“Frozen,” Tylar said. He stepped back and waved Gerrod off.
The ilk-beasts still fought the door, but the hinges refused to bend.
“I don’t know how long it will hold, but we’d best not wait and see.”
Tylar led the way down the hall. Kathryn noted the snowy pallor to his features. Though healed again, he was far from hale. A body, even one blessed by a god, had limits that would break it. And Tylar was nearing his end.
They reached the stairway. Yaellin awaited them. He stood with his back to the curve of the stairs. Two bodies were sprawled on the nearest steps, and a pile blocked the way down.
“Keep clear,” he warned.
A crossbow bolt sparked off the stones and ricocheted up the stairwell from below.
“None dare come closer on foot,” Yaellin said. “But they won’t let us down either.”
Gerrod stared around the space. “Where are the girls?”
Dart held her place in the rookery. She watched Paltry stride across the planks. She felt the oddest sense of finality in this moment. As if she were meant to be here. A calmness settled into her, filling corners that had recently been empty.
The same could not be said for Laurelle. “You . . . you’d best stay back,” she warned. She clearly wanted to retreat farther into the rookery, but the space was open. No place to hide. The only true escape from here was to plunge through one of the chamber’s many windows.
Paltry smiled. “The monsters below will either kill your defenders or chase them off. Either way, none will question your guilt . . . or my killing of you both.”
Laurelle fell back toward one of the walls. Dart followed, but only three steps.
Paltry continued. “And once slain, I will lay your bodies at Chrism’s feet. What does it matter if one’s god is corrupted or righteous? In the end, it matters only if one has pleased him or not. From such pleasure, riches will flow.”
A splatter of guano struck Paltry’s cheek. He flinched, clearly edgy despite his easy words. Still, his sword did not falter. Dart stopped and held her place. She knew where she stood. On these planks, all was ripped from her: her innocence, her safety, her sense of self. Above, the dark rafters glowed with the hundred eyes of the ravens, silent spectators then and now.
Paltry approached, sword pointed. “Which to kill first? Will it be worse for you, Dart, to see your friend die before you?”
Dart merely stared. In the silence, she felt a string, previously taut, relaxing inside her. A sense of security braced her.
She glanced to the planks. She had left here hollow, left a part of herself behind, but now she could reclaim it . . . with a little help.
She glanced up to Paltry. He sensed the diamond in her gaze, cold and hard. His footsteps faltered.
Dart waited for the tightness inside her to fully loosen, then spoke three words. “To me, Pupp.”
He came through the door, passing like a ghost. He must have finally found a break in the stones, or a place to climb, or a gate. Perhaps he had even backtracked the long path back to the High Wing, then down again . . . returning to the only home both had known. But ultimately she knew what drew him.
She reached to her lacerated shoulder. She wet her fingers.
Blood.
Pupp raced to her, a shining coal in the darkness. They were one and the same. Blood for blood.
Paltry stopped his approach, plainly confused by her words, disturbed by her countenance.
Dart bent to one knee. She had once pondered what she was: girl, god, or monster. For the moment, she made her choice.
Monster.
Her bloody fingers touched Pupp. She felt the heat of his flesh. His form grew brighter. She smeared him with her blood and lifted her eyes to Paltry.
He stared in horror at the figure of flaming bronze, spiked and razor edged. Flames glowed in Pupp’s eyes and lapped from his muzzle.
Paltry stumbled away.
Dart waited.
Finally, Paltry met her gaze.
Dart did not smile. She said one last word. “Fetch.”
Tylar heard the scream from a full two flights away. He rushed up the last of the steps, followed by Eylan and Kathryn. Rogger, Gerrod, and Yaellin remained below, plotting some strategy to escape, pinned as they were between ilk-beasts and castillion guards.
Above, the scream changed pitch into a wail of horror and pain. It was not a child’s scream. It ripped from the throat of a man.
Ahead a door appeared.
Tylar rushed to it.
“Careful,” Kathryn warned. “It could be more ilk-beasts.”
Tylar’s fingers fought the latch, but it was secured from inside. “Dart! Laurelle!” he called out as the wail died to a moan.
There was only one last place the girls could be hiding.
Behind this door.
Tylar pounded on it.
A small cry answered, full of horror, but plainly a girl’s voice this time. “We . . . we’re here.”
A flutter of footsteps sounded. The latch inside was thrown back. Before Tylar could even touch the door, it was flung wide and the black-haired girl flew out. She collapsed into Tylar’s arms, hugging him tight, clinging, sobbing.
Inside the dark chamber, plainly a rookery from the smell, a pool of light lit the center. It illuminated the wreck of a body on the floor, torn limb from limb. Blood reflected the light, spreading into a wide lake.
The source of the illumination climbed from the wreckage of the body. It glowed with a fierce light, standing shorter than a man’s knee. It was bulked and spiked, muzzled and flamed, covered in gore. It seemed to meet Tylar’s gaze. An intelligence shone there, a match to what he saw in the flaming gaze of the naethryn inside him.
“Pupp . . .” he said, naming the beast and knowing it to be true.
It shook its spiky mane, flared brighter for a breath, then vanished away, taking its glow with it. Darkness closed over the center of the room. A hundred ravens suddenly took wing, screaming and flying for all the open windows, leaving shadow behind.
A second figure stepped out of the deeper gloom. It was the other girl.
“Dart,” Tylar mumbled.
She trembled, plainly unable to move farther.
Tylar passed Laurelle to Kathryn. “Watch her.”
Unburdened, Tylar hurried into the room. Dart didn’t seem to see him. Her eyes were glazed. Bending down, he took her into his arms and pulled her to his chest. “You’re safe,” he said.
Something like a laugh escaped the child. It was a sound too old for one so young, full of mirthless disbelief. And she was right. They were far from safe.
Still, she burrowed into him. He felt the tears through his thin shirt. He let her cry, rocking her slightly. He could guess what had happened here. He had noted the shirt on the macerated body. Soaked in blood, the hatching of oak leaf and acorn was still evident in silver thread.
The healer must have trapped the girls here, threatened them. Dart had defended herself with the only weapon at hand.
“I . . . I . . . killed him.”
“Hush,” he whispered. “I know you didn’t mean it.”
She glanced up from his chest. Her eyes reminded Tylar of the gaze of Wyr-lord Bennifren, a babe with ancient eyes. But this was no Grace of longevity. It was simply the gaze of a girl who had seen too much.
She shook her head. “I wanted him dead. I . . . I sent Pupp.”
Tylar remembered her story. Before, Pupp had killed in her defense, coming to her aid unbidden. But this time, Dart must have been more directly involved. Now she was waking to the horror of such a committed act.
Still, she kept her feet. Her sobbing slowly settled to intermittent quakes. Tylar knew the brutality perpetrated upon her. She might be a godling, but the flesh and heart was that of a young girl. Though she was stricken by the bloodshed, he suspected it also helped return a part of what was stolen from her. Blood for blood.
“Come,” he said softly. “We must clear from h
ere.”
She nodded. She kept one hand in his. But her eyes were on his chest. She pointed to the black print there.
“You also carry something with you,” she said. “I can see it stir.”
Tylar stared down at the mark. It seemed no more than tattooed flesh. Plainly her eyes saw more than his did. As she could see Pupp, her sight must also allow her to peer more deeply into him. Uncomfortable with that, he shifted his shirt to cover his mark.
She glanced to his eyes. “Does it make you any less a man?”
Tylar met her gaze, knowing she wondered the same of herself. He again saw the age behind those young eyes. He knew they deserved an honest answer, rather than one that falsely comforted.
“I don’t know.”
Dart kept behind the others on the stair. The occasional crossbow bolt struck the stones and rattled at them.
“It’s not much of a plan,” Tylar said.
“And we’re not much of an army,” the bearded man answered.
Tylar sighed. Dart watched him, sensing an odd connection to him. She remembered his arms around her, his sweat. She had feared the godslayer when she had first heard about the murder in the Summering Isles. Now she wanted him close. Even Pupp sniffed at his heels, hovering around him.
Dart sat on a step, arms tight around her knees. The terror of the rookery had ebbed with each step down from above. She knew the slaughter was justified, but she had yet to balance the horror of the act with the gut-level satisfaction she also felt.
Laurelle also remained quiet, staring without a blink. She kept to Dart’s side, but she did not offer her hand as before.
Dart knew her friend was still seeing Paltry torn asunder by the fiery Pupp. Though the act saved them both, the blood was hard to clear from one’s eyes.
“We must open the stairs,” Rogger repeated. “It’s the only way.”
“Fine. Let’s try it. But it still seems too simple to work.”
“The more complicated a plan, the more likely it will fail,” Master Gerrod countered.
With no other argument, the group retreated up the stairs, winding around a bend and out of direct sight from the lower landing. Only Rogger remained below.
The bearded man cupped his mouth and shouted. “Dark knight,” he called. Dart was startled by the bass tenor bursting forth from his thin frame. “Retreat to the healer’s cell! We’ll hole up there until nightfall!”
With those words and much clatter of boots, Rogger ran several steps down the hallway in the direction of Paltry’s room, then kicked his boots into his hands and ran barefooted back to the landing and up to them.
Tylar simply shook his head at the simple diversion.
Rogger kept a watch at the bend in the stairs.
A few more crossbow bolts cracked up to them.
Rogger ducked back around. “Here they come,” he mouthed.
Whispers and the tread of boots sounded.
“Door’s shut at the other end,” one of the guards called from the landing.
“Get those axes up here,” another answered. “Now’s our chance to flush the bastards.”
More commotion and the trot of boots followed. Guards raced from the landing and down the hallway. Upon reaching the far door, one of the men shouted back, “I can hear them inside!”
A final rush of guards pounded past the landing below. After a moment of silence, Rogger and Tylar both peeked around the bend.
“Way’s clear,” Tylar said, sounding vaguely bothered that the plan had succeeded. “There’s sure to be a few strays on the stairs, but nothing we shouldn’t be able to handle. We push all the way to the streets and away.”
They fled silently. The two knights, Yaellin and Kathryn, led the way, utilizing the shadows. With the guards focused on the healer’s door, their party slipped past the landing without being spotted. As they descended, the crash of an ax into wood echoed behind them.
They did not have much time until their ruse was discovered.
They raced downward.
As Tylar had guessed, a few guards still manned the stairs, but Yaellin and the castellan swept down upon them, shrouded in shadows. The guards were swiftly dispatched and left sprawled on the stairs.
They had no time to mourn their acts. There was no telling the innocent from the guilty. But all of Myrillia was at stake.
Cringing at each death, Dart fled with the others, Laurelle at her side.
Rogger dropped back to Dart and held something in his hand. “You left this behind.”
Dart stared at the black blade. It was the cursed dagger Yaellin had given her. She had thought it lost forever. If she’d had it earlier . . . with Paltry . . .
Rogger winked at her. “As a thief, I know better than to leave a weapon behind.”
Dart took the blade with a nod of thanks and returned it to her sheath.
They descended floor after floor.
A shout erupted as they crossed one floor’s landing. Dart turned to see a tall man in the neighboring hall. He was dressed in the gold and crimson of the castillion guard, but from the finery of his dress, he was clearly the captain of this guard.
Before the captain could shout a second time, Rogger threw a dagger. It struck the man in the throat and tossed him back, gurgling. His fall revealed a girl behind him.
Dart and Laurelle met her gaze. The girl’s guilt was plain.
Here was the one who had alerted the guards, who had betrayed them.
Margarite.
Before a word could be spoken, Master Gerrod hurried Dart and Laurelle down the final two flights. They broke into the open courtyard. A handful of guards were posted here, but they were too few to block their escape through the back gate and out to the alleys beyond.
Shouts followed, but they quickly faded away among the maze of alleyways and side streets.
Laurelle glanced to Dart. The pain of Margarite’s betrayal still shone brightly in Laurelle’s eyes.
Friends had become enemies. Whom could they trust?
At last Laurelle reached for Dart again.
Dart took her hand, gladly, gratefully.
It would have to be enough.
23
SWORD IN SHADOW
RELEASING HOLD OF THE SCALING ROPE, TYLAR DROPPED to the soil beside Kathryn and Gerrod. The tree limbs overhead creaked and shivered from the winds gusting over the crumbled wall of ancient stones. The sky had darkened with lowering clouds. The air smelled wet and heavy.
A storm was coming.
Tylar stepped aside as Yaellin flew down a second rope with the two girls. Dart carried Pupp under one arm. She had used a touch of her blood to give him substance, so the wall would not separate them again. Landing, Dart lowered her strange companion and stood. As Pupp faded, neither child looked pleased to find themselves back in the Eldergarden.
Yaellin touched Dart’s shoulder, attempting to reassure her.
With the entire upper city scouted by guards—both castillion forces and footmen brought up from the lower garrisons—it was no longer safe in the streets.
A handful of Shadowknights, in service to Chrism, haunted dark corners. But Kathryn and Yaellin had no trouble sidestepping or dispatching them. They were young, fresh to their cloaks. Still, it was lucky Chrism kept so few knights in residence, what with the city so close to Tashijan.
Kathryn looked grim as Rogger and Eylan descended the stone wall, the last of their group. Tylar knew her worry. He had also noted the patch worn by one of the knights, knocked senseless by Yaellin. It had been sewn to his inner cloak. A crimson circle bisected by a cross of flames.
The Fiery Cross.
Kathryn had grown silent since the discovery. Still, Tylar could read her fears. How far had the Cross spread? How deeply in collusion were they with all these dark happenings?
For now, Tashijan would have to wait.
Gerrod, who had been studying the gloomy myrrwood, turned to Yaellin. “You’re sure you can find your way back to where the blood ritual
took place?”
The knight nodded and pointed.
Gerrod had proposed using this time, while attention was diverted to the search of the streets, to investigate Chrism’s sanctuary in the wood. His plan seemed wise. None would suspect they’d hole up in the dark woods, under Chrism’s very nose. Still, now faced with the myrrwood and knowing the corruption at its heart, doubts rose. It was plain in all their faces. Perhaps this wasn’t the safest place to hide.
But Gerrod was right. They needed to learn more about what had happened to Chrism before they confronted or exposed him. Knowledge was their best weapon.
Once gathered, the group set off into the wood, led by Yaellin.
Tylar paced Gerrod. The master’s armor whirred and one knee had begun to squeak. “What do you hope to find at that site?” Tylar asked.
“I don’t suppose to guess,” he answered slowly. “But from the story told, the blood ritual took place at the spot where Chrism first settled to this land. I think that’s significant.”
Tylar frowned. “Why?”
Like everyone else, Tylar knew the history of Chrism’s settlement of the first god-realm. In an attempt to end the ravings that plagued him, as all the gods suffered, Chrism had bled himself into the land, fully and completely, drained empty, attempting to end his life. But death did not come. Instead, as his living blood bonded to the region, he discovered peace from the ravenings. He was the first to find such solace, but word spread. Others quickly followed, staking out their own realms. Only the rogues remained unfettered, preferring madness to confinement to one realm. But even they found themselves eventually pushed and isolated among the many stretches of raw hinterland.
“Chrism was the first to settle,” Gerrod answered. “Yet at this site, he commits dark acts. He speaks of being free, of un-fettering himself from his own realm. Could such a thing be possible? Did Chrism break his bond to the land? Has he reverted back to a rogue? Is it madness or corruption? We must search this site for any answers.”
Shadowfall Page 49