her clever tongue and sharp wit. It could tangle the best of men.

Kathryn pried the chink in the other’s armor. “We will proceed, Ser Balyn. Feel free to inform Warden Fields. But we will pass unmolested.”

She waved to Lorr. He whistled his hounds forward, wedging and forcing a phalanx through the wall of Shadowknights. The bullhounds snarled and dripped acid from their rippling lips.

Knights fell back.

Ser Balyn stood his ground.

Kathryn met his gaze, unblinking. “Would you raise a sword against the castellan of Tashijan?”

He finally stepped aside. “Warden Fields will know of this immediately.”

Kathryn strode past him. “Do your duty,” she said with an icy coldness. “And I’ll do mine.”

Tylar followed Kathryn’s lead. He and Krevan flanked the others, showing their knighted stripes above the masklin. The others kept their faces lowered from sight. They moved past the line of guards on the landing and continued up the stairs.

Glancing back, Tylar saw Ser Balyn elbow aside another knight, off to send a fast dispatch up to the warden. Tylar turned forward and continued after the others. He glanced to a high window and caught a glitter of starshine. Dawn was not far off. Timing would be critical.

Earlier, Master Gerrod had gone ahead of them, to dispatch two wyndravens, birds blessed in fire and air. The ravens would race with fire under their wings. No bird was faster, homing upon their targets with the speed of Grace. One had been addressed by Kathryn, the other by Tylar. They needed allies in the coming storm.

Tylar increased his pace to join Lorr and Kathryn.

“We should separate now. Ser Balyn will have the Warden’s Eyrie stirred up. They will be upon us like a flock of crows.”

“And we dare wait no longer in the search for Perryl,” Kathryn agreed.

Tylar reached out and took Lorr by the elbow. “Watch after her. Keep her from harm.”

Lorr nodded. “She’ll be safe. Warden Fields would not dare lay a hand on her. Now, as for you…” The tracker chuckled roughly.

Tylar knew a swift death awaited him if he was caught.

“Keep your track light and your path unmarked,” Lorr warned, using an old wyldman adage.

“I’ll do my best.”

Argent ser Fields raced with a cadre of knights, his best and most loyal. In the lead ran Symon ser Jaklar, whom many called his Wolf. Argent kept a step behind him. They all fed shadows into their cloaks, quickening their pace, sweeping through the halls, down stairs.

It wouldn’t be long.

The godslayer is here. He knew it in his bones. They would have to be swift and merciless.

Earlier, he had heard word of Kathryn and Lorr. They had broken into the Grand Court. He had dispatched men to the amphitheater, but a search turned up no sign of them. Then again, there were a hundred doors that led out from the court. It was a clever way to lose any trackers upon their tail. In one door, out any of a hundred.

But why was Lorr cooperating with Kathryn?

And just a quarter bell ago, word again reached him in his Eyrie. Kathryn had bulled her way past the guards stationed between the subterranean Masterlevels and the upper Citadel. She had been in the lower levels, but how had she gotten there? He had left word with the guards to alert him if Kathryn should leave the Citadel for the Masterlevels. He had wanted her movements under constant scrutiny. But none could say how she suddenly appeared from below.

And with a handful of cloaked knights, folks who refused to show their faces.

Argent raced with his knights. He had faced monsters and hinter-kings. But no greater glory would come to him than to carry the head of the godslayer upon a pike. After this, all obstacles to his plans here at Tashijan would fall away. He would spread the Fiery Cross throughout Myrillia. A new age would dawn… and he would lead the way.

He slid out his sword. Blessed in Dark Alchemies of loam and fire, just a poke of it would turn flesh to stone. Such a weapon was forbidden, of course, but such a transgression would be forgiven when he brought the godslayer to justice.

Ahead, a knight enfolded from the darkness of another passage. He dropped to one knee.

“She moves swiftly,” he reported. “Into the unoccupied areas of Tashijan.”

“Are all still with her?” Argent commanded.

“She and the tracker lead five knights, all cloaked.”

“Show me,” Argent ordered.

The knight rose and joined their party, sweeping ahead, drawing speed from the shadowed halls. All of Tashijan converged upon Kathryn. Her party was easy to follow, what with two bullhounds at their lead. Scouts were left behind, like this one, to lead Argent toward her and the godslayer.

Under orders, she and the others were not to be touched.

He would make the kill.

All of Tashijan would witness it.

Argent and his men stormed ahead. He felt the Black Grace coursing along the length of his sword. There was no greater swordsman in all of Myrillia. And not even a godslayer would survive the curse upon the blade.

They sped ahead, collecting scouts along the way, growing in size like a raging flood of snowmelt.

“She went through that way!”

“She crossed down that stair!”

“She circles back around this hall!”

Argent could almost smell her. Once Tylar was slain, Kathryn would be his. She would have a choice between the gallows and his wedding bed. And if she still refused, the blood of her friends would seal the arrangement. To save them, she would have to take his ring.

Another scout dropped to a knee ahead. “She’s stopped,” he said, voice trembling. “Trapped herself in a room without an exit. But something has excited her party.”

Argent motioned Symon ser Jaklar to his side. They both pulled up their hoods and marched down a narrow passage. Other knights followed, two score, and more filled halls and passages around them. There would be no escape.

Light appeared ahead. A flickering torch.

Voices reached them. Argent recognized Lorr’s thick cadence.

“The body were here,” he said heatedly. “A slain knight… a pit of bones. Now nothing. I can’t even scent the blood.”

“The Fiery Cross must have known of your discovery,” a gruff voice said. “Cleaned the place with curse and acid.”

“So where’s Perryl?” Lorr asked.

Argent frowned at these strange words.

With cursed blade in hand, he flowed into the room, drawing shadows to him, swelling with power. Ever his personal shadow, Symon swept to his side. More knights followed, billowing with darkness.

Bullhounds met them, crouched down, growling.

“Call off your dogs!” Argent bellowed, taking in the scene with a glance. They were in a domed chamber, crumbling seats circling the walls.

On the room’s far side, Lorr perched at the edge of a pit, staring down. When he glanced up, he seemed unsurprised.

Near him, a slimmer figure leaned over the same pit.

The shadowcloak didn’t fully obscure the body of the woman beneath. It must be Kathryn.

Between them stood a phalanx of Shadowknights, led by one man, looming and full of menace, fully masked.

It had to be Tylar, come for his woman.

Triumphant, Argent raced forward, sword raised. One of the bullhounds lunged at him. But with reflexes borne of shadow, he sidestepped its teeth as Symon drove the beast away. A bloody howl of pain erupted as Symon stabbed the dog.

“Don’t!” Lorr cried out.

The scream from the hound suddenly cut off. Argent allowed himself a grimace of satisfaction. Symon was second only to Argent in skill with a blade.

The leader of the knights glowered at him. Did Tylar recognize the man who had sent him into slavery? Argent pulled more speed, wicking it to his sword arm. Blade became a blur, impossible to parry.

He lunged.

All it will take is a nick.

Then the man shifted, not so much movement as the flicker of a shadow. A blade appeared, flashing silver. It met Argent’s blade with a resounding clang.

Though surprised, Argent slipped the point of his blade along the other’s sword and thrust for the man’s forearm.

Just a mere cut…

But his point found only shadow.

The godslayer swirled away. A spark of silver glinted at the corner of Argent’s eye. He ducked and rolled from the sudden dagger thrust. The blade held in Tylar’s other hand.

Argent gained his feet, noting the fierce melee erupting around the room. Shadowknight fought Shadowknight. The second bullhound blocked the narrow entrance, snarling and snapping. It guarded over the remains of its companion. Blood pooled on the floor, making footing treacherous.

Argent continued his dance with his opponent. Parrying, lunging, sweeping. He had a dagger in his own hand now. None had ever withstood him so fiercely.

“Who are you?” Argent asked as their swords momentarily locked. Tylar could never fight this well.

The figure turned his blade ever so slightly, straining both men’s muscles. A glitter of lamplight lit the length of the sword. A golden wyrm bloomed on the blade, unnoticed until now.

Argent gasped. “Serpentfang…”

Shock dropped his guard. The other took the advantage and turned Argent’s blade. The Raven Knight kicked out at Argent’s knee, knocking him off his footing. Argent fell forward, his sword thrusting straight ahead. The blade passed under his combatant’s armpit and continued its plunge-into Symon ser Jaklar’s chest as the Wolf tried to sneak up on the other’s back.

The Raven Knight twirled away.

Symon stared at the blade in his chest, then up at Argent. A cry rose to his lips, but never came, his face twisted in agony, going gray, then black. Knight became statue, rooted to the stone floor.

Argent stumbled back, trying to free his blade, but the stone held it fast. He suddenly felt pressure against the hollow of his throat. He stared down the length of Serpentfang. The point bit into his neck.

“Call down your knights, Warden.” The command was spoken calmly but resounded across the chamber.

Attention drew to them. The ringing of steel went silent. The two forces retreated to either side, the wounded and dead between them. The Raven Knight continued to hold the sword to Argent’s throat.

“Have them stand down,” the Raven Knight commanded. “The godslayer is not with us.”

Argent lowered his fingers from the hilt of the cursed blade. He saw the truth as the knights at the man’s side dropped their masklins and threw back their hoods. Tylar was not among them.

Argent closed his eyes. He had been tricked. Kathryn had purposefully lured him away.

Knowing there was no gain, he faced his knights. “Stand down,” he said. He noted the many eyes on the stone figure of Symon ser Jaklar. His own blade impaled through it. Cursed. His guilt plain by sword and witness.

Movement drew his eye. Lorr led Kathryn before him. Or at least the woman he’d assumed was Kathryn.

The figure tossed back her hood. Argent stared in disbelief.

“Hello, Father,” Delia said.

Tylar watched Stormwatch Tower fall away beneath him. The large, potbellied flippercraft had lifted smoothly from its cradle, its aeroskimmers glowing with Grace as it rose into the dark skies. Off to the east, the barest glimmer promised dawn, but sunrise was still a full two bells away. If all went well, by the time the sun showed its full face, they would be landing in Chrismferry.

Rogger sat in the seat across from him, staring out his own window. “Storm clouds are coming from the south.”

Tylar twisted and spotted a few spats of lightning flickering.

Rogger leaned back. “Will I ever be dry?”

Kathryn and Gerrod shared their small compartment, one of ten private passenger cabins. Their two heads were bent in whispers.

Their only other companion was the stoic Eylan. The Wyr-woman studied Tylar from across the way, sitting stiffly, ever vigilant. She had spoken no more than three words since first joining them. And those words were Leave me be, to Rogger. Tylar suspected Rogger had heard those words often enough, but never with more command or more disdain. The two were posing as husband and wife, from Tashijan’s cook staff, off to visit relatives in Chrismferry.

“I don’t know why I married that woman,” Rogger had griped at her rebuke.

The others had boarded the craft separately. With all of Tashijan’s attention turned elsewhere, none of the guards had given the ship’s passengers more than a cursory glance. The Citadel was more concerned about the godslayer entering Tashijan, not leaving it. Gerrod already had his cabin paid and reserved. Tylar had played the master’s servant, hooded, his knight’s tattoos wiped over with face paint. He had also acted the cripple, not a difficult ruse. Kathryn had entered in secret, using her considerable gift for shadowplay. She kept hidden until all had gathered in Gerrod’s cabin.

Kathryn stirred from her discussion with Gerrod and turned to Tylar. “Both ravens we sent have been dispatched. Hopefully they’ll reach their intended in time.” She pulled out a letter from her cloak. It bore the castellan’s seal, her seal.

Tylar leaned over and read the name.

Kathryn looked into his eyes. “This had been for Perryl. A cover for him to join Gerrod in his trip to Chrismferry.”

He reached out and touched her hand, lowering the letter. “They’ll find him in time.”

“You can’t know that.”

Attempting to distract her from her worry, Tylar pointed to the letter. It was addressed to the same man to whom the wyndraven had been dispatched. “Will your man be able to aid us in gaining access to Chrism’s castillion?”

“He should. Yaellin de Mar is one of Chrism’s Hands.”

“Do you trust him?”

“Fully.”

“But with all that’s going on, how can you be so sure?”

Kathryn glanced past him and out the window. “Because Yaellin is Ser Henri’s bastard son.”