Hinterland

by James Clemens

  “So what happened there?” Dart asked. She knew Brant hailed from that realm.

  “I went to present myself to the Huntress in her treetop castillion. I did my proper obeisance, took her sigil to my thigh, and thought to move on. But word among the underfolk at the castillion suggested their mistress might be the source of the decrepitude. She had grown sullen, pulled away from her people, seldom showed herself. The flow of her humours slowed, then stopped. It was said she even had one of her own Hands imprisoned. Such strangeness warranted further inquiries. A few pinches spent on ale, a few silver yokes rolled onto palms, and I heard more. How the Huntress retreated often to a private chamber, spent days in there alone. The underfolk reported hearing her whispering in there…laughing sometimes, cursing at other times.”

  “Who else was in there?” Tylar asked.

  “That’s just it. No one. She was alone. She kept some treasure in there, a talisman, hidden behind lock and curse.” Rogger shrugged.

  “So you had to take a look,” Tylar said.

  “How could I not? It surely sounded like another incursion by the Cabal, another tainted realm. So I snuck in there and saw the talisman, a skull resting on a golden cushion. From its ilked shape, there was little doubt that it had something to do with the Cabal, a slow poison meant to corrupt yet another god. There was only one clear course.”

  “You stole it.”

  Rogger nodded. “Best to get it out of there, away from the Huntress and her realm, away from all the god-realms. And I guess I was right. Look what happened when I set foot in Chrismferry.”

  “What happened?” Krevan asked, his eyes narrowing.

  Dart listened in horror as Tylar described the attack by ilk-beasts. He explained, “Master Gerrod believes the seersong drew upon the taint left behind by Chrism and cast forth a curse.”

  “So to keep it out of the god-realms, I finally brought it here,” Rogger concluded. “Tashijan lies nestled among the god-realms, but is not a god-realm itself. And with all the knowledgeable masters buried beneath these towers, here seemed a good place to have the skull’s secret plied from its bones.”

  Krevan’s dark expression had not changed. “You meddle in matters beyond your understanding.”

  “Wouldn’t be the first time,” Rogger mumbled. “And probably not the last.”

  Tylar lifted a hand. “Plainly the skull is some talisman of the Cabal. I don’t—”

  Krevan cut him off, voice booming with authority. “The skull is not some Cabalistic talisman. Have you not been listening? The skull came from a rogue god who trespassed into that realm.” His voice lowered. “And it wasn’t just any rogue god.”

  Tylar’s brow crinkled, but Dart understood. She’d known the truth from the moment Krevan first described the rogue’s trespass. From the glance he had given her. From his earlier words to her.

  “He was my father,” she said, gripping her bed’s ticking with both hands.

  Tylar gaped between her and the pirate.

  Krevan paced a bit but did not deny it. “Eylan…the Wyr-mistress…it was she who brought word out of the hinterland, of this godling’s birth.” An arm waved to Dart. “Word carried from this one’s mother, begging for her child to be taken to safe harbors.”

  Tylar nodded. “Ser Henri took her in, kept her hidden.”

  Krevan continued as if he hadn’t heard, one hand on his brow. “For centuries, the Wyr-lords have had tenuous dealings with the rogues, trading in alchemies and humours. They know the true nature of the ravening creatures better than any. And after Dart was secured, their interest focused upon the parents.”

  “Why?” Tylar asked. “Such births are rare. Only two in four centuries. And rogues slip in and out of ravings, spending more of their lives like beasts than gods. What did they hope to learn?”

  “The Wyr-lords believed there was something special about this pair of gods. They were perplexed. What made this seed take root when so many other ruttings among the wild gods failed? So they watched and waited, spied and plotted. As you know, the Wyr are drawn to Grace of an unusual nature.”

  Dart glanced to Tylar. The regent had personal experience with such interest.

  “The dam fell into full rave after the child was taken, waging a swath of madness. She vanished into caverns beneath Middleback a decade ago and has yet to resurface. Perhaps dead, perhaps in some raving dream, perhaps even escaped out some other tunnel long ago. But the sire…he remained strangely grounded, whisking from hinterland to hinterland. The Wyr had a difficult time tracking him from place to place. It was like—”

  “—he knew he was being hunted,” Rogger said.

  Krevan nodded. “They lost him when he reached the Eighth Land. It is a maze of hinterlands.”

  “How long ago was that?” Tylar asked.

  “Going on seven years.”

  “And the Wyr have still been hunting for him all this time?”

  “They have strategies that cross centuries. A handful of years is nothing to them. They scoured the hinterlands across all of Myrillia, searching for some trace or sign of him.”

  Of my father, Dart thought, still struggling with the revelation.

  Rogger coughed with a trace of amusement. “And all this time he’s been locked under key in the Huntress’s castillion. Now that’s what I call a good hiding place. ’Course, there is a downside—you’re dead.”

  “But what made him trespass into one of the god-realms in the first place?” Tylar asked. “Did he fear the Wyr’s hunters so much that he killed himself?”

  “No. Unlike our thief here, I did some study of the skull’s history in Saysh Mal. The rogue entered the realm a full two years after the Wyr lost his trail among the twisted maze of hinterlands down there. Some other purpose drove the rogue into that realm.”

  “And what purpose might that be?” Rogger asked, setting his shoulders a bit stiffly.

  Krevan shook his head. “That I still don’t know. The Wyr refused to tell me more.”

  Tylar frowned at Krevan. “Considering your hatred of Wyrd Bennifren, I’m surprised you are so well informed about all this.”

  “They hired the Flaggers,” Krevan grumbled sourly.

  “What? I thought there was great enmity between you and Wyrd Bennifren?”

  “Yet, in this matter, there was also great urgency.”

  “How so? What did they want?”

  “To help find the missing rogue. Three seasons ago, they found the first crumb of a trail long gone cold. A wandering Wyr-lord was collecting alchemies and Grace-tainted herbs and stumbled into a hinter-village down in the Eighth Land. He discovered an old piece of hide, tacked in an elder’s home, a revered talisman. Upon the hide, inked in a blood that was rich in wild Graces, were words written in ancient Littick. None could read it, not even the elder, though he recognized it as God’s Tongue. The Wyr-lord deciphered it easily enough, but more importantly he read the sigil at the bottom, the mark of their long-lost rogue.”

  “This sigil?” Dart asked. “It was his name?”

  Krevan glanced to her, studied her a moment, then nodded.

  Dart swallowed. When younger, she had wondered about her mother and father, fabricated elaborate stories for why she had been abandoned at the doorstep of a school in Chrismferry. Only after learning her true heritage did she allow those dreams to die away, strangled by the horror of the truth. Since then, she had tried not to dwell upon it. Easier to be lost in her training and duties than face her blasted birthright.

  But now…

  Krevan crossed to the cold hearth, dipped a finger in ash, and scrawled two Littick symbols on the stone wall.

  Rogger stepped closer. “Keorn,” he read aloud with a frown.

  Dart mouthed the name silently herself. The weight of it added substance to what was once only vague shadow. Her father. She held back a shudder—sensing that it might shake her apart.

  Rogger turned his back on the markings. “It is rare for a rogue to hold his name. Usua
lly the ravings burn away such memories. Even some of our esteemed Hundred—like the Huntress—had forgotten their names by the time they settled, lost in the burn of their initial ravings. Could this rogue simply have made up this name?”

  Krevan shook his head. “Sometimes the memories will back up out of the past. But the Wyr believed it was more than that, that this one had always known his name. It went along with their belief that there was something exceptional about this rogue who birthed a daughter. It was why they approached the Black Flaggers. The trail was cold, much time had passed, and the Wyr were desperate.”

  “And your rapacious guild is everywhere, from sea to mountain,” Rogger said. “Fingers and toes into all matter of trade. Who better to aid in this quest?”

  “Why didn’t you warn us of this?” Tylar asked.

  “At first, I was not sure where it would lead. To bind the deal required my sworn word. And even when I learned and suspected more, you were under the eye of the Wyr.”

  “Eylan…” Tylar mumbled.

  “Do not be so simple. The Wyr have more than just the one pair of eyes on you. Of that you can be certain. Any word sent to you would reach the Wyr.”

  “So gold bought your tongue,” Rogger muttered with a scowl.

  “No. Something more valuable than gold.”

  “And what might that be?”

  “Revelations,” Krevan said. “The Wyr promised that if I brought the skull to them they would tell me much more about the Cabal, the rogue, and the girl.”

  The pirate’s eyes settled again upon Dart.

  “How do you know you aren’t being played the fool?” Rogger asked. “Paid to fetch the skull with false promises.”

  “Because they laid down a payment in advance. A tithing of secret knowledge. They knew more than just the name of the rogue who sired Dart. They told me who he was.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You are aware of how the gods had relationships before they were sundered and their world broken. Before they arrived on the shores of Myrillia. Old pacts, old enmities. Remnants of the God War that sundered their kingdom.”

  His listeners nodded. Even Dart had heard of such rumored relationships, like between Fyla and the murdered god Meeryn. The two gods had once been lovers before becoming locked into their Myrillian god-realms, doomed to be forever near, yet forever apart.

  “The Wyr learned a secret about Dart’s father, one kept for the past four millennia. After Dart was born, her mother, near to raving and desperate to save her child, revealed her father’s true heritage.”

  “And what might that be?”

  Krevan turned full upon Tylar. “Keorn was Chrism’s son. Born before the Sundering.”

  As the words struck her, Dart felt her vision narrow. The blood drained to her heels. She felt a scream building somewhere deep inside her. It was Chrism who had forged Rivenscryr. It was he who wielded the Godsword and shattered the kingdom of the gods, bringing ruin and chaos to Myrillia.

  Rogger stood wide-eyed. “That would make…”

  Tylar finished his thought. “Dart is Chrism’s granddaughter.”

  Off by the hearth, Kathryn watched the small group tumble out of Dart’s garret. They all looked ashen, except for Krevan, whose countenance had, if anything, grown even darker.

  Barrin lifted his head from a paw and disturbed the young wyld tracker who had been half-slumbering against his side. Laurelle stood up from her fireside chair.

  “The skull is where?” the pirate boomed as he crossed into the room.

  “Still down in Gerrod’s study,” Tylar said, following on his heels.

  “We must fetch it.”

  Tylar shook his head. “Argent has closed off the Masterlevels. He has fires blazing across all the lower tower floors. We dare not breach the cellars. For now, the skull is secure in Gerrod’s rooms.”

  “Secure? In levels overrun by daemon knights? Someone might sense the taint of seersong in the bone, hunt it down. If we lose the skull, we lose any leverage to pry additional secrets from the Wyr.”

  “Plus the Cabal might use the skull against us,” Rogger argued, siding with Krevan.

  “We must attempt it!” the pirate insisted.

  Kathryn stepped toward them. What new turmoil was this?

  Tylar noted her approach and motioned her to his side, plainly expecting her support. She came, prepared to give it, then rankled at such assumptions. They were long past such easy alliances. Still, she was as irritated by her reaction as much as by Tylar’s.

  “What is this all about?” she asked coldly.

  “Krevan wishes to make an assault upon the Masterlevels. To retrieve the rogue’s skull. It seems it may be more important than just a cursed talisman. But to breach the cellars may lay all of Tashijan open to what gathers below. Even Gerrod—” Tylar glanced around the room. “Where’s the master?”

  “Off to do your bidding. Gathering masters to repair the flippercraft.”

  Tylar nodded. “That’s what we must do first. Secure the towers. Prepare for this siege. Then we can worry about an assault below.”

  Kathryn turned to Krevan and Rogger. “This skull—I would hear its story in full, but tell me first, how calamitous would it be to have it fall into the clutches of the Cabal?”

  “Ruin across all levels,” Krevan said. He turned to Tylar. “The Wyr have no allegiances. They would trade their secrets just as well to the Cabal.”

  “And remember the ilk-beasts back in Chrismferry,” Rogger said. “The curse remains strong in those bones. If whoever created those daemons is down there with them…”

  “She is,” Kathyrn answered, drawing their attention back to her.

  Tylar frowned. “Kathryn?”

  “Lorr awoke for a short time.” She explained all she had learned, of a deception that spanned decades, riddled throughout the tower’s history. “Castellan Mirra is down there. She has been plying treachery for decades, weakening Tashijan from on high, while corrupting its roots in secret. I’m sure even now she’s gathering a wealth of Grace from the masters’ alchemical labs, a well of power to taint and forge into dire weapons against us. Such malignant cunning will expose the skull, find recourse to use it.”

  Kathryn noted Tylar had clutched the back of a chair as she related Lorr’s story. She read the growing horror in his face as he recalibrated the vast web of lies that had trapped them all here. Just as she had done earlier. She also saw the certainty firming in the gray storm of his eyes.

  “Then we have no choice,” he said. “The skull must be retrieved.”

  “It will be difficult,” Kathryn warned.

  Tylar’s mind was already spinning. “We’ll bring fire—torches and lanterns. We can burn a path through to Gerrod’s study.”

  Kathryn held up a hand. “That is all well and good, but that is not what I meant.”

  Tylar stared at her.

  “First, you’ll have to get through Argent. That will be the difficult part.”

  Tylar opened his mouth to speak.

  “No,” she said more firmly. “I know what you’re thinking. Bullying your way through. You can’t divide this house more than it has been already. Castellan Mirra has already succeeded in breaking the trust and fellowship of our Order. Do not serve her further by waging a war with Argent when the enemy is at our door.”

  “What would you have me do?”

  She sighed. “It is time we worked together to unite our Order. Argent was once a great knight. We’ll have to make him remember that.”

  “Might be easier to pull a pig through a keyhole,” Rogger said.

  Kathryn touched the man’s elbow and silenced him. She kept her eyes on Tylar. He slowly nodded his agreement.

  A new voice interrupted from the narrow doorway. Dart leaned on the door’s latch, worn and haunted. She looked as if she had taken a beating, though not a mark marred her. Laurelle abandoned her place by the hearth and hurried toward her.

  Dart held her off with a
raised palm. Her arm trembled. “The skull. You said it came from Saysh Mal.”

  Tylar nodded.

  “Then perhaps you should talk to Brant. He was raised in that god-realm.”

  Tylar frowned at Kathryn, not recognizing the name.

  “It was the boy who helped rescue her,” she explained. “A Hand from Oldenbrook.”

  “And he hails from Saysh Mal?” Rogger asked. Suspicion rang in his voice. “How long ago did he leave that realm?”

  Dart shook her head, unsure.

  Laurelle answered. “He arrived at the Conclave in Chrismferry some four years ago.”

  Dart glanced to her, startled, but Kathryn knew the dark-haired girl was held in high esteem back at the school, both handsome of figure and of a rich family. Raised to such a station, little probably passed beneath Laurelle’s notice at the school. Especially a striking boy. But now she seemed slightly abashed by her knowledge.

  Rogger mumbled to Tylar and lifted one eyebrow. “So he came about the time all fell to ruin in Saysh Mal.”

  Nodding, Tylar turned to Laurelle. “Do you know how he came to be so far from home?”

  She glanced to Dart and shifted her feet slightly. “Rumors only. You know the prattle that gets passed around school.”

  “Tell us.”

  Again a blushing glance was passed to Dart. “He arrived in chains. Exiled, I heard. Sent to the school to get rid of him.”

  “Who sent him? Who banished him?”

  “I heard tell it was the god of his realm.” Laurelle studied her toes. “She banished him, forbidding him ever to return.”

  11

  A WREATH OF LEAVES

  “THEY STILL SHOULDN’T BE HERE,” LIANNORA SAID. “TELL him, Sten.”

  Brant sat across the dining table. He would have preferred to have broken bread with the giants back in his rooms, but the captain of the guard had insisted the group all share the final bell’s meal together, for safety’s sake. All had heard the rumors of daemons beneath Tashijan. Brant kept silent about his own involvement.