To either side, the innermost circle of Tashijan lined the table: knights of the highest station, including Swordmaster Yuril, heads of house and livery, like Keeper Ryngold, and several members of the Council of Masters, the last bolstered by the wide girth of Hesharian.
Argent finally spoke. “We thank you for your offer, regent, but surely one of your stature should best be kept with our other guests high in the tower, where you can be protected. Such a raid, if permitted, would best be carried out by knights of the Order.”
“As I recall, I was invited here to be so included in said Order, to be granted cloak and sword. Or was the offer merely feigned?”
The warden’s lips thinned to sharp, unforgiving lines.
“Also,” Tylar continued, “we know the skull, tainted by seersong, can twist Grace to its will. I’ve already proven my resistance to its corruption, so who better to lead?”
Kathryn cast Tylar a withering look. She had not wanted to further split their towers with petty bickering. And here they were, already baring teeth like dogs. While Tylar recognized the wisdom in her cause, Argent seemed to draw the bile from him like no other. And from the flint in the other’s eye, there was little hope of a peaceful settlement here.
The impasse was broken by a most unexpected ally.
A figure stepped out of the shadow of Hesharian’s moon. “I believe the regent speaks wisely, and his design should be considered.” It was the elderly visitor from Ghazal.
Argent swung toward him.
But the aged figure seemed unfazed, his eyes perhaps too clouded to note the fire in the warden’s. Tylar guessed the fortitude arose more from a steely disinterest in the warden.
Ignoring even a pinch on his sleeve by Master Hesharian, he continued, “Such a talisman, removed from below, may serve to protect us. Dark Grace is woven tightly around us-from the storm without and the daemons below. If we masters could find a way to tap in to the seersong, perhaps we could forge a weapon against the forces that gather. To turn their Grace against them.”
A calculating glint of understanding reflected in Argent’s eye. “Get them to dance to our song.”
Hesharian chimed in, now that he risked nothing by taking a position. “Wise all around. It is good fortune that I had summoned Master Orquell to attend here.”
The ancient mage seemed little moved. He kept his focus on the warden. “And with such a ward against black Grace in our hands, who knows what other black acts might be reversed?”
Argent met the other’s gaze. Tylar knew the Ghazalian master had been summoned in an attempt to break the dark spell that had frozen Argent’s swordsworn brother to stone. Here the master offered one more argument for securing the skull, one with a more personal stake for the warden.
Tylar knew the matter was settled before the warden turned back to him.
“You believe you can get below and back again with the skull?” Argent asked.
“If we are delayed no longer.”
Argent’s eye narrowed. “I’ll send you with enough knights to guard the door below, to keep a fire blazing. You’ll have a single bell. Longer than that, we’ll know you’re corrupted. The way will be sealed.”
It was as much of a concession as Tylar could hope for from the warden. He stared at Argent in his one eye and nodded.
Kathryn turned from the table. Tylar was the only one to note her relieved sigh. She followed him back to the door and out.
Behind them, Argent barked orders, staging his end of the assault.
They would have only a moment of privacy.
Kathryn stopped him halfway toward the stair. “Be careful. I don’t trust that new master.”
He nodded. “We’ll have to worry about that after I retrieve the skull.”
In a lower voice, she asked, “What of the boy? Was he able to cast any light upon the skull’s origin?”
“More than you could imagine.” He didn’t have time to go into his story at length, and he feared speaking of the boy’s black stone, gifted to him by the very god whose skull lay below. “He’s coming with us.”
Thinking upon it, he was glad he had not been more stubborn about permitting him to come. Best to bring the skull and stone together well out of sight of that strange master.
Kathryn looked on inquiringly, but trusted him enough not to press. He squeezed her arm. “I must go.”
For a moment, their eyes met. A flicker of something conflicted flashed across her features. But before he could pin it down, it vanished, replaced with worry and the weight of their situation.
“Come back,” she said.
He let go of her arm. “I will.”
He set off, hoping it was a promise he could keep.
Brant shifted back as the heavy iron bar was lifted from the gate. It was the last of three. The wyrmwood gate itself was constructed of massive planks, woven like cloth under an alchemy of Grace and banded in more iron. Rogger had explained its history, how it was placed at the threshold to the Masterlevels shortly after the founding of Tashijan.
“Some said to keep any wild Grace from escaping the master’s subterranean dungeons…others because the knights had not truly trusted those first masters, men who dabbled with the Grace of gods. The knights were ready to bottle them up if necessary. And maybe they weren’t half wrong. Look where we are now.”
But all had gone silent by the time the last bar was shoved free.
Everyone held their breath.
Giant braziers flanked both sides, roaring with fire. Torches as thick around as Dralmarfillneer’s thigh encircled the walls and continued down the tall halls, all the way to the great doors that led from Stormwatch into the outer bailey.
Brant wiped his brow on his sleeve. The very air steamed from the many flames. But he did not complain.
“Ready your torches,” Tylar said.
They each carried an oiled brand. Rogger also had a lantern hanging at his hip, flame flickered low. The giant had a cask of the oil under one arm, ready to be cracked opened, spilled, and set to flame.
One by one, they lit their torches from the brazier.
Tylar nodded to two knights at the chained mechanism for the gate. The pair began hauling on the wheels, drawing up the barrier. Another knight ran forward and cast a lantern through the widening opening, splashing oil and fire down the mouth of the steps. They dared not risk an ambush outside the gate.
Brant hunkered down and searched the lower stairs. The way appeared empty, free of any black ghawls.
“We stay together,” Tylar said. “No more than an arm’s length apart. Understood?”
Nods all around.
The regent led the way, with Rogger a step behind him, and Sten flanking his other side. Brant went next. He had two guards: the dour-faced Dralmarfillneer and the woman in black ash, the Flagger whose name Brant learned was Calla. Or was it Carra? His heart had been pounding too hard to truly note it.
Behind them trailed Krevan. The large man stood nearly as tall as the giant, though not as bulky. Despite his misgivings about the man’s trade, Brant was still happy to have him at his back.
They headed down the stairs, skirting the fading flames from the broken lantern. As they continued, wending round and round, Brant risked a glance behind him. The fires above were only a distant glow.
Brant had never considered himself a coward, but only one certainty kept him descending into the deepening darkness. He clutched the stone at his throat. It lay as cold as granite against his heated skin. No matter the risk, he would find the end of this path that started with this stone.
“Where are these daemons already?” Rogger grumbled.
Sten glanced to the smaller man with a frown. Brant shared the captain’s distaste. It was like whistling among gravestones. There was no telling what such sentiment might conjure.
They spiraled farther down in silence. Brant peered past Tylar, who still led them by two steps. The blackness seemed to stir away from his flames. It was as if the darkness had tu
rned to oil and feared to be ignited.
But nothing worse arose.
“Here is the level of Gerrod’s study,” Tylar said, stopping at the next landing.
They all closed ranks a bit tighter.
“What’s that smell?”
Brant sniffed. But he stood too near the bearded man. He smelled unwashed and ripe. Then a skittering sound reached his ears. It rose from below. He remembered the rustle when he had been with the wyld tracker and Dart. This was something different.
“Back!” Tylar ordered, low and urgent. “Against the walls.”
His warning came not a moment too soon. Brant flattened against the stone as darkness flowed out from below, swallowing the gray stairs.
“Rats,” Rogger said with disgust.
A horde burst up to them, jammed together, climbing over one another. They whisked through the group like so many stones in a flash flood. One rat leaped, landed on the lip of Brant’s boot, and bounced to the next step and away. As suddenly as they had arrived, they were gone again, streaming up the stairs.
Brant shivered all over. Not so much at the number of rats as their silence. Not a single squeak. Only the scrape of tiny, frantic claws on rock. Brant knew the sound would haunt his nights-that is, if he lived to have more nights.
“Those rats can’t seem to find a safe place to roost this night,” Rogger said, glancing meaningfully at Tylar.
“We’ll heed their instinct this time,” the regent answered. “Especially as there’s no reason to traipse deeper.”
“Thank the silent aether for that,” the man answered.
Tylar lifted his torch toward the passage that led off the landing. “This way. Keep alert. By now they must know we’re down here.”
Brant followed, but he stared down the spiraling stairs one more time. Was that the message from the rats? That something stirred once again in the bowels beneath Tashijan?
He hurried after the others.
Dral hunched next to him, all but filling the passageway. Calla- or Carra -was forced back with her leader.
“How much longer?” Dral whispered, sounding like boulders rubbing together. “Those rats reminded me that I didn’t get to finish my dinny. Did you see how plump some of them buggers was? I like them roasted with their own giblets. Mal says-”
“Dral,” Brant finally barked out louder than he intended, earning a glance back from Tylar.
“Apologies, Master Brant. It were just that my belly was growling and I thought-”
He turned a hard glance to the large man.
The giant slowly closed his mouth.
Brant felt a tad shamed at his outburst. He read the edgy twitch to Dral’s eye. Despite his size and strength, he was plainly rattled, too. And the cramped quarters of the passage only squeezed his fears closer to his heart, loosening a nervous tongue.
He touched the giant’s hand, acknowledging both his forgiveness and his own apology.
At last, Tylar halted before an arched doorway. “Here we are.”
“I got it,” Rogger said, slipping a large iron key from a pocket. “Not that I really need this.”
He touched the door-and it creaked open on its own.
Unlatched.
Even Brant knew this was not good.
Rogger backed away.
“Stay here,” Tylar said. “But be ready.”
The regent edged the door open with a toe and thrust his torch through the gap. Brant cringed as Tylar followed the flames into the room. The regent’s torchlight reflected off a pair of iron braziers at the back of the room. They cast monstrous shadows on the back wall. Tylar’s movement set them to dancing.
Brant had a horrible feeling about what was to come.
Tylar crossed to another door in the back wall, some inner chamber, the alchemist’s study. It stood ajar. The regent approached, kicked the door wider, and stepped to the threshold.
He paused for a moment, his back to all of them.
“Tylar?” Rogger whispered.
The regent swung around, his cloak billowing out. He rushed to the door. “Gone,” he said, his voice stiff and angry. “We’re too late. Only by moments, I suspect.”
He waved them back to the stairs. “We must get out of here.”
They retreated, in reverse order as before, mostly as the giant blocked Tylar from passing. Krevan led them back to the stairs.
Still, Brant could not escape that horrible feeling he had had only a breath ago. It remained with him as much as the stink off Rogger. But it grew worse with every step. He felt something building. The very air seemed to suddenly weigh more. Each breath took effort.
Somewhere on the back of his tongue he tasted a hint of spiced oil, a whisper of scent, more memory than real, of pompbonga-kee.
Oh, no…
Dral cleared the passageway and reached the broader stairs. Brant stepped after him, glancing back to warn the regent.
Too late.
The torch tumbled from Brant’s fingers. Both hands grabbed for his throat. Fire ignited his chest, burning through his skin, turning bone to ash.
He fell to his knees.
Arms reached for him.
“Master Brant…?” Dral asked, his voice mirroring everyone’s confusion.
Except one.
“It’s the stone,” Rogger said. “Somewhere they’ve exposed the skull. Cleared the black bile.”
Brant fell farther, catching himself with one hand on the steps. “It’s near…” he gasped.
Then Tylar’s face was in front of his. “Where?”
Brant sat back, bones burning. He lifted an arm, fighting the pained trembling of the effort. He pointed.
“Down,” Rogger said.
“Can you lead us?” Tylar asked.
Arms lifted him, to his feet, to his toes. He shook to keep his heels to the stone. He nodded. “Down,” he gasped. “Down…”
“Where the rats fled from,” Rogger said.
Tylar descended with his torch held before him. The others followed. The giant supported the boy, whose face remained clenched in agony.
“Is this wise?” Rogger whispered.
“There’s a chance the daemons don’t fully grasp what they have yet. If we can reach them before they understand…”
Rogger nodded.
Tylar tightened his grip on the torch. “I could still smell them in there. We were only moments late. If we’d not dragged our heels…”
“Or let so many others know what we sought,” Rogger added pointedly. “I know Kathryn meant well. But I find it strange that the ghawls should discover the skull shortly after you made your plea in the fieldroom.”
Tylar pictured Master Orquell. Even beyond the man’s clouded eyes, Tylar had noted the hunger shining through. Had word somehow reached Castellan Mirra down here? Or was it pure happenstance? Suspicion had already weakened Tashijan, stoked by Mirra’s manipulations. So which path was the more dangerous: to be too trusting or not enough?
A moan arose behind them.
“Left…to the left…” Brant choked out.
Out of the darkness, torchlight revealed another landing. The passageway headed the correct direction.
Tylar led the way and lifted his torch toward the passage. The flickering glow revealed only darkness and sealed doors. But that did not mean the shadows did not hide a legion.
“Close…” Brant confirmed it with a moan. He was now carried like a babe on the hip of the giant. One hand clawed tight to his throat.
Tylar turned to Rogger and held out his free hand. “Your lantern.”
The thief unhooked the bronze-and-glass lamp from his belt and passed it to him. Tylar thumbed the flame higher, then tossed the lantern in a high arc.
Glass shattered and flames spat with the angry hiss of a cat.
Darkness shredded and swirled away like burning ash. A bit of cloak caught flame and whisked down the hallway. A keening wail fled with it, setting all his hairs on end.
The daemon knights were
here, buried in the darkness.
“Keep your torches up!” he ordered and entered the hall.
The firelight pushed back the shadows and anything hidden within. They gave chase, but Tylar did not forgo caution. If he had to burn through the bowels, he would have that skull.
He headed deeper into the level as it branched. Brant pointed the way. Passing a sealed room, the boy gasped. His hand raised, palsied and weak, pointing toward the door. Agony stole the boy’s words.
Tylar tried the latch. Locked.
Rogger passed him his torch, then slipped to a knee and worked with a thin dagger. A click of release sounded. He stood and took back his torch.
“The cask,” Tylar said. He would take no chances.
The giant passed him the small oil barrel he’d been carrying. It trailed a twist of soaked cloth. Rogger lit it with his flaming brand, then rested a hand on the latch.
Tylar nodded.
Rogger cracked the door open, and Tylar rolled the barrel through the gap. He joined Rogger and pulled the door closed, together bracing it shut. The small whooshing boom sounded. Flames lapped under the sill, then retreated.
Tylar shoved the door open, expecting to find a nest of burning knights. And though the oil had lit tapestries and flames chased across chairs and tables, there were no knights.
A single figure stood in the middle of the fiery room, untouched by any flame. Tylar noted a mist of Grace surrounding her, one of water and air, a cocoon of protection.
“Castellan Mirra.”
The brightness of the flaming room had no effect on her. She was not a creature of shadow like her legion. In truth, she looked little changed from when last Tylar had seen her. Same snow gray hair, secured plainly behind her ears, framing a serious face, but not necessarily a cold one. She wore a simple ankle-length gray shift, sashed with black at the waist, and soft black boots.
The only difference: She usually leaned on a cane.
Instead, she lifted the skull between her two hands. Blood dripped to the floor from sliced palms. She smiled warmly at him, welcoming.
Then she sang his name. “Tylar…”
And he was lost.
Through tears of fire, Brant saw Tylar fall to his knees at the threshold to the door. The torch tumbled from the regent’s fingers and rolled across the floor. Krevan collapsed in a similar posture, dropping both sword and brand. The woman Flagger went to her leader’s aid.
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