Shadowfall

21

Tylarclung to Kathryn as the flippercraft plum meted. Smoke filled the cabin, steaming from the slagged mekanicals as the blood alchemies burned. Beneath the floorboards, the grind and scream of strained iron and steel shook through the ship. Shouts and cries echoed to them from the forward sections.

Slowly the steep cant of the deck rolled slightly more even. The ship turned, attempting a slow spiral. The captain and his helmsman must be wresting the craft by sheer muscle and will.

But it was Tylar’s chance to move.

He clutched Kathryn’s elbow.“We must get to the others… to the captain’s deck!” he yelled to be heard above the howl of the winds through the broken stern window. He had no plan, but they could do nothing here.

She nodded.

He helped haul her to her feet-and she helped him. The freeing of the naethryn daemon had healed his wounds, but it hadn’t replaced the blood he’d lost. He found his vision narrowing.

“The daemon…” Kathryn glanced back to the smoky deck.

Earlier, Tylar had explained about the naether-spawn. Kathryn had studied the black palm print with interest. But to see the naethryn rip from his body, shattering its way out, had transformed mere words into true horror.

“What it did to you…” she said as they reached the door.

Tylar grabbed the door’s locking bar. “That broken man you saw was not the work of the daemon, but the slave pits and circuses.” He could not keep the bitterness from his words, even when he caught the wounded look in Kathryn’s eyes. “The daemon keeps me whole.”

Tylar freed the bar that Darjon had set. The door fell open under him. They tumbled through into the main passage… into chaos. Smoke wafted here, a pall lit by fires licking up from cracks in the floorboards. The lower ship, the mekanical spaces, must be on fire.

Travelers crowded the passage, abandoning cabins. They tangled and fought in panic. Orders were shouted, prayers raised, cries echoed.

“There!” Kathryn pointed.

Tylar spotted the flash of bronze. It was Master Gerrod, brilliant in his armor. He stood braced in a doorway a few spaces down the tilted passageway. One metal hand gripped Rogger by the shirt collar, keeping him in place.

Across the passage, Eylan shoved several folks out of her way with the handle of a long ax. The Wyr-mistress’s dark eyes found Tylar and narrowed. Her efforts grew fiercer. Her duty had been to act as his bodyguard, to keep his valuable seed safe from harm. She seemed furious at how difficult he was making her chore.

Tylar and Kathryn hurried to the others.

He turned to Rogger and Gerrod. “We must get to the captain’s deck.”

Another explosion bucked the ship savagely. It rolled to port, throwing everyone to the wall. Cries grew sharper in alarm. Tylar snatched Kathryn around the waist. He felt her heartbeat pounding. He stared through the open door of a passenger’s cabin and out its window.

With the ship rolled over, the city appeared beneath the flippercraft. Tall towers stretched close. He spotted townsmen on the streets, near enough to see their faces staring up. He knew what they were seeing. A flippercraft, trailing a tail of smoke and fire, about to strike the city.

Then the ship swung back even, taking away the view below-only now the craft’s nose dipped more steeply.

A hand grabbed his elbow, as hard as any shackle.

He turned to find Eylan hauling him up.

Tylar attempted to shake free. “My seed will have to wait.”

She scowled at him. Using her free arm, she stopped one of the crewmen with the butt of her ax handle, pinning the young man to the wall. “Take us to the foredeck,” she demanded in a voice that offered no mercy.

The crewman balked, near blind with panic.

Not a good sign.

“I may be able to help the captain.” Tylar grabbed the man by the shoulder, shoving the ax handle away. “I have Grace that may serve to save the ship.”

The man’s eyes fixed to him, to any hope, then nodded.

Gerrod and Rogger joined them. With Eylan in the lead, roughly knocking folks aside with the flat of her ax, they forced their way forward.

The crewman unlocked the hatch of the captain’s deck. “We’ve lost all aeroskimmers. We’re riding on the dregs of Grace. If you can do anything…”

Tylar led the others into a mirror of the stern common room. A deck overlooked a curved wall of glass, the captain’s eye. But instead of open decking, the space was occupied by an arc of control seats. To the right and left, men fought to wield the starboard and port aeroskimmers. Smoke poured from one side, flames lapped on the other.

In the center, directly ahead, the helmsman sat, strapped to a chair that protruded out over the window, like the bowsprit of a ship. The position gave the man a full view of the city hurtling toward them. His feet worked a set of pedals, his hands a vast wheel. Smoke framed his form. A spat of flames danced under his toes.

It was deathly quiet as the team worked to save the flippercraft, to save the passengers, to save themselves. The captain stood behind his helmsman at the foot of the bowsprit. His brows darkened at the sight of the newcomers.

Tylar had no time for pleasantries. He hurried forward.

Below, the city filled the window.

Tylar recognized immediately the desperation of the captain’s plan. The Tigre River lay directly below them. The captain was dropping the flippercraft into the river, plainly hoping to cushion their crash, and in turn, spare the lives of the townsfolk below.

But there was a problem with his plan.

Directly ahead, a massive structure blocked the river. Nine towers and a keep. Chrism’s castillion. They were falling too fast. With the aeroskimmers out, they could not swing around. It was a dead man’s drop. They might strike the river, but like a skipped stone on a flat pond, they would crash headlong into the keep itself. Though the castillion was raised up on giant pillars to allow river barges to pass beneath, it was not high enough to accommodate the bulk of the flippercraft.

“Captain,” Tylar said, “where’s your main plumb to the alchemical tank?”

The captain pointed to the left. “We used all our reserves. We have nothing left.”

Tylar was already moving. Kathryn followed, along with the captain. They reached the plumb feed used to fill the tanks. It was a column of thick glass, sealed at the top. The entire crew’s eyes were on them.

Tylar ordered the captain, “Open the plumb.” He turned to Kathryn and bared his wrists. “Your sword. Cut deep.”

To her credit, she did not balk. The blade slid free with a flash of silver. With a speed borne of desperation, she thrust her blade’s edge across both wrists. She was not gentle. She sliced to bone. Tendons severed. Blood poured.

Tylar swung his arms over the open feeding tube. His blood flowed down the glass, heading for the mekanicals in the ship’s belly.

Rogger appeared at his side. “Your Grace’s aspect is water. Not air. This is no Fin.”

“It’s about to become one.” Tylar nodded to the window, hugging the tube, wrists on fire. The Tigre River swelled out the window. The castillion lay an arrow’s shot away.

Tylar closed his eyes and willed his streaming blood. He pictured the crimson river reaching the main mekanicals that flew the ship. He recalled the explosive effect his raw blood had on the Fin as they fled Tangle Reef.

Pure, undiluted power.

He prayed it was enough.

He cast his will along with his blood to the heart of the flippercraft. He flowed his Grace through the mekanicals and over the keel of the craft.

Water…

Into an ocean he had been born, birthed as his mother drowned in a sinking scuttlecraft off the Greater Coast. He touched that place, drew upon half memories buried deep within. Water flowed back with his first sensations of this world. He was pushed from warm womb to cold sea.

Falling, falling, falling…

He wailed, babe and man. His mouth filled with water, his lungs. Deep in his chest, beyond blood and bone, he felt the daemon respond, stirring and waking. Here, too, water swelled.

Once again, he drowned in it, lived in it, breathed it.

This was his Grace, gifted by Meeryn.

He opened his eyes and stared out at the window. Water filled the world. A moment from striking. But they were one and the same: ship, river, and man.

“Hold fast!” the helmsman screamed.

There was no need. The river accepted its own, opening beneath them, drawing them to its flowing bosom.

The flippercraft fell smoothly into the river’s embrace, sinking rather than striking, drawn beneath its waves, joining the strength of its currents.

“The wheel’s responding!” the helmsman choked out, trapped between horror and hope.

Rogger yelled back at him. “The castillion!”

Though they had landed, caught by the river itself, Lord Chrism’s keep still rushed toward them. The window was three-quarters submerged, but there was enough view out its upper section to see the castillion’s massive stone pylons and the lower half of the keep.

“Take the ship down!” Rogger screamed, running for the helmsman.

Tylar nodded, too weak to respond… or stand. Hugging the plumb tube, he slid down its length, smearing blood. He felt arms catch him. A warm breath touched his ear.

“I have you,” Kathryn said.

He nodded again. Yes, once you did…

Vision narrowing, he saw Rogger yelling at the helmsman, but no words reached him. Still, he watched the waterline climb the window. The flippercraft submerged toward the bottom of the deep river.

The castillion pillars swept toward them, dark shadows in the river. The ship hoved over, turning slightly in the current. The pillars passed to either side. Sunlit waters became murky depths as they dove under the castillion. A grinding scrape shook the ship, coming from topside, as if the upper skin of the flippercraft were being sheared away.

The craft shook and rattled.

Then sunlight bathed down over the hurtling ship.

A cry pierced the pounding in Tylar’s ear: “We’re under and through!” Cheers followed.

Tylar closed his eyes. He still felt arms around him. He fell into them, gratefully and fully-then slipped away.

“Help me with him!” Kathryn screamed.

She lifted Tylar into her arms, drawing on shadows to give her strength. But she was surprised at how light he was, an empty shell of his former self. Blood ran down his arms, soaking through her cloak.

The captain had beached the flippercraft into a section of docklands, crashing through a few small ferryboats, riding up over a stone pier, and burying its nose onto the shore. Its stern still lay in the water, pulled by the currents. The river threatened to carry the craft back out again.

They did not have much time.

The captain shouted orders, attempting to rein in the growing chaos.

A jam of passengers blocked the exit from the captain’s deck. Passengers pushed forward from the sinking stern. Some carried baggage in their arms or atop their heads. Others simply clawed and cried their way forward, attempting to reach one of the two flank doors.

Behind them, water flooded in from the shattered rear window, climbing higher and higher, washing up the ship as the river pushed into all compartments. All that had kept them from drowning earlier had been the air trapped inside the flippercraft. And now smoke choked the air, thicker since their landing in the Tigre. River water had doused the flames in the lower holds, but smoke still rose from the smolders and flaming oil slicks.

Kathryn hugged Tylar to her breast, his head hung back, neck exposed. So pale, so pale…

She needed to get him to safety. There was no time even to bandage his wrists.

Eylan came to Kathryn’s aid. Using the haft of her ax like a cudgel, she forged a brutal path out the captain’s cabin and into the hallway. Rogger fell in tow. Gerrod already stood at the hold’s doorway, gripped fast with the strength of his mekanicals, a boulder in a river. Once Kathryn reached him, he joined Eylan in wading through the crowd, aiming for the starboard hatch. Sunlight blazed there.

“We must reach the streets as swiftly as possible,” Gerrod said. “The entire garrison will be down here to investigate.”

Kathryn followed in the pair’s wake. Rogger came behind her.

But still the crowds resisted. The water grew deeper, climbing to midthigh. Kathryn did not know when she started crying. But the tears were hot against her cold cheeks. Don’t die… not now…

Tylar still breathed, but raspy and coarse, too shallow.

They needed to hurry.

The ship rolled, pushed by the current. Wood ground on stone. Water sloshed, folk fell, some going under, trod on by others. Gerrod helped a little girl, pulling her out of the water by the scruff of her collar. Her father gratefully accepted her back, eyes wide with the panic they all felt. None wanted to be aboard the flippercraft if it should be dragged back and under the river.

The doorway was packed tight with the press of bodies.

It seemed they would never get through.

Then men appeared to either side of Kathryn. They were the ship’s crew, armed with staves and poles. She recognized the leader of the men who had guarded the captain’s deck.

“Stay with us,” he hissed at her.

With barked yells and much poking and striking, the crowd was beaten aside. The crew reached the starboard door and set up a post there. They forced order upon the point of their staves. The way opened. Kathryn and the others were waved through. With some semblance of calm established, the flow of escaping passengers quickened.

Kathryn glanced to the leader of the crewmen.

He met her eyes. “We’re in your debt. All of you.” His eyes settled to the slack form of Tylar. When he looked back up, there was only sorrow there. He, like Kathryn, knew death.

But Kathryn didn’t have to believe it or accept it. She jumped into the river. Waist-deep in its current, she trudged toward shore. By now, half the city seemed to have gathered along the levy.

Off to the left, a glint of armor shone through the rambling crowd.

A troop of castillion guards.

Gerrod led their party away, drifting down the river to the right. They reached shore and climbed out. “Quickly. This way,” he said and set off at a fast pace, heading into the dark and narrows of the wharfs.

Eylan stepped to Kathryn’s side. “I can take him,” she said in a soft voice, very unlike her usual brusqueness.

Still Kathryn shook her head. “I can’t…” She continued with Tylar, held up by shadow and sorrow.

“We need to find an alchemist,” Rogger said. The thief, soaked from crown to heel, looked like a drowned river rat. “Firebalm will heal his wounds in a heartbeat.”

“Where?” Kathryn gasped. She did not know the city well.

“No,” Gerrod said, stopping in the shadows of an alley. “We’ve no time.” He reached up and pulled down a shirt drying from a window line. His mekanical fingers ripped strips. “Bind his wounds. That will hold for now. And we don’t want to leave a blood trail for any hunters to track.”

As they packed and cinched the wounds, Gerrod’s caution proved warranted. A troop of castillion guards swept down the neighboring street. Kathryn used the alley’s shadows and cast her cloak over their huddled party.

“Something has the city stirred up,” Gerrod said after the guards passed. “The response to the crash was too swift. All the city’s garrisons must have already been on the street.”

“Why the activity?” Rogger asked.

Gerrod gained his feet. “Word of the godslayer’s arrival must have reached the wrong ears.”

Kathryn agreed. They had no way of knowing how things had fared back at Tashijan. Once she was found to be missing, it would take Argent ser Fields only a short time to discern they had fled by the dawn flippercraft.

With Tylar’s wounds bound, they set off again.

“Where now?” Rogger asked.

“To where we were originally headed,” Gerrod answered. He pointed upward, to a pair of towers a quarter reach away. It was the Conclave of Chrismferry. “We came to question a healer… now we need him even more.”

Dart crowded the window with Laurelle. They stared off toward the castillion and the Tigre River. A trail of smoke rose from the near shore. Moments ago, all had heard a deep low boom, thunder in sunlight. Dart had been nearest the window. A quick glance out revealed a geyser of water exploding up from the Tigre, not far from where the river disappeared under Chrism’s castillion.

A distant crash of stone echoed.

From their height and position, Dart watched something massive shoot out from under the main keep, a huge boat, nothing like she had ever seen, a wooden whale. It trailed fire and smoke, rocketing forth. Then it vanished behind the dockworks on this side of the river. The subsequent crash could not be mistaken, billowing up with fresh smoke. The strange craft had struck the wharf area.

“A flippercraft,” Yaellin had said dourly.

Dart scrunched her brow. A flippercraft? What was one of the air ships doing in the river? Had it fallen out of the skies?

Laurelle stayed close to Dart. For too long, both had been jangled by the terror and hopelessness of their plight. Holing up here offered no comfort. Now stopped, tensions grew as their reality sunk home. They were outcasts, fugitives. A life of easy luxury and respect had been shattered in one night.

Dart pushed open the window, needing fresh air. Laurelle leaned against her. Her fingers found Dart’s.

Across the short way to the river, shouts reached them, along with the shrill whistles of the water wagons. A pair of mekanical flutterseats whisked out from under the castillion and sped over the water. They bore the gold and crimson of Chrism’s guard.

“What do you think happened?” Laurelle asked.

“A crash,” Yaellin said behind them. His voice had hardened.

Laurelle glanced to him, hearing his worry. “What… do you think it concerns us?”

Yaellin answered with a darkened countenance. He kept his sword upon Paltry, even though the man’s hands had been bound behind his back and tied to the bed’s head rails.

Dart kept her vigil at the window. It was as if now the very skies were falling.

Paltry stirred on the bed, working his shoulders. “It was the flippercraft bearing the contingent from Tashijan, wasn’t it?” he said with thick disdain. “Your friends. Your allies. Those who came to help you.”

Dart glanced back at Yaellin, praying he would discount Paltry’s words. Instead, Yaellin remained silent.

Paltry laughed, but with no humor, only satisfaction. He took strength from their despair and glanced to Dart. “The abomination will be slain. I failed once in my duty. But now the great weight and wheel of Chrismferry will crush you.”

As his words sank home, Dart’s heart stopped beating. I failed once in my duty. She pictured kindly Master Willym falling atop her, his blood washing hotly over her. Murdered. A bolt meant for her.

Laurelle realized the same. Fire entered her voice. “ You! You hired the assassin.”

“And it was gold poorly spent. I took great care to hire the best blackfoot, to get him placed in the shadows, to arrange his flight afterward. And what did I get for my efforts? The abomination still lives.” His gaze poisoned upon Dart.

“You killed Master Willym,” Dart said coldly.

“An unfortunate consequence. But the old man had been burned by Grace for so long, he didn’t have long to live.”

Dart remembered the former Hand’s last word.

Beware…

Had Willym known about Chrism, suspected something? Had he tried to warn her? She remembered, as she struggled from beneath him, a last glimpse into the dying man’s eyes. A sudden clarity and horror. She had thought it was the sight of his own death-but now she knew what it was. It was the break of some charm, a curse lifted, a yoke shattered. Willym had been ensorcelled, his will and memories bent. Such black alchemies were not beyond the corrupted. Only his death had set him free.

Had the same been intended for her? She pictured Chrism and Mistress Naff sneaking from her room and shuddered.

“You’ll never escape,” Paltry continued, drawing back Dart’s gaze. “There’s nowhere you can hide for long.”

A sudden knocking proved his words, firm and hard, shaking the door.

“Open the way!” a voice commanded, ringing with authority.

Laurelle clutched Dart.

Paltry smiled. “It’s already too late.”

Yaellin crossed to the door. He pulled up his hood and hooked his masklin back in place, completing his disguise as a Shadowknight. “One word,” he spat at Paltry, “and it will be the last to fall from your lips.” Yaellin bared a throwing dagger. He held it with deadly competence.

The pounding repeated. “Open for the injured! A great mishap has struck the river!”

Dart glanced to the open window and back to the barred door. Of all the times for broken men and women to fall at the Conclave’s door. They couldn’t refuse care. But how could they untie Paltry to ministrate?

They were trapped.

Paltry’s grin widened.

Yaellin reached the door and slid back a tiny spy hole to peer out into the hall. Dart saw him stiffen in surprise. Shadows, quiet a moment ago, billowed out anew about his form in agitation. Yaellin turned his masked face back to Paltry. His eyes narrowed. The blade was lifted higher, the threat plain.

Not a word.

Yaellin nodded to Dart. “Help me with the bar.”

Dart hesitated, legs locked in terror. Then she hurried forward. Laurelle hung back, a fist clutched to her throat. Dart lifted the stoutoak bar with both hands, then stepped aside at Yaellin’s urging.

She crept back, still holding the bar. She would use it if necessary as a club.

Yaellin slipped the latch, then pulled the door open a short space. He spent a moment searching the hall, blocking the way.

Dart heard Matron Grannice’s voice.

“Healer Paltry will take good care of your man,” the matron promised.

“Thank you most kindly,” a woman answered, sounding strained.

“It is an honor, Castellan Vail.”

Yaellin opened the door wider, plainly having waited for Matron Grannice to step away and return below. A motley group pushed into the room.

Dart fell back.

In the lead, a man of solid bronze entered the room. A soft purring accompanied his every step. The torchlight ran over his form like liquid fire. He led another Shadowknight, cloaked and masked, but obviously a woman. She wore a diadem at her throat, bright as a star in the night sky.

But Dart’s attention fell more upon the man whom she carried in her arms like a babe. He wore a simple brown servant’s robe, the hood thrown back. Blood soaked both arms. His wrists were tied with soiled red rags. His face, pale as soap-stone, looked like that of a porcelain doll: fragile, drained. The only assurance that he still lived was the ragged, wet rattle of his breath.

Yaellin followed her. “Kathryn… what happened?”

Dart noted the last two figures to enter the room. Opposites in the extreme. A young woman and a bearded older man, one tall, one slight, one fierce and stolid in countenance, the other hiding an edge of wry amusement.

The bearded stranger closed the door. His eyes fell on Dart. He held out a hand.

She didn’t know what he wanted.

“The door’s bar, little lass. We mustn’t let anyone wander in here.”

Dart jumped and passed him the length of stoutoak. He secured the door with a wink toward Dart. She found herself warming to the man, surprised at herself.

Voices drew their attention to the room’s center.

The woman lowered her charge to an empty bed. He sprawled boneless on the down mattress. “We need the healer’s attention,” she said. “He’s lost most of his blood.”

The woman stepped back and revealed a strange sight. The man’s robe had a blackened hole in the center, down to the bare skin. Centered in the hole, tattooed on the man’s chest, was a black handprint. A strange glow marked its edges. And if Dart stared long enough, she could almost see the surface of the print stirring, as if something rippled past, under the dark surface, disturbing the black well there.

Dart found it hard to look away. Her feet drew her closer. One of her hands even reached out.

“Who is he?” Yaellin asked.

The woman’s answer stayed Dart’s hand.

“He’s the godslayer.”

“Firebalm won’t stop the bleeding from a slash this deep,” the healer said darkly, plainly reluctant to touch a man with such a dreaded reputation.

Kathryn shoved the man. “Do it.” She’d already heard a threadbare account of Healer Paltry’s crimes and duplicity and had no time for his hesitation or tongue.

He stumbled to Tylar’s bedside. He bore a pot of firebalm in one hand. Yaellin kept a sword to the man’s back. Rogger had cut away Tylar’s old bandages, exposing the raw wounds. Blood again flowed from them, but pumping weaker than before. Tylar’s heart had fallen to a fluttering beat.

Paltry scooped a dab of balm.

“More,” Rogger said from across the bed. “Like you said, this is no scratch.”

The healer glowered, then dug a more generous amount. He cradled Tylar’s gaping wrist in one hand, then smeared the balm with the other. With its touch, a fierce glow erupted, shining with familiar Grace.

Paltry jerked his hands away in surprise. A soft moan escaped Tylar, sounding more pleasurable than the usual reaction to the sting of firebalm.

The glow quickly faded, vanishing away as the peeled edges of skin, muscle, and tendon drew together like so much molded clay. In a moment, the wrist had closed without even a scar.

“The other,” Kathryn said.

Paltry grabbed more balm, no longer reluctant. His eyes shone with natural curiosity. Monster or not, he was still a healer.

“Impressive, is it not?” Rogger said as the other wrist mended. “The gifted Grace in his blood does much to protect him. But it can’t replace what he left behind at the flippercraft.”

“Blessed bloodroot,” Gerrod said, straightening after studying the miraculous healing with keen eyes. “Its curative Grace will flush the bone’s marrow and encourage new humour to fill his heart and veins.”

Paltry nodded. “But it will only-”

Yaellin silenced him with a poke of his sword point. The healer needed no other encouragement. He crossed to the apothecary cabinet mounted along one wall of the circular healing chamber. He lifted the crystal lid and shook free a few dried stalks into a glass crucible.

“Where did you obtain this bloodroot?” Yaellin asked.

Paltry set about grinding the root with a glass pestle. A faint bluish glow rose along with a scent of copper and mint. “It comes from the Eldergarden. I harvested it myself.”

“Where?”

“From the healer’s garden. In the shadow of the sacred myrrwood.”

Yaellin knocked aside the crucible with the back of his hand. It shattered against the wall.

Kathryn frowned. “What?”

“It might be corrupted, like the tree in the garden. I don’t think it would be wise to expose the godslayer to it.”

Yaellin had already given an abbreviated account of his escape with the girls… and of Lord Chrism’s corruption. The world seemed to grow darker with each breath. Kathryn waved the healer away.

“Fine,” Paltry said. “I have some older vine from the Ninth Land. Is that far enough away from the Eldergarden?”

“Fetch it,” Yaellin commanded. “And be quick about it.”

As the healer set to work again, using a smaller set of wan-looking vines, Yaellin explained. “The corruption in Myrillia is more deeply rooted than any suspected, even my own father.”

Gerrod joined them. “Maybe we’d all best discover what each knows. It seems multiple threads are woven to this same spot. But where to begin?”

Kathryn nodded to Yaellin. “I think your story is the oldest, the closest to the beginning.”

He sighed. “Yes, my story may be the oldest… with threads that stretch even farther, back to before any of us. But what I know personally started twelve years ago.”

“What?”

“An emissary arrived in Tashijan, sent to my father in secret. Sent from the hinterlands. A call for help.”

“From whom?” Gerrod asked.

“From one of the rogue gods that roam that unsettled land.”

“A rogue?” Kathryn stirred. The gods of the hinterlands were little more than raving beasts, committing horrible acts upon those who should cross their paths. Few lived who ever met a rogue god. The Shadowknights themselves had first been established as border guards to keep the taint of the rogues from passing out of their lands and into the settled realms. Why would a rogue be contacting their enemy?

Yet even this curiosity could not keep Kathryn from watching the healer crush the root to a powder, then pour it into a cup of water. Her concern for Tylar weighed too heavily on her heart. With the elixir prepared, Eylan helped lift Tylar up while Paltry poured the contents down Tylar’s throat.

He did not resist. Half the elixir spilled over Tylar’s chin and down his chest. Once finished, Tylar was laid back to his bed.

Kathryn settled to the cot’s edge.

The talk had quieted. All watched.

“I can’t help more here,” Paltry said after there appeared to be no response. The miracle of the firebalm did not seem to be shared by the bloodroot. “He’ll have to be moved to the main physik in the Cobbleshores district. They have blessed swine in their pens for blood drafting. That’s where he should be.”

Kathryn watched Tylar’s chest rise and fall. At some point, she had taken his hand, but she couldn’t say when. Was he breathing slightly more deeply? Did his lips have a touch more color? Or was it merely her heart wanting it to be true?

“While we keep watch,” Gerrod said, turning back to Yaellin, “tell us more about this visitor to your father.”

Yaellin nodded. “The emissary came to my father’s room in the dead of night, bearing disturbing tidings. Three pieces of information that would set my father on a course that I believe has led us all here.”

Everyone gathered closer. Even the two young girls watched from the room’s corner.

“First, the rogue’s emissary was one of the Wyr,” Yaellin said, nodding to Eylan. “They of all people still occasionally made contact with the maddened ones. She came with a secret kept hidden for millennia, a secret known only to the rogues. Unlike our settled gods who are bound to their realms, unable to leave their lands, rogues still roam. It is such lack of rooting that leads to the raving found among the rogues. Their Grace burns through them. They have no outlet for release. No land in which to ground their Grace. It maddens them.”

Kathryn nodded, still focused on Tylar.

“But what the rogues have kept hidden deep in their hinterlands is a secret none suspected. Free to roam, both male and female gods, they have borne children.”

Kathryn glanced hard at Yaellin, attempting to read the man. “Impossible. Grace destroys such seeds in the womb.”

Yaellin shook his head. “In a coupling between god and man, yes. But not so with two gods. Such children do sometimes survive, though it is a rarity. Only a couple times each millennia. The last child was born over four hundred years ago. And that is the crux of the problem. Most of these children were slain at birth, first in fear, then in envy.”

“Envy?” Rogger asked.

“Such children are not like the other Myrillian gods. They are born, but they were never sundered. They are purer than either sire or dam. They are of flesh, but also carry with them those parts all others lost to the naether and aether. They are whole… in a manner.”

“Unsundered,” Gerrod whispered, dread and awe in his voice.

“Almost,” Yaellin said. “But it was enough for all such offspring to be slain. Savaged and hacked beyond healing. Then four hundred years ago, one of their children, a boy, was stolen, kidnapped, before it could be slain. It took the rogues a full year, as maddened as they are at most times, to discover the child’s fate. The boy’s desiccated and mummified remains were discovered in the hinterlands of the Fourth Lands. His heart was missing.”

“Who did this?” Kathryn asked. “Who performed such a black rite?” She could not help but picture the young knight sprawled in a circle of his own blood, his chest cleaved open.

“All the hinterland rogues could discover was a name: the Cabal.”

“What did they want with the boy?” Gerrod asked.

Yaellin shook his head. “It was never discovered for certain. But the rogue who sent the emissary had a suspicion. She believed the boy’s murder was tied back to the Godsword.”

“Rivenscryr,” Rogger said.

“The old Littick name for the sword,” Yaellin agreed. “The emissary revealed a second black secret concerning the Godsword. The weapon that shattered their world had been forged in their own blood. According to the rogue, the sword, once wielded and spent, needed fresh blood, the blood of an intact god, a god from their original kingdom, someone unsundered. Blood from a sundered god lacked something vital to enliven the sword. So after the Sundering, when the gods came to Myrillia, the weapon proved useless. No sundered god could whet it back into existence. It became a weapon without substance.”

“A sword of light and shadow,” Gerrod intoned, repeating the words Pryde Manthion used to describe and name the great weapon.

Yaellin nodded. “The rogue who sent the warning believed that the Cabal had stolen the infant godling in an attempt to forge anew the Godsword. The boy’s body had been drained of all blood. Such blood could bring Rivenscryr back into this world, a weapon that could shatter worlds.”

Silence settled over the room.

“But there was a last warning from this rogue god,” Yaellin continued, voice lowering. “A new babe had been born to the rogues, a babe born to the same god who sent the emissary. She could not see her child slain. Although half-maddened by wild Grace, she was still a mother. She feared for her infant’s safety. So she asked my father to come for her baby. To steal the child away before anyone knew of its existence. To keep her baby safe among the settled god-realms of Myrillia.”

“And he did that?” Kathryn asked, aghast.

“He took a cadre of knights and a woman who knew the hinterlands well, my own mother, the mistress of this school. They had a harrowing journey. It seemed word had leaked to the Cabal. My father and mother barely escaped with the child, losing all their guards to the fell beasts of the Cabal.”

“What became of the child?” Gerrod asked.

Yaellin turned and faced one of the two girls, the smaller of the two, with straw-colored hair. Her eyes were wide with dawning horror. “My father hid her here.”

Dart stared back at Yaellin. No… it was all a lie… impossible.

Laurelle stepped from her side, stumbling back.

“I’m only a girl,” Dart answered in a squeaky tight voice.

Yaellin came to her, dropping to a knee. “Yes, you are.” He took her hand. She barely felt his touch. “You are flesh like any other girl.” He squeezed to emphasize it. “Never let anyone tell you otherwise. But I’m afraid you must know deep in your heart that you’re different. Not worse, not better even. Just different.”

She attempted to pull her hand free-not so much to escape him as his words. But she couldn’t so easily escape her heart. He was right. She had always known she was different. And it wasn’t just the presence of Pupp, her ghostly companion. She always felt the outsider, the girl looking in through a window at the simple lives of the other girls. Still, how could she be a god?

Yaellin continued his explanation. “Dart was hidden at the school, in plain sight. Only two folks ever knew about her. My father and mother. I don’t know when they were planning on revealing her true heritage to her.” He glanced at Dart with sorrow. “Ser Henri did not reveal himself to be my father until I was about your age. I suppose he was not very good at… revealing difficult truths. I’m sorry you had to learn of your own parentage in such an ill manner as this.”

Dart simply shook her head, still denying, waiting to wake up from this unending nightmare. A tear rolled down her cheek. Then fingers wrapped around her hand. She turned. It was Laurelle, returned to her side. Fingers squeezed. She drew great comfort, but the tears flowed heavier.

Yaellin continued, facing the others again. “Knowledge of the girl’s identity and location died with my mother and father. But when I heard of the explosion of the illuminaria during the testing of Dart, I knew the girl must be someone special. None but a god could cause such a reaction. So I investigated with dream alchemies and discovered the truth.”

Master Gerrod stirred from his station. “And I suspect you were not the only one investigating the incident.” He glanced to Healer Paltry. “Another’s curiosity was aroused.”

Paltry had been standing near the back, watched by the tall swordswoman. He seemed to shrink in on himself.

The bronze figure stepped toward the healer. “You sent her blood to Tashijan, to Castellan Mirra. You came in the thick of the night, in secret. Why?”

Paltry had a sick pall to his face by now. “I… I made inquiries after what happened here. I dared not be too bold because.. because…”

“Because of your complicity in raping young children,” the master said bluntly.

Dart felt a surge of raw fury, drying the flow of her tears. One hand still held Laurelle’s, but her other fell to the hilt of the dagger Yaellin had given her.

Paltry looked away. “After the girl was chosen, I sent word to the Council at Tashijan, asking the masters a theoretical question about what might have happened. I was surprised to hear back from the castellan. But then again, she was once a master herself. She asked me to bring a test of the girl’s blood. So I stole one of her soiled undergarments. The girl claimed she was bleeding from her menstra, but

… but…”

“You knew better,” Gerrod said. “You knew of the harm done to her.”

Dart’s fingers tightened on her dagger’s hilt.

Paltry ignored the accusation and spoke to the floor. “I took the soiled garment to Castellan Mirra, following her order of secrecy.”

Master Gerrod turned to the woman seated beside the godslayer. “It is no wonder I could not match the blood to any of the Hundred, yet it tested like that of a god.”

His gaze fell upon Dart’s figure. Though he was cased in bronze, there was a kind concern in his eyes. She wanted to run into his arms, to have those armored arms protect her. Or maybe it was just that his bronze form reminded her of Pupp, of his security. The loss of her friend ached inside her.

But Gerrod was not done with Paltry. “What happened after that?”

“I… I heard back from Castellan Mirra. She claimed the girl was an abomination. She expressed fear of some plot against Chrism.”

“If Henri had not informed her of the girl,” Master Gerrod said, “I could see Mirra making that mistake, the same as I did with the blood. And with Henri’s recent death, she must have assumed the worst.”

Yaellin stirred. “So you attempted to kill Dart. Why?”

“I was so ordered. Castellan Mirra sent gold and names among the blackfeet. She asked me to stay my hand until she could investigate further. She seemed to fear some faction at Tashijan.”

“The Fiery Cross,” Castellan Vail mumbled.

Gerrod fixed Paltry with a cold stare. “Did Mirra ever contact you again?”

“No, she disappeared… vanished at Tashijan. I assumed something had happened. I had no choice but to continue with her plan to kill the abomination. It was for the good of Myrillia.” Paltry puffed up at this last bit.

The master made a rude noise. “Rather, it fit your plans just fine. You didn’t want the young girl’s rape being discovered. What if she talked? So you carried forward the assassination anyway.”

Dart’s head spun with the stories being told.

“But she lived,” Yaellin said. “And the story of the illuminaria did not escape the attention of Mistress Naff. She must have told Chrism of the incident. They must have started to suspect the truth.”

“And they didn’t know before this,” the bearded man said, turning toward Dart. “Seems strange that a child Ser Henri hid from the Cabal ends up back on their doorstep, and they’re none the wiser.”

“Perhaps not so strange,” Master Gerrod said. “Remember, it was an Oracle that chose her. Such men and women are tied to the deepest desires of the gods they serve. The one who chose Dart must have made his choice based on Chrism’s deep-seated craving for the blood of a godling. The Oracle must have blindly sensed something about the girl with his Grace-blessed senses. Especially as it was the Hand of Blood for which she was picked. A very appropriate choice, considering the circumstances and his master’s desires.”

Again a heavy silence weighed upon the room.

The man with the beard tugged at his whiskers. “According to Master Gerrod’s ancient texts, Chrism arrived here with the Godsword. And we came here hoping he still had it or knew where to find it. But now we discover he’s corrupted, a part of this Cabal, if not its leader.” He turned to Yaellin. “When did you begin to suspect Chrism?”

“Only seven days ago. He hides himself well. But over the past few moons, I had noted strange happenings at the High Wing. Hands seemed to be burning faster, aging quicker. Strange dreams plagued us all. At first, I attributed it to the same malaise spreading over Myrillia. But then I discovered more and more Cabalists appearing near the castillion, acting more boldly, hardly hiding their allegiances. They seemed to be focused on the Eldergarden. Fearing some foul mischief, I ventured into the deep wood, all the way to the Heartwood. As the Hand of Black Bile, it was an easy thing to anoint myself with nullifying alchemies and move past Chrism’s wards unseen. There, to my horror, I discovered the corruption. With my father dead and Castellan Mirra gone, I didn’t know whom to trust.”

Yaellin glanced to Castellan Vail. “And when Argent ser Fields, my father’s enemy, chose you as the new castellan, I feared you might have been corrupted. I was seeing Cabalists everywhere. So instead, I pursued my dead father’s wishes. To protect the Godsword from the Cabal. I watched Chrism closely, dogging his steps in secret. I hoped to discover where the Godsword might be hidden. To steal it if I could. I’ve even searched his rooms twice.” He shook his head. “To no avail.”

Dart remembered Yaellin sneaking out of Chrism’s chambers. He had been seeking the sword. If they hadn’t followed him…

Master Gerrod paced around the circular room, slowly, methodically. “Which brings us to the death of Meeryn. She must have learned about Chrism. He must have sent that black naether-spawn to slay her, to silence her. But how did it kill her?”

The answer came from an unexpected source. “With the Godsword,” the man in the bed said, pushing up on one elbow. He opened eyes a startling storm-gray in color. How long had he been feigning sleep?

Dart took a worried step backward.

“Tylar…” Castellan Vail said with relief.

He held her back with a nod, a silent assurance that he was all right. “The beast had a weapon,” he continued. “I saw it. A lance of silver that seemed ghostly yet potent.”

“Rivenscryr,” Yaellin said. “Chrism must have been able to forge it.”

“With the blood of the infant boy,” Tylar said, demonstrating how much he had overheard. “They must have a small cache still left.”

“But the source is too meager for them to show themselves,” Master Gerrod said. “They still move in secret.”

“For now.” Tylar’s gray eyes found Dart. “I think that was why Ser Henri kept this child alive… in secret. He could’ve slain her to keep her blood from ever falling into the Cabal’s hands, but he knew eventually a war would arise, a new War of the Gods here on Myrillia. And he wanted our side to have a way to wield the Godsword. So he placed a guard upon the one god who had knowledge of the sword.” Tylar nodded to Yaellin, then turned to Dart. “And he locked away a source of blood to fuel the sword.”

Dart felt a growing horror at his words. Tylar continued to stare at her, sorrowfully yet fiercely.

“So what do we do?” Castellan Vail asked.

“We do what we all must. I was named a godslayer. Now I must become one in truth.” He finally faced the others. “We must kill Lord Chrism.”