Though ashamed, she could not deny it. Tylar was clearly guilty, a godslayer of one of the Blessed Hundred. If he could kill a god now, then oath breaking and murder were not beyond him in the past.
Tears rose. Tylar had to be guilty. Her past words had banished him, broken him. Over these past years, the only way she had survived her betrayal was to place all her faith in the justice of the Order and the Grace of her cloak.
Tylar had to be guilty.
Still, she remembered the touch of his hand on her cheek, the brush of lips on her throat, the whispered words in the dark, dreams and hopes for a future… together. A hand found her belly, rested a moment, then fell away, cold. There was one last betrayal even Tylar had never learned.
By all the Graces, he had to be guilty.
Castellan Mirra’s private hermitage lay in the north wing, overlooking the Old Garden and shaded by the twisted branches of the lone wyrmwood, a tree as old as Tashijan itself.
Kathryn found herself staring out the window, watching a tiny tick squirrel hopping from limb to limb among the dark, sodden leaves, searching for any nut yet unfallen. But already the spring buds hung from stems, heavy yet still folded. All the nuts had long since fallen. Still, Kathryn appreciated the creature’s dogged determination.
Especially in the rain.
The storm that had swept Perryl here had broken into a steady downpour, falling like a veil across the view.
Off to the side, Perryl continued relating the events and tragedies that had befallen the Summering Isles. Gerrod Rothkild had already left to gather the Council of Masters.
Two steps away, the castellan sat with her back to the window by the room’s hearth, wrapped in an old furred cloak edged in ragged ermine. Her feet rested almost in the hearth’s flames. Some said she was as old as the wyrmwood tree outside her window. But the passing of winters had not dulled her sharp intellect. She stared into the flames, nodding. Occasionally one finger would rise from her armrest with a rare question, asked in a firm, unwavering voice.
The crooked finger lifted again. “Boy, tell me about this Darjon ser Hightower, the one who sent the raven messenger.”
Perryl, clearly irked by the condescending manner of Mirra, glanced to Kathryn, drawing her attention.
Kathryn’s frown deepened, warning him to simply answer her question. One did not cross Castellan Mirra, especially when she was in such a harsh mood. She had almost refused to see them. The death of Ser Henri had struck the old castellan hard. She had retreated to her hermitage, leaving Tashijan to rule itself until the night’s ballot stones were cast and a new warden was chosen.
Perryl continued. “Ser Hightower is well respected, Your Graced. He was second in command at the Summer Mount.”
“Yet he wasn’t at Meeryn’s side when she was murdered.”
“No. Duty had called him to another isle on that dreadful night.”
Mirra nodded, studying the dance of flames in the hearth. “And now he seeks vengeance.”
“He leads a contingent of castillion guards aboard a fleet of corsairs. They scour the southern seas for Tylar’s track. They believe he’s escaped into the Deep.”
Kathryn spoke softly. “If he’s reached the open ocean, then there is no telling where he might head. All the Nine Lands will be open to hide him.”
“But he will be welcome among none of them,” Perryl said. “Word has spread among the Hundred. All the god-realms know of his crime.”
“He could always flee to one of the hinterlands,” Kathryn contended. “He could hide forever in one of those godless lands.”
“Perhaps,” Mirra said. “But even within the hinterlands, there are gods.”
“Mere rogues,” Kathryn answered. “Vile creatures, maddened and raving.”
Mirra stared into the hearth. “Such were our own Hundred… before they settled the various realms so many millennia ago.”
Kathryn cocked an eyebrow. What is the castellan implying? There seems some hidden meaning hinted here.
Silence settled around the room.
“Tylar must be found,” the old castellan finally stated, as if she had decided something to herself.
“He will be,” Perryl said. “Already Ser Hightower is closing a net over the southern seas.”
“A net that will surely drown our godslayer,” Mirra said. “That must not happen. He must be protected.”
“Why?” Perryl asked, as surprised as Kathryn.
“Tylar is not guilty,” Mirra said with rasping authority.
Kathryn stepped closer, unable to hide her shock. “I don’t understand. He fled his accusers, he called forth a daemon… pirates shield him. Are these the actions of an innocent man?”
Mirra shifted in her seat. Her eyes locked on Kathryn’s. “They are the actions of a man accustomed to betrayal and false accusations.”
Kathryn went cold inside. “What are you saying?”
Mirra settled back to her chair. It was a long time before she spoke, and when she did her tongue was slow with regret. “There are words I fear to share… but I see no other course. I am too old for
this burden alone. It broke Ser Henri, and he was stronger than I.”
Kathryn crossed gazes with Perryl, but neither spoke, allowing Mirra the space to reveal what troubled her.
The old castellan fixed each of them with her sharp gaze, weighing their resolve. Her eyes settled on Kathryn, softening slightly. “Do you still love him?”
“Who?”
“Your former betrothed.”
Kathryn’s brows pinched. “Tylar… I… no, of course not. That was buried long ago.”
Mirra turned away and whispered to the flames, “What’s buried is not always lost…” She stared into the fire for several breaths before speaking again. “What I tell you next is no kindness. In many ways, it is a cruelty that shames me, and worse still, shames the memory of Ser Henri.”
“Nothing can make me think ill of Ser Henri,” Kathryn said. In many ways, the old warden had been the father she never knew. She had been born to and abandoned by a sell-wench on the streets of Kirkalvan.
Mirra seemed deaf to her. “Shame no longer matters. Time runs too short for pride. I tell you these words now on the eve of the winnowing, on the last day I will wear the emblem of the castellan.” Mirra fingered the diamond seal pinned under her chin. “By midnight, a new warden will be chosen and, as you well know, the outcome is almost certain.”
Though Perryl looked confused, Kathryn understood. As of the past two days, the faction supporting Argent ser Fields had become firmly entrenched in the lead, pinning down a majority through old ties, pacts, and bonds. He was a fit leader and a strong spokesman, having served on many and varied boards. Even Kathryn had chosen to cast her ballot stone in his direction.
“What does any of this have to do with Tylar?”
Mirra’s eyes took on a faraway glaze that was both tired and angry. “Half a decade ago, your betrothed had been a minor piece in a larger game, tossed aside after he was no longer of use. And while Tylar was not entirely blameless for his actions, neither was he guilty of the bloody crimes for which he was accused. He set in motion-blindly though it might have been-a series of events that almost brought down Ser Henri. To preserve the Order of Tashijan, to protect it from darker forces, Tylar had to be sacrificed.”
Kathryn’s legs went weak with her words. As thunder echoed through the castle walls, she found herself leaning on a table for support. “Then the murder of the cobbler’s family…?”
Mirra shook her head. “Their blood does not stain his hands.”
Kathryn felt the room’s walls close in. Darkness oiled the corners of her vision. Innocent.. he was innocent…
Mirra sighed. “Now, I don’t understand Tylar’s role in this new gambit. Was it mere chance, a twist of fate, or are there darker currents at play? In any case, it proves even a broken pawn can arise again and shake the board, rattle the play of the game.”
Kathryn shook
her head, trying to clear her mind. “What game are you talking about?” Anger flared, hardening her tone. “Tell me!”
Mirra remained unmoved, a stone against Kathryn’s fury. “Even I don’t know all the plots and contrivances. I doubt even Ser Henri knew, and he was the wisest of us all. But he believed the struggle waged behind the walls of Tashijan was only an echo of a larger war brewing outside.”
“Then start here first,” Kathryn said.
“For the past decade, Ser Henri has fought to weed out a secretive faction within the Order. A faction that calls itself the Fiery Cross.”
Kathryn glanced to Perryl, then back to Mirra. Rumors of such a group had been bantered about for as long as Kathryn could remember: secret rites performed in the dead of night, hidden passages and chambers built into the walls, rogue members of the Order practicing the Dark Graces. But it was considered more myth than reality.
Mirra nodded. “They exist and have grown stronger and more open. Their goal: to turn the Order into more than servants to the gods and arbiters of peace. They seek to mold the Shadowknights into a warrior force, mercenaries for hire, assassins for those with enough coin.”
“But that goes against all our oaths,” Perryl said sternly.
“Oaths can be changed,” Mirra answered simply and added cryptically, “as they have been in the distant past.”
Kathryn found her legs and moved to the hearth’s edge, needing the warmth. “And Tylar became embroiled in this struggle?”
“He was caught between the Order and the Cross, blind to the forces around him, and crushed. The murder of the cobbler’s family was laid at his feet, and in order to prove his innocence, Ser Henri would have had to expose agents loyal to him who had infiltrated the Cross, risking even more deaths. So Tylar was sentenced to banishment and slavery. All Ser Henri could do was beseech the overseer of the trial to keep your betrothed from the gallows, sparing his death.”
Kathryn laid a palm on her belly. Not all had been so generously spared… She lowered her hand, swallowing down the rage that burned through her. “Then who murdered the cobbler family?”
Mirra’s voice dropped to a whisper. “The same person who murdered Ser Henri.”
Perryl fell back. “It cannot be…”
Ser Henri’s death was the cause of much speculation and rumor. His body had been found on the tower stair, his face locked in pain and horror, each finger burned and blackened to the knuckle. But murder? Ser Henri dabbled in alchemies, often dealing with volatile mixtures. An experiment gone awry was the Council of Masters’ judgment on the death, though they still left the inquiry open.
Kathryn bit back her shock, fingers clenching. “Is what you say true?”
The castellan continued her vigil upon the flames. Tears shone in her eyes. “The murder cannot be proven, but I know the truth nonetheless.”
“Who was behind it?” she asked.
Mirra pulled her ermine cloak tighter around her thin form. “It was the head of the Fiery Cross… either upon his order or by his own hand. I’m sure of it.”
“And does this monster have a name?”
Again the barely perceptible nod. “Ser Henri had his suspicions, nothing that could be proven.”
Kathryn refused to accept defeat so easily. “Who was it?”
The old castellan’s next words were frail with despair. “The next warden of Tashijan… Argent ser Fields.”
Kathryn shared her evening dinner with Gerrod Rothkild. It was a somber meal of diced boar in potatoes and turnips, whetted with a poor vintage red wine. They partook their meal in Gerrod’s quarters in the master’s wing of Tashijan.
He kept his room as orderly as his own mind: a small hearth aglow with coals, plain and heavy woolen drapes over slit windows, and simple furnishings of greenwood and hammered copper. The only adornments were fanciful iron braziers in shapes of woodland creatures-eagle, skreewyrm, wolfkit, and tyger-at each corner of the room, cardinal points of a compass. Even these had their practical uses, simmering now with sweet myrrh to scent the air, though more often they burned rare alchemies to focus the mind and thoughts.
“And that was all Castellan Mirra could tell you?” Gerrod asked.
There was no need to answer. It was the fourth time that question had been asked. But Kathryn nodded anyway.
Gerrod stabbed a fork into a chunk of meat. As usual, he wore his bronze armor, shedding only his helmet, indicating a level of comfort and familiarity with his dining companion. Though no older than Kathryn, he was as bald as his helmet, his scalp tattooed with symbols of his fifteen masterfields. His skin was pale to the point of translucency, even his lips. Only his eyes remained a rich brown, a match to his bronze armor.
The soft whir of his armor’s mekanicals was loud in the silence as he brought the forkful to his lips. The armor sustained his frail form. After showing promise as a boy, he had been ripened with alchemies of air and fire to ready his mind for his studies, but he had been pushed too far. Mastering fifteen disciplines had cost him the strength of bone and muscle, leaving him dependent on the armor to move his limbs.
“I can’t bring this to the Council of Masters,” Gerrod said. “Not without proof. Especially with accusations involving Argent ser Fields.” This last was said with a sad shake of his head. “It seems unbelievable, unfathomable.”
“Castellan Mirra seemed certain of her claim.”
Gerrod’s brow furrowed into pale lines. “And the old castellan definitely is not a person prone to fits of fancy.”
“As it was, she was loath to inform us of even this. She wished to consult with those still loyal to Ser Henri before explaining more. I think she told Perryl and me only because of our ties to… to Tylar. She is convinced he is of some importance to the struggles here and abroad. Whether he is a willing player or not, she was not sure.”
Gerrod sighed, wheezing like his armor. “And you’ve taken me into your counsel, spreading the word. Do you think this is wise? I did not know Tylar.”
Kathryn reached forward to touch his bronze hand. “If I can’t trust you, then who within the walls of Tashijan can I trust?”
His metal glove cleaved open like a clam, exposing the skeletal fingers within. She did not flinch from touching them. A small smile formed on his lips. Like all Masters of Discipline, he had forsworn women, but that did not keep him from loving. Kathryn knew his feelings for her and hers for him.
Five years ago, after Tylar’s trial and banishment, something had broken inside Kathryn. She had retreated for a year into the monastic levels of Tashijan, to the underground lair of the masters with its libraries, illuminariums, and alchemy laboratories. There, she lost herself in study and meditation, burying herself under the keep as surely as in a grave.
And she would still be there if it hadn’t been for Gerrod. Newly arrived to Tashijan and blind to her past, his eyes had not looked upon her with accusation for her damning testimony against Tylar, nor did they glance away with sad sympathy for her loss.
Gerrod simply saw her.
Over the next months, he drew her out with his wit and plain wisdoms. You’re too much a flower to hide from the sun… leave such places to mold and mushrooms. He helped build back her strength, find her center once again. It was holding this same hand that she left the subterranean levels of the masters and returned to the Order of the Shadowknights above, where she resumed her place as a knight. Though they could never be together, they were forever more than friends.
And it was enough for both of them.
A knock at the door interrupted. Kathryn stood as Gerrod’s armor snapped back over his fingers. “Who is it?” Gerrod called out.
“It’s Perryl, Master Rothkild!”
Kathryn hurried to the door as Gerrod climbed to his feet with a whirring protest from his mekanicals. He snapped his hinged helmet back over his head.
She opened the door, and Perryl hurried in. Like most knights, he had shed his shadowcloak while within the main keep and wore pl
ain black breeches, boots, and a gray shirt, buttoned formally. He had oiled and combed his straw hair straight back as was custom for a Ninthlander. Free of his knight’s wear, Kathryn was shocked by his boyish appearance. It was easy to forget how young he was, so new to the cloak.
“The count is almost finished,” he said in a rush of breath. “They expect to announce the new warden in the next quarter ring.”
“So soon?” Kathryn asked. It was still well from midnight, the expected time for such a pronouncement. All ballot stones had been cast with the ringing of the eighth bell. It should have taken until the middle of the night for all the stones to have been tallied.
“That’s why I hurried here. Word is that the vote was so overwhelming that the outcome was plain from the first spill of the stones.”
Kathryn wore a worried expression. There had been five main candidates for the seat of Tashijan, each represented by a different colored stone: red, green, blue, yellow, and white. During the secret ballot, Kathryn had chosen none of them, selecting instead a black stone, a vote against all the candidates.
“What stone leads?” Gerrod asked, though there could be only one answer.
“White,” Perryl confirmed. “Ser Fields’s color. Word whispering from the council hall is that the other colors were but a few daubs against a sea of white. No count will be necessary to declare the victor.”
“Then it’s over,” Kathryn whispered. She faced the others. “We should bring the news to Castellan Mirra. See what she has to say.”
As a group, they vacated Gerrod’s rooms and climbed out of the Masterlevels buried under the central keep of Tashijan. The floors above, the Citadel as it was called, were the domain of the Order of the Shadowknight. The Citadel and the Masterlevel composed the two halves of Tashijan, one above-ground, the other below. And the loftier the level in the Citadel, the more esteemed the residents. A castellan was second only to the warden. That meant a climb of twenty-two flights to reach Castellan Mirra’s hermitage.
They climbed in silence, lost to their own thoughts and worries. But they were not alone. Young squires and pages sprinted up and down the central staircase as it wound through the heart of the keep, voices sharp with excitement. A few knights marched the same steps, mostly heading down toward the Grand Court. Word of the early pronouncement had spread quickly.
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