Shadowfall

by James Clemens

  The naethryn, in midlunge, contorted as the wash of fire swamped it. Wings snapped wide. Neck whipped up. Then it was consumed. Flame and form lashed back toward Tylar. He braced for it. The kick as it struck knocked him on his rear. Blinded for a breath, he rolled back to his feet. He found his body healed again. Even his cuts. The bolts had vanished. He patted out the smoldering edges of the circle burned through his cloak and shirt.

  Kathryn stared across the cabin, still stunned.

  But she was safe.

  Tylar felt a sudden lurch under him. The flippercraft hove up on its starboard side. The floor tilted. Tylar fell again to hands and knees. Kathryn tumbled backward, landing hard herself.

  Tylar then smelled it. An acrid and familiar stench to the air.

  Burning blood.

  He craned upward. A large swath of crystal piping dripped molten glass. Crimson fluid, the air alchemies, dripped and sizzled through the slagged tubings, raining and flaming from above. The naethryn’s wing must have brushed through the piping.

  Gods above . . .

  The flippercraft shuddered. Somewhere under the floorboards, the ship’s mekanicals ground with the sound of tearing metal.

  The floor tipped again, this time nose first.

  The craft rattled and bucked.

  As the angle steepened, both Tylar and Kathryn skidded down the tilted floor, striking the bow wall. She stared at him in raw fear.

  They were going down.

  Buried in shadow, Dart climbed the familiar stairs. Laurelle kept beside her. They gripped each other’s hands. Yaellin led the way, his cloak draping both girls.

  “The eighth level?” Yaellin asked. “Is that correct?”

  “Yes,” Laurelle whispered from the nest of shadows. “That’s where Healer Paltry keeps his chambers.”

  Dart clutched tighter to her friend. The stair smelled of boiling oats and frying griddle cakes. The homey scent, rising from the kitchens below, triggered memories of a simpler life, where her worst fears were to have a boy see her petties as she climbed these same stairs. Before all the blood and the terror . . .

  Bright laughter flowed down to them. A flurry of thirdfloorers cascaded down the staircase, heading to break their fast in the commons.

  Yaellin motioned Dart and Laurelle into the next landing, shielding them fully from sight.

  The parade of girls rushed past, all bundled in skirts, hair tucked under caps. Peeking past an edge of shadowcloak, Dart recognized all the faces: Sissup, Hessy, Sharyn, Pallia. Tears welled in her eyes at their chatter and easy manner. Had she ever been so light of thought?

  Excitement coursed through the air, carried like a wind about the girls.

  “I heard they were Dark Alchemists,” Pallia said, her voice frosted with frightened delight.

  “No, I bet they were hinterland spies,” Gerdie countered. “Cursed by rogue blood.”

  Only when they noted the Shadowknight posted on the landing did their voices grow hushed, eyes widening. Shadowknights were not an uncommon sight, but with the Conclave stirred up by black tidings, the presence of one drew curious stares. Once past the landing, the chatter resumed more excited than before, whispered behind hands, but still carrying to them.

  “Did you see that knight?” Kylee said. “He was looking right at me. I was like to swoon.”

  “Me, too,” Sissup said. “His eyes were dreamy.”

  As the last thirdfloorers passed, a voice called from above. “Hurry, girls!”Though stern, it was as familiar as a warm hug. Matron Grannice appeared. Her portly form waddled down the steps like a mother goose, herding her goslings ahead of her. “Enough chatter! Jenine, how many times must I tell you to get your fingers from your mouth? What god will choose a girl with fingernails chewed to nubbins? Now get . . .”

  The matron finally noted the stranger on the landing. She stopped, tucked a stray lock of gray hair under her bonnet. “Ser knight, you’ll have to forgive my girls. They are an excitable lot.”

  “Not at all, Matron.”

  Dart had to suppress an urge to climb out of Yaellin’s cloak and into Matron Grannice’s arms. She wanted to confess all, unburden herself.

  Laurelle must have had similar thoughts. But both had seen too much horror in one night. Their only safety had been found in Yaellin’s cloak. So they remained where they were, hidden from sight.

  “Have you come from the castillion?” Grannice asked.

  “Yes, I’ve been assigned to search every floor, from top to bottom. I pray the intrusion will not be too burdensome, good matron.”

  “Certainly not,” the matron said. “I’ve heard all about the uproar. An attack by Dark Alchemists in the Eldergarden. Can these black days get any blacker? Is it true two of Chrism’s Hands were abducted, possibly even corrupted?”

  “Such matters I can’t speak of directly, goodly lady.”

  She nodded sagely. “A silent tongue is a wise man’s best feature.”

  “Indeed.”

  “Well, I won’t keep you any longer from your duties. May the gods and shadows lighten your way.”

  Yaellin bowed his head.

  Matron Grannice departed, waving her arms. “Off with you girls.”

  Several of the thirdfloorers had gathered several steps below, watching on, whispering to one another. But under the matron’s glare, they turned and fled down the stairs.

  With the way clear, Yaellin stepped back out and continued the climb toward the eighth level. Dart and Laurelle followed, though Laurelle kept glancing back over her shoulder. Dart read her thoughts. How easy it would be to run down those stairs, join her fellow thirdfloorers, and pretend all this never happened. But it had. That life was dead to them . . . to both of them.

  Still, Dart glanced back, too.

  Before she could turn around, a figure stepped from the dormitory hall of the thirdfloorers. She was in a hurry, tugging down her skirt over her petties with one hand, pulling her cap on with the other. She must be the head girl of the floor, assigned to douse the lamps and secure the floor. An honor once bestowed upon Laurelle. Plainly the girl was frightened to be alone on the stair . . . especially after all the dread rumors.

  Dart recognized the girl as she straightened from spreading her skirt over her ankles. Laurelle knew her, too, and stopped. “Margarite . . .”

  The girl stiffened, hearing her name whispered. She whirled around.

  Yaellin had continued up a few steps, unaware Laurelle had stopped. Shadows stripped from her shoulders.

  Margarite stared at Laurelle, as if seeing a ghost. She froze.

  Laurelle stepped toward her. “Margarite,” she said again.

  The girl clutched her arms around her belly, scared, confused. She even backed away a step. “Laurelle . . . how . . . why . . . ?”

  “Oh, Margarite,” Laurelle said and rushed down, closing the distance. She hugged her friend. After a moment, Margarite did the same. They clung to each other.

  Yaellin moved back down the steps, looming over the pair. Dart pushed free of the cloak. Margarite, still embraced, noted Dart’s presence over Laurelle’s shoulder. The girl’s eyes narrowed. She pulled free of Laurelle’s arms.

  “What are you both doing here?” Margarite asked. The girl eyed Dart up and down, as if offended by her soiled appearance, though Laurelle was no better clothed.

  Laurelle still held her old friend’s hand. “We’re here because—”

  Yaellin cut her off. “As you must know,” he said haughtily, “Healer Paltry is the personal physik to the High Wing of Chrism. We’ve come here to make sure these two Hands were not harmed by the attack. We will shelter here until this foul matter is dealt with.”

  Margarite stared at his dark form.

  “None must know of our presence here,” he continued in commanding tones. “Other Hands are being sequestered elsewhere. It is a matter of utmost secrecy. Can you bear this burden?”

  Margarite continued to stare, wide-eyed. Then she seemed to realize the questio
n had been directed at her and nodded.

  “Swear upon it.” He held out an edge of cloak. “In the way of Shadowknights, touch the blessed cloak and swear.”

  Margarite reached a trembling hand and brushed her fingertips upon the cloak. “I . . . I swear.”

  “You are very brave,” Yaellin said with a nod, dropping his cloak. “Now you’d best return to the others lest you be missed.”

  Color blushed Margarite’s cheeks. She offered a quick curtsy, then headed out, but not before Laurelle rushed to her and again hugged her.

  “I miss you so,” she whispered in her friend’s ear.

  Margarite nodded, but her eyes were on Yaellin’s shadowed form.

  They broke their embrace, and Margarite hurried down the stairs, casting many glances back at them.

  Once out of sight, they set off again, climbing the stairs.

  “Will she keep silent?” Yaellin asked.

  “She’s our friend,” Laurelle said sternly.

  Dart didn’t bother to mention that such friendship did not extend to herself. She had noted the familiar look of disgust in Margarite’s eyes. Dart trusted more in Margarite’s fear and awe of the Shadowknight than old friendships.

  At last they reached the eighth landing. Yaellin led them off the stair and down the main hall to a door carved with oak leaves and acorns on its lintel.

  “Stay behind me,” Yaellin said.

  Dart needed no prompting to push deeper into the man’s shadows. Laurelle huddled with her.

  Yaellin knocked on the door.

  Footsteps approached on the far side. A latch snicked. The door pulled open, sucking some of the shadows over the threshold.

  “Who calls so—?” The voice rang with irritation, then cut off.

  “Healer Paltry,” Yaellin said. “I’ve come from the High Wing. Your presence is requested at the castillion. I’m to escort you on this black day.”

  Dart remained hidden, but she heard the satisfaction in the other’s voice. “Of course. I’ve heard word. I’ll gather my bag and be right with you. Step inside. I won’t be more than a quarter bell.”

  Yaellin followed the healer into his chamber. Dart and Laurelle stepped after him. Past the entryway, the chamber opened into the healing ward. A hearth glowed with a morning fire, and lamps shone upon the empty cots, lined around the circular chamber’s edges. In the center, a small brazier burned and smoked.

  Yaellin closed the door and secured the latch.

  Healer Paltry glanced back at the sound. “There’s no need—”

  Yaellin let his shadows and cloak drop from him. Dart and Laurelle stood on either side of him.

  Healer Paltry’s gaze fell upon Dart. Confusion crinkled his brow, and deep down something darker shone. Still, he kept his voice light. “What is all this?”

  Yaellin pulled out his sword with a flash of silver. “I must ask you to keep us company, Healer Paltry. It seems that there is some matter of urgency that must be discussed.”

  Healer Paltry ignored the sword. His eyes still fixed upon Dart. “The Hand of Blood,” he said. “And the Hand of Tears. The very ones wanted by the castillion guard. Ravens fly to every corner of Chrismferry. And you come here, I assume for my help.”

  Dart stared into the man’s blue eyes, his handsome face. How could such beauty hide such a black heart? She met Paltry’s gaze, sensing his attempt to intimidate her with the weight of his attention, to hold her quiet. Before, Dart had left the healer’s presence trembling and panicked. She was not that girl any longer.

  “Do not trust him,” Dart said with a firmness that surprised her, finding strength from the night’s terror to face the horror here. Eyes drew to her. “His vile wickedness runs to the marrow.”

  “Dart?” Laurelle said, surprised.

  Yaellin glanced to Paltry. “What do you know of him? Do you know why Tashijan seeks him out?”

  Paltry’s eyes narrowed to sharp points, threatening.

  Dart shook her head, keeping her gaze locked on the healer. “All I know . . . all I know is he took all from me . . .” The words came out, dragged up by sheer necessity, but still tearing, too large for her throat. Her vision blurred with tears, but she did not look away. Laurelle appeared at her side, taking her hand. Dart felt the warmth of her friend’s touch.

  Walls broke inside her. Reservoirs of bile and bitterness, sorrow and terror, anger and misery burst their holds. She felt lifted and dragged down. She squeezed tightly to Laurelle.

  “He sent Master Willet . . . to the rookery.” Dart began to shake. Tears took her vision, replaced it with flashes of the past, to a place of pain. “I . . . I couldn’t stop him. He took me by force, broke me, turned brightness to blood. I . . . I . . . I . . .” Her voice turned to a low keening cry of pain and grief.

  Laurelle drew her tight. “Oh, Dart . . .”

  She gasped and choked.

  “You could’ve told me,” Laurelle consoled.

  Dart shook her head, a bit too violently. “Spoiled . . . I was broken and impure. I had no other home.”

  “She lies,” Paltry spat out. “She is corrupted, but not by my hand. She is foul where none can touch. I know!”

  Dart felt a fury build in her that had no bounds, not even her own skin.

  Laurelle must have felt it. She loosed her hold on Dart.

  “Abomination,” Paltry said, pointing a finger at her.

  “Quiet!” Yaellin boomed. His sword found the healer’s heart, poking through cloth to skin.

  Paltry winced, dropping his arm.

  “Do not speak of matters you know nothing about,” Yaellin said harshly. “She is stronger and purer of heart than any who stand in this room. What was done to her . . .” His voice filled with cold promise. “You shall suffer a thousandfold.”

  Paltry glared at him. “That will be seen, ser knight. Not all in Tashijan share your sweet sentiment.”

  “Is that so?” Yaellin said. “Then perhaps you’ll share your view with the new castellan. She comes this morning to question you.”

  Paltry blanched. “What . . . how . . . why . . . ?”

  “Yes, I’m sure they’ll be asking you the very same.”

  Dart took comfort from Paltry’s sick look, the fear in his eyes.

  “Now all we have to do is wait for our new guests.” Yaellin nodded to one of the cots. “If you’d be so kind. We might as well be comfortable.”

  Yaellin backed Paltry upon the point of his sword. “Laurelle, will you also bar the door back there? We don’t want to be disturbed while we wait.”

  Laurelle nodded and hurried to obey.

  Yaellin dropped Paltry to the cot, then motioned Dart forward. He kept his sword at the healer’s throat, but turned his attention to Dart. He reached a hand out. A dagger rested in his palm. “Take it.”

  Dart stared. The black blade could not be mistaken. It was the cursed dagger. She shook her head.

  “Take it,” he repeated, more commanding.

  She obeyed, fingering its hilt with care.

  “Here is its sheath.” He passed her a belt.

  She accepted it, confused, feeling as empty as the leather sheath.

  “Some call this blade cursed, impure, vile, but it is only a dagger. It is only steel. How it is employed is the true character of a blade.” He stared deep into Dart’s eyes. “Remember that. What was done to your flesh does not soil you or defile you. Your heart is still yours. It is still innocent and pure.”

  Dart listened, but his words fell on stony soil. She could not . . . did not believe them.

  Yaellin seemed to understand. He sighed and nodded to the dagger. “It is yours. Wear it well.”

  Dart backed up a few steps. She set the dagger down and tied the belt under her robe, over her nightclothes. She worked without looking down. Her gaze remained hard upon Paltry. He watched her. She retrieved the dagger. Its blade ate the light.

  Slowly . . . very slowly she sheathed it.

  If not comforted by Yaell
in’s words, she was a tiny bit less empty.

  She snugged the dagger tight, fingers on the bone hilt.

  Cursed or not, she would wear it well.

  She still had promises to keep.

  21

  FREEFALL

  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.