Shadowfall

by James Clemens

  Dart felt shaky herself. Her knees wobbled like winterfest pudding. The morning breeze chilled her heated skin. Goose-flesh pebbled her arms. Even her breathing seemed out of step. She had to force herself to draw air in and out, like she had forgotten her natural rhythm.

  Yaellin answered Laurelle’s question. “We must find a place to hide, where neither hound nor tracker can find us. With the coming of the sun, all manner of guard will be searching, surely with a concocted tale of some villainy committed by our persons. We must be away.”

  He started off down High Road, heading toward the river. He stuck to the deeper shadows beneath the Eldergarden wall.

  “We must tell someone what we saw,” Laurelle said, following.

  “Tell them what?” Yaellin asked. “That Lord Chrism has gone mad of mind and heart? That he has taken to Dark Arts and plans to wreak havoc on all? We’d be hung and gutted before the first accusation could be made. Chrism has hid his corruption well. None will believe the impossible.”

  Dart walked, grazing a palm along the wall to support her. “Believe what? What have we witnessed?”

  Yaellin stared back toward the cliff of bricks as if his vision could pierce it. “My father sent me here as a spy against the Cabal. I was sequestered here as a secret defender to the Godsword. To keep it from the clutches of the Cabal. Only in these last days had I come to suspect Chrism had been corrupted, a part of the Cabal himself.”

  Dart recalled the name. The Cabal. She had heard it spoken both in the grove and in her recent dream. “What is this group . . . this Cabal?”

  Yaellin studied her. “It is a story best told after we’re secure. I’ve friends in the city, those loyal to my father. For now, let it be known that all of Myrillia is threatened. And you, little Dart, may be the key all seek.”

  Dart stumbled. “What do you—?”

  “This way,” Yaellin said and darted across High Street. He aimed for one of the side streets, a narrow course between rich homes.

  They had no choice but to chase after him. A wagon trundled up the road, rising from the river streets below. Not wanting to be seen, they hurried.

  Yaellin kept a fast pace, twisting one way, then another. The narrow upper roads and stairs outlined the villas, terraced homes, and palacios of the city’s nobility and rich gentlefolk. All sought homes close to the first god’s castillion, and over the millennia, such land had become crowded and stacked with residences. The homes were tall and narrow. Some sections of the streets were even spanned by wings of various palacios, creating tunnels through the jumble of buildings.

  With each step, Dart felt the terror of the long night begin to weigh on her, the toll finally striking. Her breath gasped. Her legs shook. She found herself needing support against the walls.

  “Dart,” Laurelle asked, “are you all right?”

  Dart licked her lips, finding them too dry, her tongue thick. She shook her head and waved onward.

  Laurelle drew to a stop. “Yaellin, she . . . we can’t continue like this.”

  Yaellin drew to them. He studied their faces, then nodded. “It’s probably best to get our feet off the streets anyway. We don’t want to make our track too easy to follow. Come. Only a little farther.” He set off again, moving a bit more slowly.

  Still, to Dart, it felt like a full run. She did her best to keep up.

  At last, Yaellin pointed to a wait-carriage, drawn by two horses, and led them up to it. The coachman was currying one of his two mounts. Yaellin had fixed his masklin in place to hide his face and used folds of shadow to cloak Dart and Laurelle from direct view.

  “Good ser,” the coachman said, straightening as Yaellin drew beside him.

  “We would borrow your carriage if it’s unencumbered,” Yaellin said.

  “Certainly, ser. I was about to start my day. Where’bouts can I carry you?”

  Yaellin stepped to the door of the enclosed carriage. “I shall tell you once we’re away.” He ushered the two girls inside, then followed, taking the opposite bench.

  The coachman closed the door, then clambered into his seat in front. A jingle of a belled lead announced their departure. The team drew the wagon with a creak of wheels.

  “Keep low,” Yaellin whispered to Dart and Laurelle. He opened the tiny hatch to speak to the coachman. The exchange was muffled, but Dart heard a bit. They were heading for the far side of the city, a half-day’s journey. Yaellin passed up a heavy pouch of coin. Dart wondered how much of it was for their travel and how much was to buy the man’s silence.

  After Yaellin closed the hatch, he fished into an inner pocket of a cloak and removed a tiny vessel of crystal. “Hold out your hands,” he told them. “Palms up.”

  Dart trembled, arms shaking. Even this was a strain.

  Yaellin removed the jar’s glass stopper. A dipping wand was attached to it, wet with the vessel’s contents. He touched it once to Dart’s left palm, then her right. She felt an itchy tingle. Yaellin anointed Laurelle’s palms the same way, then his own.

  “Wave the air,” he instructed and demonstrated by wafting his arms a bit. Dart mimicked him. She smelled a slight stench to the air.

  “It’s an alchemy of air and black bile,” Yaellin said. “A nulling recipe concocted by my father. It hides one’s path from all who seek it with Grace. It works only if one is not touching soil.” He wiped his palms on his cloak. “The blessing lasts for only a quarter bell. Hopefully that’ll be long enough to break our trail so we can clear the inner city.”

  He leaned back into his seat.

  Dart did the same. Her head felt full of butterflits. The growing light of the dawn stung her eyes, and her stomach churned. The bounce and pop of the carriage over broken cobbles did not help settle matters.

  Yaellin noted her unease. “Dart, what’s wrong?”

  She shook her head, fanning the ache behind her eyes. A new twinge rose from her navel, a dull tugging as if her innards sought a way to escape her belly.

  “I think she’s taken ill,” Laurelle said, taking her hand. “Her skin is cold.”

  Yaellin reached over and felt her brow. His eyes narrowed.

  Dart pushed his hand away. The effort narrowed her vision, sparking lights at the corners. The tugging throb behind her navel grew worse. A moan rose to her lips. She rubbed at her belly.

  Yaellin kneeled before Dart.

  “Something’s wrong,” Laurelle said.

  Dart barely heard her. She curled in on herself, bent double in her seat. “Stop . . .” she gasped. By now, her navel felt as if it were ripping open. She hugged her arms tight over her belly, as if to hold her guts inside. She retched, but nothing came out.

  “What’s wrong with her?” Laurelle asked.

  The world darkened. Dawn receded back toward night. Dart slipped away to another time, another place. She had been in a wagon, then a boat.

  Rocking, rocking, rocking . . .

  All alone.

  No, not alone.

  She pictured a tiny form nested against her belly, nuzzling, suckling. Where it ached now.

  “Pupp . . .” she moaned aloud. “No . . .”

  Yaellin’s voice sounded far away. “What’s this delirium?”

  “A creature. I saw it.” Laurelle’s words fluttered in and out of Dart’s hollow head. “. . . claimed . . . always with her.”

  “And it’s still with her?” Yaellin hissed. “Why didn’t someone tell me?”

  “Gone . . .” Dart murmured. “Trapped by stone . . . wall . . .”

  “The Eldergarden!” Laurelle exclaimed. “The creature must still be back there.”

  “Trapped,” Dart gasped, knowing she had to make herself understood. But her world had gone black, laced with agony.

  “Need . . .”

  A hatch grated open, and Yaellin yelled, ordering the carriage stopped and turned about.

  It happened too slowly. Dart faded, slipping into oblivion.

  Then the carriage was around. Dart felt a syrupy warmth s
uffuse her. The pain remained, but it ebbed ever so slightly. The carriage trundled forward, heading back upward. Though Dart could not see it, she felt it with every strand of her being. The taut pull on her navel slackened. The world remained dark and painful, but she could breathe again.

  Yaellin returned to her, his hand on her knee. “I saw the creature in your dream,” he said. “I never imagined it was still with you.”

  “Saw it in her dreams?” Laurelle asked a question Dart was too agonized to voice.

  “After I heard your tale of the shattered illuminaria,” Yaellin said, addressing Laurelle, “I thought Dart might be the one. Impossibly brought here, to the one place she must not be. I had to be sure. So I snuck into Dart’s room two nights back and cast a blessing of dreamsight upon her.”

  Dart groaned. So it had been Yaellin. He had been in her room.

  “I wakened her earliest memories. I saw my mother . . . my father . . . stealing her away. I saw it all through her dream eyes. Even the tiny form of the creature.”

  “Is it some daemonspawn?” Laurelle asked. “Was she cursed?”

  “I . . . I’m not sure.”

  Despite the agony, Dart heard the obfuscation behind Yaellin’s words. He knew more than he was willing to speak, but she did not have the strength to confront him.

  “If it’s separated from her now, the loss must be causing her this pain. We must head back.” Worry etched his words.

  The carriage continued back the way they had just come. Dart felt strength return to her with every turn of the cart’s wheel. The world slowly returned in shades of gray.

  “Where will we go?” Laurelle asked. “Not back to the Eldergarden.”

  “No, we can’t risk that. We’ll have to find someplace close to the castillion as refuge. Then I need time to think.”

  “Where—?”

  Something struck the side window, startling all. Dart lifted her aching head enough to look. A large bird perched on the window’s sill. It cocked its head one way, then the other. A raven.

  Dart gasped and pulled away from it. Her most intimate fears were tied to ravens. She pictured another set of ravens, flocked above her, staring down. She again felt rough hands pinning her, hot breath at her throat.

  The dark bird pecked at the window, drawing her back.

  “It’s a messenger,” Laurelle said, pointing to the white tube tied to the bird’s foot.

  Yaellin reached to the window latch, releasing the pane.

  “No,” Dart moaned.

  Ignoring her, Yaellin pushed the window open. The bird hopped to his arm. “Air blessed,” he said, noting the glow to the bird’s eyes. “Homed to me.”

  “Is it from Chrism?” Laurelle asked, frightened.

  “No. It bears the mark of Tashijan.” He pointed out the sigil painted upon its right wing. The raven breathed rapidly, panting through an open beak. “It must have been searching the upper city until the null blessing we cast faded.”

  Yaellin worked loose the message tube. Dart still felt a deep unease at the raven’s black presence. She kept well back.

  “This is the seal of the castellan of Tashijan,” Yaellin said with a frown. He broke the wax on the message tube and shook out the tiny scroll. He uncurled it and read the note silently. The raven took the moment to leap toward the window, wings snapping out.

  Dart was happy to see it depart.

  Finished reading, Yaellin rerolled the message. His brow had furrowed even deeper.“It seems we are not the only ones in flight this night. A meeting has been requested. It is with someone I trust . . . and my father trusted. It should be safe and may give us a place to hide that lies near Chrism’s castillion.”

  “Where are you to meet?” Laurelle asked.

  “At the Conclave,” Yaellin answered. He turned to the coachman’s hatch to inform him of the change.

  Laurelle relaxed, obviously relieved to go to a place where she’d felt safe for so long. “Back to the school.”

  Dart remained still. Yaellin spoke to the coachman, but all Dart heard was the flapping of raven wings.

  20

  BURNING BLOOD

  “DARJON ...”TYLAR PUSHED UP FROMTHE RAILING.HIS chest and shoulder burned from the two impaled crossbow bolts. Each breath tore his insides further, flaming his lungs.

  The three Shadowknights rushed his position. The flanking pair dropped their bows and yanked swords free. The center knight, Darjon ser Hightower, swept at Tylar, his own blade held low and menacingly.

  There was no artistry in the attack, no nobility. It was a brutal and swift ambush. Darjon must have anticipated Tylar’s escape from Tashijan, identifying the dawn flippercraft as a point of escape. Tylar recalled a similar ambush as he, Rogger, and Delia had fled the Summer Mount. Darjon had come close to killing Tylar then.

  From the glow in his eyes, Darjon meant to finish what he’d started.

  Kathryn rushed to block all three knights, swirling out with cloak and shadow. She met Darjon’s sword with a clash of steel.

  “Kathryn . . .” Tylar called, tasting blood on his lips. He shoved from the rail. He had to go to her aid.

  “Stay there,” she ordered stonily.

  The other two knights closed upon them. Tylar dared not call forth his naethryn daemon. All along the wall and roof ran the intricate steel-and-glass mekanicals that flew the flippercraft. Even a brush of the daemon risked shattering and melting all to ruin, sending the craft to a flaming death.

  Instead, Tylar grabbed a dagger from his belt and flung it with a skilled flip of his wrist. The blade struck one knight in the throat. He fell down, gagging on his own blood.

  Kathryn continued a deadly dance of shadow and steel with Darjon. She was one of the most skilled knights at shadowplay. Her sword, while not as strong as some men’s, was still swifter than most. She fought with cloak and blade, creating complex feints and lightning-fast parries.

  Tylar turned his attention to the other knight as the man lunged at him. Tylar twisted. The man’s blade sliced the air, drawing a line of fire along Tylar’s belly. He fell back to the rail, a vulnerable position.

  The sword stabbed again, swung from the side. The tall knight had a long reach. Tylar had no choice but to fall back over the railing that overlooked the flippercraft’s view window. He dropped with enough skill to land on his feet, but the curve of blessed glass was slick. His legs went out from under him. He landed on his backside.

  His attacker vaulted over the rail, hooking the edge of his shadowcloak to it. He flew deftly and landed as easily as a skeeterfly on a still pond. His sword struck at Tylar’s floundering form.

  Tylar kicked against the slick glass and slid away from the point of the sword. Blood ran down his arm from his wounded shoulder, smearing the glass. While he could not call the daemon, he could employ Meeryn’s gift to him. He touched his right palm to the bloody glass and willed through his sweat the fiercest fire, picturing steam rising from volcanic vents. Blood bubbled around his fingertips; then the blessing passed into the glass. The window’s surface heated. The blessing wasn’t enough to melt the thick glass. It would take much more blood for that . . . and probably some tears to heighten the effect.

  But his attacker didn’t know that.

  The knight felt the rising heat and slowed his attack. He stared between his toes at the passing landscape far below, etched in the first light of the day. He seemed suddenly less sure of his footing, falling to one knee.

  Tylar scooted to the frame of the glass. He had to move quickly. He slapped his other hand down upon the window and held the bloody palm firm against the hot glass. He narrowed his eyes and imagined the worst winter storm, freezing rain and icy hail, a wind so cold its kiss burned flesh. Deep in his bones, Tylar felt the blessing sink into the glass.

  He jumped up, springing with all the force left in his legs, and grabbed the lip of the upper deck.

  The hot glass, so suddenly and fiercely cooled, broke with a resounding pop. A thousand cracks s
kittered its surface. The knight, still on one knee atop the window, drew up fearfully, a skater on deadly ice.

  Tylar hung by one hand from the lip of the upper deck. The knight stepped toward him. His cloak billowed upward to snag a purchase. The shift in the man’s weight was all it took. The broken glass shattered under his boots, falling away. Wind tore up through the small hole and more of the window collapsed.

  The knight had failed to secure a grip with his cloak in time. He fell with a shout.

  Tylar turned away. Hanging above the glass, he reached up to grab one of the railings support posts, meaning to pull himself up.

  Then something snagged his ankle.

  He stared down. The knight had flung out the edge of his cloak and grabbed Tylar’s leg. Tylar, weak from blood loss and agonized by the two bolts in his chest, almost lost his hold.

  Below, the knight hauled himself back out of the hole in the glass, drawn upward by the Grace in his cloak. Tylar let go with one arm and snatched another dagger from his belt. He dragged up his burdened leg with a strength borne of desperation and fury. His body screamed, but he had lived with pain. He found strength in its fire.

  He had to cut himself free before the knight used his body as a ladder to reach the rail above. Tylar hacked at the cloak, but its shadows knit back together as fast as he cut.

  Trembling with the effort, his entire body strained to keep his snagged ankle in reach. But he could not cut himself free. The knight flew upward now.

  The flippercraft passed over the wide Tigre River. The morning light cast the mighty channel below into bright silver. Light reflected upward through the broken window and bathed the area with blinding light. Shadows dispersed—leaving only cloth.

  Tylar hacked one last time at the cloak’s edge, wrapped tight to his ankle. The knight was almost upon him, a hand reaching out for his leg. Tylar saw the knight’s face. His masklin had been ripped away by the sudden winds as the window had shattered. He was young, fresh faced, eyes wide with panic. He was no older than Perryl, and perhaps as innocent.

  Tylar had no choice. The fingers that gripped the support post overhead were losing their strength. His breath was thick with wheezed blood. He reached down and sliced the cloak from his ankle. The young knight fell with a piercing scream, fingers still reaching. He tumbled out of the broken window and vanished.