Shadowfall

3

“It aren’t that bad if you ignore the flies.”

Tylar studied the moving feast that was his meal. Flies coated the stew of gristle and fat. The crust of bread atop it looked to be milled more from mold than flour. But he’d had worse. He soaked the hard bread into the broth, trying to soften the crust enough to chew. Tiny worms used the bread as a raft, climbing aboard.

“What about these maggots?” he asked sourly, shaking the crust clean of the squiggling stowaways.

“Nothing wrong with ’em. Them’s the only thing that gives this stew any taste.”

Tylar bit into the bread and glanced to the ragged rat of a man who had joined him in his cell that morning, tossed in naked and striped with whippings across his back. A head shorter than Tylar, he was all bone and beard. He set upon the meal like a hinter-king upon a feast. From the gray hairs laced in his red beard, he was not a young man, but what little muscle on him was still hard. About a decade older than myself, Tylar judged.

The prisoner noted his attention. “Name’s Rogger,” he mumbled over the edge of his bowl.

“Tylar.”

“So how’s a Shadowknight end up here?” The man touched three fingers to the corner of his eye, indicating Tylar’s tattoos.

“Apparently I killed a god.”

Rogger choked out a gobbet of gristle. “You! So you’re the one!”

Tylar glanced up to the barred window high on the stone wall. He had been imprisoned here seven days. He’d not had one visitor until now.

“No wonder there were so many guards in the halls,” Rogger continued, his face buried in his meal, spitting out pieces of bone as punctuation. “I even spotted a pair of bloodnullers at the end of each hall, reeking and covered in shite.”

Tylar nodded. Bloodnullers were smeared in a god’s black bile, their soft solids. Such a blessing granted the power to vanquish the Grace of a person or object with the mere touch of a single finger. They were stationed to keep Tylar in check, in case he attempted to use Dark Graces to escape. Their continued presence seemed a waste since they had already run their hands over his entire body when he first arrived here in shackles. If he’d had any hidden Graces, they would have been abolished at that time.

Still, Tylar understood their worry. While occasional rogue gods had been killed, never had one of the Hundred been slain. No one was taking any chances.

Rogger coughed a piece of gristle loose from his throat and nodded at Tylar. “It seems they must crowd all their god-sinners into the same damn cell on this cursed island.”

Tylar returned his attention fully to the man. “God-sinner? You? What did you do?”

He laughed. “I was caught sneaking into ol’ Balger’s place, trying to nick a bit from the bastard’s vault.”

“At Foulsham Dell?” Tylar asked, eyebrows rising. Balger was one of the seven gods that shared the First Land. His settled realm, Foulsham Dell, lay at the foot of the Middleback Range, bordering the wilds of a hinterland, where rogue gods roamed and no law governed. The Dell was a place of murderers, pirates, and scoundrels. And the god Balger was the worst of the bunch, known equally for his debaucheries and his cruelties. He was as close to a rogue as any of the hundred settled gods. His entire realm made Punt seem a tame and civilized place.

Tylar eyed the man, wondering what sort of thief tried to steal from such a god’s larder.

“And I would’ve made it out of there,” Rogger added, “if it hadn’t been for some handmaiden coming to the vault to deposit a jar full of her lord’s blessed piss.”

“A jar? You mean a repostilary?” Shock rang in his voice. Repostilary jars were vessels of a god’s humoral fluids, sacred beyond measure, handled only by handmaidens and handmen.

Rogger nodded and laughed again, spraying spittle out his beard. “Apparently ol’ Balger has trouble holding his bladder throughout the night.”

“So you were caught?”

As he ate, the man tilted to the side, baring his right buttock. A brand, long healed, had been burned into the flesh:

Tylar eyed the sigil. It was ancient Littick. “Thief,” he read aloud. “I don’t understand. How did you end up in a dungeon on the Summering Isles, a thousand reaches from the Dell?”

Rogger finished his bowl and gingerly settled back against the wall, wincing from his whipping. “Because of you, now that I crank on it.”

“Me?”

Rogger lifted his arms and exposed the undersides. More Littick sigils lay burned into the thief’s skin, aligned in neat rows.

From his training as a Shadowknight, Tylar recognized them: all names of gods. “Balger’s punishment…” he mumbled, sickened.

“A pilgrimage,” Rogger conceded sourly.

It was a cruel judgment, and not unexpected coming from a god of Balger’s ilk. As punishment, Rogger had been marked and exiled, forced to travel from god-realm to god-realm, sentenced to collect a certain number of brands. Only after you were properly marked could you return to your home and family.

“How many gods were you assigned?”

Rogger sighed, lowering his arms. “Remember. It was against Balger I sinned.”

Tylar’s eyes grew wider. “He didn’t…”

“A full pilgrimage, no less.”

“ All the gods?”

“Every blessed one of them. All one hundred.”

Tylar finally understood why Rogger was imprisoned here. “And with Meeryn dead, you can’t complete your punishment.”

“Once I learned of her death, I tried to escape, but that’s hard to do when you’re standing between two guards, knocking on the damn gates to Meeryn’s castillion. They snatched me up, whipped me thrice for the rudeness, and tossed me in with you.”

“What’re they going to do with you?”

“The usual choices I imagine: hanging, garroting, impaling.”

They were the three standard punishments meted to a pilgrim who failed in his journeys and tried to settle somewhere else.

“I think I’ll go with hanging. Garroting is too slow, and as for impaling, I’d prefer not to have anything shoved up my arse.” He shifted uncomfortably. “ ’Course, I have a couple days to think about it. They’re still attending Her Highness up there, seeing if she’s truly dead.”

Tylar sat up straighter. “Is there hope?”

“Hope is for the rich. All we have is shite and piss. And speaking of that…” Rogger climbed and crossed to the pail that served as the room’s privy.

As the day wore on and his thievish companion stretched on the floor snoring, Tylar considered his companion’s words. Could Meeryn still be alive? If so, she could clear his name, attest to his honor, what little he still had left. But in his heart he knew better. He had seen the light fade from her eyes.

Voices echoed down the dank hall of the dungeon. Guards arguing, then the stamp of boots sounded on the stone floor. Tylar climbed to his feet, hearing them approach. Rogger continued to snore in his corner.

Shadowed faces appeared at the small barred window. “Open it!” a familiar voice ordered.

The bar was slipped with a scrape of wood, and the door swung open.

A cloaked and masked figure filled the threshold.

“Perryl,” Tylar said, trying his best to stand tall when naked and covered in filth. Healed of his hunched back, Tylar now stood a fingerbreadth taller than his former squire. He kept his arms folded, not in defiance but to half-hide the black palm print, Meeryn’s mark, that rested in the center of his chest.

Perryl’s eyes narrowed at his condition and turned to the dungeonkeep at his side. “I thought I left orders for the prisoner to be treated with care.”

“Aye we have, ser knight. We’ve not beaten him once.”

Perryl pointed to Tylar, his eyes never leaving the guard. “Give him your shirt and breeches.”

“Ser!”

“Do you defy the word of a blessed knight?” A hand settled to the diamond pommel of his sword, aglow in the sooty torchlight.

“No, ser… right away, ser.” The dungeonkeep hurriedly stripped down to his underclothes and passed the outerwear to Tylar.

“I think I was less soiled when I was naked,” Tylar grumbled as he pulled the sweat-stained jerkin over his head, but it did feel better to have some clothes on his body.

His former squire waved away the dungeon guard and waited until he was gone. Rogger had grumbled at the commotion, then curled away and was already snoring again.

Alone and private, Perryl freed his masklin, exposing a worried face. He eyed Tylar up and down, the glint of Grace bright in his gaze.

Tylar crossed his arms again. “I heard there was a deathwatch.”

Perryl nodded and paced the floor, parts of him slipping into and out of shadow as his cloak reflected its owner’s agitation. “Seven days. It ends this night, when the lesser moon’s face touches the greater moon.”

“And there is no hope of her reviving.”

Perryl shook his head. “Her heart is gone. The finest alchemists have tested her remaining fluids. There are no signs of Grace in any of her humours. She is as empty as any man or woman. Even decay and corruption have set in, bloating her body.”

“Then she is truly dead.”

Perryl stopped his pacing and stared hard at Tylar. “This story of some Darkly Graced beast… you swear this is the truth?”

“Yes, but I have nothing left to swear upon except the filthy body I’m wearing.”

“An unbroken body.” A twinge of suspicion laced Perryl’s words.

“Unbroken and marked.” Tylar parted his jerkin enough to expose the black fingers on his chest. “This is not a curse. Meeryn blessed me for some reason known only to her.”

“But why?” Perryl began to pace again. “It’s all impossible.”

“As impossible as a slain god?”

Tylar read the dismay in the other’s eyes. For four thousand years, ever since the time of the Sundering, none of the Hundred had ever died. Every child knew the history of Myrillia, of the madness and destruction that followed the arrival of gods to this world. It lasted three centuries until the god Chrism chose the first god-realm and imbued his Graces into the region, sharing his powers to bring order out of chaos. Other gods followed, settling various lands, bringing to bear their unique Graces.

Thus the Nine Lands were formed.

Beyond these god-realms lay only the hinterlands, spaces wild and ungoverned, where rogue gods still roamed, as untamed as their lands. Occasional rumors and stories spoke of the death of gods out there, stories of great hinter-kings who slew maddened rogues, raving creatures of dark power.

But never had one of the Hundred been slain… until now.

Perryl stared up at the lone window. Night fast approached. “Already the Isles have judged you. The word godslayer rings through the streets. Only my cloak protects you from the gallows or worse.”

“And I thank you for that.”

Perryl turned back to Tylar. “But that protection cannot last forever. A single knight’s cloak is only so thick. As the sun sets, I will board a flippercraft headed to Tashijan, to seek the counsel of the full Order on your behalf.”

“You waste Grace on such an effort,” Tylar scoffed. “The Order has no love for a fallen knight, especially me.”

“I know of your past crime. Selling repostilaries to the Gray Trade, lining your pocket with gold marches. All preposterous lies.”

Tylar shook his head. “The accusations were true.”

Perryl blinked, looking a surprised boy again. “What? How…?”

“I had my reasons. But I did not kill that family of cobblers on Esterberry Street.”

“Your sword was found there.”

Tylar faced Perryl. “Do I look a child killer to you any more than a godslayer?”

“No, but then again, I never imagined you a trafficker in repostilaries.”

Tylar turned his back on the Shadowknight. With even that one crime, he had broken his knightly vows. It was reason enough to have been stripped of his Graces and cast out of the Order, but the crime of murder carried a heavier sentence: to be broken on the wheel, then sold into slavery.

“The caste of Gray Traders at Akkabak Harbor knew I was about to expose them. They sought to discredit me.” He glanced back to Perryl. “And they succeeded.”

“So you claimed before the adjudicators, but the soothmancers said you spoke falsely.”

He lowered his head.

“And they were not the only ones,” Perryl whispered. “Kathryn-”

Tylar swung around sharply. “Do not speak her name in my presence, Perryl. I warn you.”

The young knight did not back down. “She said you were gone from your bed that night and returned bloody to the sheets. And when asked if she believed your claims of innocence, she denied you, a fellow Shadowknight and her own betrothed.”

Tylar hardened. “I will not speak any more of this. I’ve paid for my crimes and won my freedom in the rings as was my right.”

“And what of the slaughter you’re accused of now?”

“I expect no fairer justice in this matter. I know how it must appear, so let them have me.”

“I can’t.” Perryl balled a gloved fist. “A god has been slain, not some cobbler’s family. If for no other reason than to find out how you succeeded in bringing down one of the Hundred, the Order will intervene. The truth will be known.”

“I have no faith in the Order.”

“Then have faith in me.”

Tylar saw the pain in the other’s eyes. He touched the man’s elbow. “You’ve soiled your cloak enough already, Perryl. Stay away before you’re dragged down with me.”

Perryl refused to move. “There is much you don’t know. As I warned you on the streets, these are dark and perilous times.” The young man sighed. “Have you heard about Ser Henri?”

“What of the old man?” Tylar asked cautiously.

Henri ser Gardlen was the warden of the Order, the leader of Tashijan for as long as Tylar could remember. He ruled the Order and its council with a firm but even hand. It was only through Ser Henri’s intervention that Tylar had not been hanged for his crimes.

“He died… most strangely and suddenly.”

“By all the Graces, how?”

“His body was found on the stairs leading up to his tower, his face a mask of horror, his fingertips burned to the first knuckle. Tashijan is keeping the details shuttered. When I left there a half-moon ago, the Order was still in chaos. Factions war behind closed doors, vying for the seat of succession. I can only hope matters have settled to deal with the tragedy here.”

Tylar stood, stunned.

“But that is not all. Strangeness abounds across all the lands. Over in the Fifth Land, Tristal of Idlewyld has gone into seclusion on his peak, cutting off all Graces to his sworn knights. Talk is that he raves. Ulf of Ice Eyrie has frozen his entire castillion, locking his court in hoarfrost. None can enter or leave. And across the Meerashe Deep, rumors abound of a mighty hinter-king rising on the Seventh Land, threatening to break out into the neighboring god-realms.”

Tylar shook his head. “I’ve heard none of this.”

“Few have. The tidings are scattered and scarce. Perhaps they are merely a spate of bad fortune, but now this.” He glanced to the doorway. “Ten days ago, Meeryn sent a raven to Tashijan and requested a blessed courier.”

“You?”

Perryl nodded. “It was my honor.”

Tylar touched his brow in thought. Once gods settled to a land, they were rooted to it, requiring intermediaries to carry their messages between them. Only the most important messages were born by the sworn couriers of the Order.

“I don’t know how Meeryn’s death ties to all this,” Perryl continued. “But I sense dark currents in the tides of the world. Something is stirring down deep, out of sight.”

“And you think it struck here? To silence Meeryn?”

“It seems an extraordinary coincidence that she summons a courier, and on the very day I step on this island, she is slain.” Perryl reached to Tylar, touching his hand. “If you spoke the truth about that awful night, then Meeryn blessed you for some reason, healed you with the last of her Grace. She must have championed you for some purpose.”

“I don’t know. Perhaps it was simply a final kindness for the man who comforted her during her last breath.” He remembered the swell of Grace into him. His fingers wandered unbidden to the center of his chest, where she had touched him.

“Did she say anything to you in those last moments?”

Tylar dropped his fingers and shook his head-then realized he was mistaken. “Wait.” He focused back to Perryl. “She did say one thing. But it made no sense.”

“What was it?”

He struggled to remember the exact pronunciation. “Riven… scryr.”

Perryl’s eyes pinched.

“Does that mean anything to you?”

Perryl shook his head. “I… I’ve never heard of such a name.” He backed a step, looking slightly paler. “But perhaps the scholars at Tashijan or in Chrismferry will know better. I should be going. There is much to arrange before I leave, much to ponder.”

As Perryl turned away, Tylar reached out to the edge of his friend’s cloak, but he dared not let his fingers soil it. The young Shadowknight fixed his masklin in place and studied his former teacher. “Be safe, ser.”

Tylar let his arm drop. “And you,” he mumbled.

“Until our cloaks touch again,” Perryl said, then vanished away.

These last words were a common farewell among knights. Tylar turned to face his dank cell with its steaming chamber pot and snoring guest. Even fit and hale again, he felt like no knight.

The door slammed behind him, and the bar was shoved in place. The dungeonkeep grumbled something about his clothes, but he didn’t dare ask for them back. Tylar wondered how long such protection would last once Perryl was gone.

Rogger groaned and rolled to face Tylar. “Talkative fellow, that tall dark one.” The thief must have been feigning sleep the entire time. “A friend of yours?”

Tylar settled to the mound of lice-ridden straw that was his bed. “Once… and maybe still.”

Rogger sat up. “He had much to say… and little else of real worth to offer.”

“What do you mean?” Tylar’s attention drew sharply toward the bearded and branded fellow. He spoke more keenly than earlier. Even his manner seemed more refined.

“As a pilgrim, I’ve journeyed far and wide. I’ve heard, too, of the dark tidings of which the young knight spoke. And not only in halls and castillions through which your once-and-maybe-again friend walked, but in those many places where the sun doesn’t shine as bright.”

His speech suddenly thickened again, his manner roughened, hunching a bit. “Th’art many a low tongue that’ll wag to a whipped dog that won’t speak to a lordling or maid.”

Tylar knew this true enough himself. The underfolk kept many secrets unto themselves.

“Then again,” Rogger continued, “there are many in high towers who speak freely at their castillion door, blind to the ragged pilgrim on their doorstep.” A sly glint blew bright in his eye. “Or on the floor of a cell.”

It seemed sleep was not the only thing this thief had been feigning. There was more to the man than first impressed. “Who are you?” Tylar asked.

Rogger started to wag a finger at him, then thought better of it and used it to dig a flea out of his beard. “Just a thief and a pilgrim.” An eyebrow rose as he paused in his scratching. “Or rather should I say I’m as much a thief and pilgrim… as you are a knight?”

Tylar’s head hurt from trying to riddle meaning out of these strange words. “Are you truly on a pilgrimage? Was your story of Balger’s punishment true?”

“Alas, as true as the stripes on my back, I’m afraid. But one story does not make an entire man, does it?”

Tylar had to agree. “You mentioned hearing other grim tidings on your journeys. What sort of happenings?”

“Rumors, whispers in the night, tales of black blessings and ilk-beasts stirring from the hinterlands. Your young friend has barely nicked the flesh on what’s really going on, but he still hit the heart of the matter. Something is indeed stirring out there.”

“What?”

“How in the naether should I know?” Rogger rolled back to his straw billet. “And now that I finally have a bit of quiet, maybe I could get some true sleep. I doubt we’ll get much rest this night.”

“Why’s that?”

“The bells, ser knight, the bells.”

Tylar had almost forgotten. Meeryn’s deathwatch ended with the rising of the Mother moon. The death bells would announce her passing. They would surely peal all night.

He settled back to his own bed and pondered all that had been told him. But his thoughts kept returning to one moment-or rather one word.

Rivenscryr.

What did it mean? Why had Meeryn blessed him, healed him? Was it for him to be her champion, as Perryl had suggested? Was this word supposed to mean something to him?

Tylar sensed something unspoken in Perryl. The young man had paled with the mention of Rivenscryr. But if Perryl knew more, why hadn’t he spoken?

There could be only one answer.

Perryl must have sworn an oath. While the young knight might show his face to a man who had once been his teacher, even protect him, he would never break an oath.

Perryl had learned that much from Tylar.

Rolling to his side, Tylar tried to stop thinking, stop remembering.

It hurt too much.

Tylar startled awake in his bed, sitting up. He vaguely remembered dreams of being crippled again… and now waking to his hale body, he felt oddly disappointed. His broken body had sheltered him, hidden him these long years, requiring nothing of him but survival. But now Tylar had to face the world again, a whole man.

He groaned.

From beyond the lone window, hundreds of bells pealed, ringing and clanging. The noise was deafening.

He glanced upward. Full night had set in. Evening mists flowed in through the high barred window, pouring down like a foggy waterfall. His eyes grew accustomed to the gloom and spotted Rogger across the cell. The thief was standing under the window, bathed in mists.

“It’s all over,” Rogger said, noting him stir. “The Hundred are now ninety-nine.”

Tylar stood, joining him. He had heard the sorrow in the other’s voice. Despite the thief’s calculating and dismissive demeanor earlier, the man understood the loss, felt it deeply.

“This is just the beginning,” Rogger mumbled. “The first blood spilled. More will flow… much more…”

Though the night remained hot and muggy, Tylar shivered. Bells rang and rang, echoing out to sea and beyond. Cries could be heard rising in the night, mournful, pained, angry, frightened. Prayers were sung from a tower top, cast out to the skies.

The pair in the cell remained silent, standing under the window for a long stretch. Rogger finally turned away, staring at Tylar. “You talk in your sleep, ser knight.”

“So? What does it-?”

Rogger cut him off. “You were speaking in Littick, ancient Littick, the old tongue of the gods.”

Tylar found this claim doubly odd. First, he was hardly fluent in Littick. And second, how did a thief from the Dell even recognize Littick, especially ancient Littick? “What did I say?” he asked, expecting no real answer.

“You were whispering. It was hard to make out.”

“Yet you’re sure it was Littick.”

“Of course. What I did make out was clear enough. You kept saying, ‘Agee wan clyy nee wan dred ghawl.’ Over and over again.”

Tylar pinched his brow. “What does that mean?”

Rogger pulled on his beard in thought. “It’s nonsensical.”

“Then it’s probably nothing. Dream babble, nothing more.”

Rogger seemed not to hear him. “ ‘Agee wan clyy’… break the bone. ‘Nee wan dred ghawl’… and free the dark spirit.”

Tylar waved the words away. “As I was saying, dream babble.”

“Then again,” Rogger continued, “ clyy could mean body, rather than bone. Depends on the emphasis.” The thief sighed. “And you were whispering.”

“How do you know Littick so well?”

Rogger dropped his hand from his beard. “Because I once taught it.”

Before Tylar could inquire about such an oddity, voices arose from the hall, right outside the door. The peal of bells had covered the sound of approach.

Both men turned as the door was yanked open.

Castillion guards filled the hall, including the captain who had spat at Tylar days ago and named him Godslayer. The dungeonkeep backed aside to let in two others: one cowled in a bloodred robe that glowed ruddily in the darkness, rich in Graces, and one dressed formally in gray with silver rings on each finger and ear.

A soothmancer and an adjudicator.

Their eyes fell on Tylar.

The gray figure stepped forward. “Tylar de Noche, you are to present yourself to the Summer Mount Court to be soothed and judged.”

Guards sidled in with swords drawn. The captain followed, carrying clanking iron manacles for wrist and ankle.

Rogger backed aside, mumbling, “It seems your friend’s cloak was thinner than even he supposed.”

Tylar did not fight his manacles, even when they were snapped too tightly, pinching. Perryl was leaving as soon as the deathwatch had ended. These others must have come for him as soon as he boarded the flippercraft and was away. So much for respecting the command of a Shadowknight.

Poked in the back by the point of a sword, he was led out of the cell.

“Bring the pilgrim god-sinner,” the soothmancer commanded from under the cowl of his red robe. “His guilt is as plain as the brands on his flesh. On this mournful night, we will cleanse our house of all who have blasphemed. The way must be pure to grieve the loss of the Brightness of the Isles.”

The adjudicator nodded and waved to the guards.

There were no additional manacles, so Rogger was simply grabbed and hauled.

They were led roughly down the rows of cells and up the long winding stairs into the central keep of Summer Mount, rising out of the dank darkness of the island’s natural stone and into the sunbaked brick and tapestried walls of the castillion. The odors of piss and blood were replaced by the scent of braziers smoking with incenses: sweetwood, dried clove, and sprigs of thistledown.

The scents of the isles… in memory of Meeryn.

The deeper into the castillion they traveled, the more cloying the odor became. Braziers burned everywhere, as if death and grief could be smoked out and away. Every mirror they passed was shattered to hide the faces of those mourning. Black drapes covered windows to hold back the sun.

And over it all, bells rang and rang. Children dressed in black finery ran the halls, even among the guards, carrying small cymbals, clanging away, meant to chase away ghosts. It was supposed to be an act of grief, but spatters of laughter trailed the wake of the little ones. Death was not their concern, not even the death of their god.

More somber figures stood at doorways, bearing witness to the procession through the castillion. Tylar was cursed, spat at. Many carried silver bells, ringing them violently toward him as if trying to beat him with the noise.

At last, they reached the doors that led into the central court. They were flung wide, and Tylar and Rogger were led into the spacious hall beyond. The heavy doors closed behind them, rows of guards falling into place. The great hall, muffled from the bells beyond, seemed deadly silent.

Tylar stared at the court. It was plainly adorned, unlike some gods’ courts. The walls were painted white, simply decorated with frescoes of twining vines and small purple flowers. Eight windows, thickly draped in black, lined one wall, facing the sea.

Aligned against the opposite wall stood seven figures, draped like the windows. They might have been statues, except for slight movements, the turn of a head, the shift of an arm. Tylar guessed who they were. The Hands to Meeryn, men and women in service to the late god, numbered eight, one for each bodily humour. But only seven stood here now. One was missing.

Rogger noted them, too, and whispered under his breath, “They’ll all need a new trade now.”

Tylar remained focused ahead. A high bench crossed the breadth of the court. Only two figures sat there, dressed in gray like their fellow adjudicator. Past their shoulders, a tall seat rose. Meeryn’s throne, empty now, but seeming to bear her presence still.

The group was led before the high bench. The adjudicator who had collected Tylar from the dungeons climbed the steps and took his seat with the other two adjudicators. An old woman sat in the center, hard-eyed and stoic.

“Tylar de Noche,” she said. “You know why you are brought before this court. To be soothed and judged for the death of Meeryn, the Brightness and Light of the Summering Isles.” Her voice cracked slightly upon naming her god. “How do you speak?”

Thrust forward, Tylar stumbled toward the lone chair. Painted red, it stood before the high bench. He knew the procedure well enough, having attended such trials before from both sides. “I swear to all assembled here that I had no hand in the death of the god Meeryn. I am innocent.”

“So you have claimed before,” the other adjudicator said. He appeared even older than the woman, heavy with weight and age, sagging in his seat. “The honorable Perryl ser Corriscan has informed us of your past and your fall from grace. He also vouched for you, asking for a stay in this court until the matter could be attended in Tashijan.”

“The Shadowknights have always served the gods and the realms,” Tylar pressed, hoping that Perryl’s request might still be honored. “I would bow to the Courts of Tashijan in this matter.”

“As you have once before,” the adjudicator that brought him here said. “They let you live when you should have been slain for murder so foul. If they had attended their duties without sympathy to one of their own, Meeryn might still live.”

Tylar held back a groan. They thought Tashijan had been lenient upon him. If anything, the opposite was true. But his word would not be believed. The folk here had no faith in far-off Tashijan.

He tried another tactic. “A court of this import must be attended by those of the Order.” Shadowknights were required to be present at trials of murder or serious offense.

“Then it’s good fortune I returned from the outer islands this very night,” a new voice interrupted. Shadows shifted near the back wall and a figure unfolded from the darkness, revealing himself. A Shadowknight. Cloaked and featureless behind his masklin. “My name is Darjon ser Hightower, the last of those sworn to Meeryn, the last still living. And before I see my duty done among these islands, I will see her avenged. So fear not, the Order is represented here.”

Tylar’s heart sank. No wonder Perryl’s command to stay this trial had been ignored. They had their own knight, newly arrived, to argue otherwise.

“Let him be soothed,” the woman said from the bench. “The truth will be known.”

Tylar was pulled back into the single red chair. His manacles were unlocked and he was roped in place.

The red-robed mancer, his face cowled and shadowed as was custom, stepped before the bench. He bowed deeply, arms crossed and folded in his sleeves. As he straightened, he pulled a small silver bowl from one sleeve and a glass repostilary from the other. The latter vial glowed with an inner fire, a mixture of blood and other humours, an alchemic blend known only to the soothmancers.

Kneeling, he placed the silver bowl on the floor, whispered prayers of thanks, and poured a few drops into the basin. He stoppered the repostilary, and it vanished up a sleeve. With his hands free, he dipped his fingers into the bowl, wetting each tip with the glowing crimson mixture.

The mancer stood and crossed behind Tylar’s chair, his robes sweeping the floor.

“Are you ready to put him to the word?” the mancer asked the court.

“We are,” the trio at the bench responded.

Tylar braced himself. He hated being soothed. It was a violation like no other.

Wet fingers reached from behind and touched him at temple, forehead, and behind the corner of his jaw. The touch was fire, searing into him, seeming to reach into his skull. He gasped at the burn. The guild of soothmancers bowed to the gods bearing the aspect of fire. The unique blend of alchemies required the blood of such a god.

As the Grace-fed fire burned through his will, winding to the center of his being, the mancer spoke. “Put him to the word. Let the truth be judged.”

Near blind from the pain, he heard the first question. “Did you slay Meeryn?”

“No!” he gasped out.

There was a pause as the adjudicators turned their attention to the soothmancer. Tylar had no trust in such a one. He had been soothed before, questioned upon the murder of the cobbler’s family. His answer had been the same: denial. But the mancer had stated he was lying to the court. It had made no sense. Tylar knew the soothmancer to be a good and honest man. He had served the court of Tashijan for many decades. How could he make such a mistake?

Only much later did Tylar understand. In his heart, he had indeed felt responsible for the death of the cobbler and his family. They had been slain by the Gray Traders to discredit him. So in a way, he had been the cause for their bloody deaths. The soothmancer at Tashijan must have sensed this deeper guilt in Tylar’s heart and answered honestly.

Still, it was a mistake. Truth was more complicated than what was written in one’s heart. Justice could not always be found so easily there.

But he felt no guilt for Meeryn’s death. “No!” he repeated to the court before the mancer could even respond.

“How do you find?” the lead adjudicator asked.

The soothmancer responded slowly, strained. “I… I am having difficulty reading this one’s heart. There is a well of darkness beyond anything I’ve ever soothed before, beyond anything I could burn through to the truth. The corruption inside this man has no bounds, no depths. He is more monster than man.”

Tylar squirmed under the other’s fiery touch. “He lies! I am no worse nor better than any other man.”

Fingers broke from his skin, releasing him. “I cannot read this one. His very touch sickens me. I fear he will corrupt the purity of Grace I bear.” The mancer fell away, legs trembling with true horror.

Tylar stared at the accusing eyes. The soothmancer’s words doomed him, claiming him evil beyond measure. Only such a corrupt spirit could slay a god.

He saw the judgment firm in the eyes of the adjudicators.

“We must find how he killed Meeryn,” the Shadowknight said.

“How?” the elder woman asked. “How without the guidance of a soothmancer?”

“There are other ways to loosen a stubborn tongue.” Darjon ser Hightower shifted closer, his cloak billowing outward. “Older ways, cruder ways. He has slain our Meeryn, murdered our realm into a godless hinterland. Let him face the tests of truth from those same barbarous lands.”

“What do you propose?”

“Let me put him to the torture, make him scream the truth.”

Tylar closed his eyes. He had worn this healed body for such a short time, and it was already going to be taken from him, broken again.

“So be it,” said the woman behind the bench.