Shadowfall g-1

by James Clemens

  Dart could not imagine anyone arguing with a god, not even one of his own handservants.

  “But Willym was right… if only a tad too slow in convincing me. We had thought we had time to train you, to ready you for the war to come.”

  “War?” Dart eked out.

  He waved away her question. “Dark happenings have been cropping up in the lonely corners of Myrillia: a rash of plagues, ravings among lesser gods, stirrings in the hinterlands. But still, we had thought to have more time. Then Meeryn was slain most brutally…”

  Dart, like all others across Chrismferry, had heard of the tragedy down in the Summering Isles, half a world away: an assassin blessed in Dark Graces had slain the Brightness of the Isles. Like the murderer here, he had also escaped. Her heart beat faster in her chest. Could there be a connection?

  “Our enemies grow bolder, showing their true face,” Chrism continued. “There can be no mistaking that a great war looms, one that will sweep all of Myrillia. But I never thought it would strike here so soon, in the very heart of the Nine Lands. And at such cost.” A tear rolled down one cheek.

  “But why murder Master Willym?” Dart asked.

  Lord Chrism’s hand gripped hers almost painfully. His long gaze focused fully upon her. Only now did she notice the ancient hidden behind the young. “Don’t you know?”

  Dart shook her head, beginning to tremble.

  “It was not dear Willym who was the target of the assassin,” Chrism said. “It was you.”

  Dart waited for dawn. It refused to come. Standing at her bedroom window, she stared out past her private balcony that overlooked the breadth of the Tigre River. The High Wing sat atop the centermost tower of the castillion; four others rose from each bank of the river. Their tower was the tallest rising from the river itself, commanding a sweeping view down the waterway. The city spread to either side, sparkling with lamps and torches in the night.

  Dart saw none of it. For the hundredth time since Lord Chrism had departed, her mind’s eye played out the murder of Master Willym. She had glanced up just as the bolt had sliced through the old man’s neck, whistling past her ear.

  A bolt meant for her.

  Lord Chrism had briefly explained the conclusion drawn by the Watchers of the Court, those men and women blessed with unending sight, tasked with storing all they saw, becoming walking libraries of events frozen forever in their minds. They were rare folk, Graced in the womb with alchemies of air and fire, leaving them weak of limb, requiring air-driven mekanicals to support them. Some said they could speak to each other through their eyes alone.

  Dart had spotted one hovering at the back of Tigre Hall, in the shadows, eyes bright with inner fire.

  Two others had been present. They had conferred. The bolt was seen leaving the shadowed assassin’s crossbow by one, while another witnessed Master Willym bending toward Dart a fraction of a heartbeat later.

  Dart remembered the old man’s words: There’s nothing to fear here.

  He was so very wrong.

  It was that bit of reassurance that cost Willym his life, bending over her at the wrong moment. If he hadn’t, he would be alive now, and she would have taken the bolt to her left eye. So said the Watchers, playing the alternate scene out in their minds.

  As the shock of this fully struck her, Matron Shashyl had come knocking at her door with the promised pot of willow bark tea. Lord Chrism finally seemed to note Dart’s distress and excused himself, leaving her in the matron’s care.

  Shashyl had remained with Dart while she drank her tea. She had slipped a small bit of folded paper from a pocket and mixed its contents in the steaming cup. “Valerian root,” she said as she tapped the teaspoon. “I sometimes take it to sleep when my old joints are protesting the cold nights.”

  Dart had taken two cups before the steeped water turned tepid and the taste bitter. But at least her limbs finally stopped shaking. The matron had walked Dart to the back room and put her to rest in a canopied bed of carved myrrwood. Before she knew it, she was pillowed in down and wrapped in layers of silk and velvet.

  With promises that she would sleep, Dart thanked Matron Shashyl. The old woman had looked down upon her with concerned eyes, kissed her on the forehead, mumbled “poor child,” and departed.

  Dart had tried to sleep, but no amount of powdered root could settle her fears. Every time she closed her eyes, she saw sprays of blood, shadowed figures with daggers blackened with Dark Grace; even Healer Paltry’s face floated before her. In all the bloodshed, she had forgotten about his appearance at the ceremony. Her worry brought it back afresh. At every turn, danger threatened. Punishment, banishment, and now the threat of murder from a new quarter.

  But was it new? Could Healer Paltry have had a hand in the plot? To silence the girl who knew too much? Or was it the dark figure from the gardens? Had he recognized her as she fled down the twisting paths?

  Finally, apprehension forced her from bed. Pupp followed groggily as she paced the length of her bedchamber, wrapped in a thick robe, praying for dawn to arrive, to burn away this long night.

  It must not be far off.

  Perhaps it was near enough to risk waking Laurelle.

  Worry eased with this possibility. Perhaps she could even sleep if she shared her blankets with Laurelle. If only for this one night..

  Desire became action.

  Dart cinched her robe tighter, praying it wasn’t unseemly to wander the High Wing in only robe and slippers. But then again, she didn’t plan on being seen. Surely the remaining Hands were soundly asleep.

  She crossed through her rooms, which included a bathing chamber, privy, and a tiny dining alcove. It felt good to be moving. She reached the entry hall, gathered her key from the table beside the door, and took hold of the door latch. She hesitated, then bent an ear against the door. She listened for any voices, any noises from beyond.

  All silent.

  She continued her attention for several breaths. Satisfied, she tested the latch and crept the door open. She peeked out. The central brazier continued to cast a warm glow down the hall. No one was in sight.

  Dart eased the door open fully. No alarm was raised beyond the hammering of her own heart. She leaned out and peered in both directions.

  Empty.

  She hurried out into the hall and whispered across the tapestried rug on her slippers. She circled past the glowing brazier, followed by an irritable Pupp, his coat dull with exasperation. She fled to the second door past the brazier. The wall lanterns had been turned down by a maid or guard to the merest flicker. Still, Dart felt exposed standing beside the door.

  She tapped lightly, hoping to wake only Laurelle. Her first attempt was no more than a brush of knuckle on wood. She barely heard the rap herself. She tried again with a tad more vigor. The knocking was loud to her own ears, but it earned no response.

  Please, Laurelle, hear me…

  She struck the door again. Three sharp raps. She ducked, hunching close to the door.

  Please…

  A soft sound answered her, sounding like the mild protest of a cat roused from a warm spot on a windowsill. Dart knocked again, more softly.

  “Who’s there?” a voice asked shyly from beyond the closed door.

  Dart’s lips brushed the wood as she answered. “Laurelle, it’s me.”

  The sound of a latch being thrown rang out-it came not from Laurelle’s door, but from down the hall.

  Dart ducked close to the floor, her heart fluttering to a stop. Beyond the brazier, light spilled into the hallway as a door opened. A figure stepped into the hall, features cloaked in shadow. One of the other Hands.

  “Is that you, Dart?” Laurelle called quietly at her ear.

  She could not answer. The frantic beating of raven’s wings filled her ears. She was again in the dark rookery, alone with a dark intruder. Fists clenched, fingernails digging into palms. No, no… this is not the rookery.

  Dart tapped again on Laurelle’s door, no more than the scratching
of a mouse. Still, the stranger seemed to hear her and stepped in her direction. Features pushed into the brazier’s glow, revealing themselves.

  No…

  Dart heard the lock release at her side. The door eased open. Laurelle’s hearth had died to embers. No light flowed out.

  Dart fell through the opening. Laurelle’s mouth formed an O of surprise, but Dart silenced her with a finger to her lips and a hiss of warning. She pushed the door closed with the tiniest click of the latch, grateful to whoever oiled the hinges. She leaned against the frame, close to tears.

  Laurelle dropped to her knees beside Dart. “What’s wrong?” she whispered.

  Dart shook her head, trying to cast out the image. The figure in the hall. Lanky black hair split by a white lightning bolt. It was the murderer from the gardens, the one who had slain the woman named Jacinta.

  He was a Hand of Chrism.

  11

  SEA HUNT

  Across the dark seas, the corsairs bore down on them. Five in all. Sails abloom and lit by fire lamps in the rigging. They rode across the midnight waters like a storm of flaming clouds.

  “Mayhap they’ll miss us in the dark,” Rogger whispered from his perch atop the Fin. To steady himself, the thief kept one hand on the tall fin cresting along the back of the craft, riding the swells.

  Tylar shook his head as he peered out of the hatch. “Both moons already rise. The night will be clear.”

  Delia agreed from below. She watched from the Fin’s window as the tiny vessel rolled in the gentle waves. “And the greater moon is full faced this night. The entire sea will be burnished silver under her glow.”

  Tylar scowled at their situation.

  As the sun had set, all they could do was watch as the fleet spread out in a furious search, scribing a path along the fringes of the floating mat of tangleweed. Captain Grayl must have told Darjon ser Hightower where he had taken the godslayer before being hanged. Or more likely, one of his crew had spilled all. Tylar refused to think ill of the good captain.

  Either way, they were doomed. Even now the corsairs swung out in a wider sweep, aiming for where the trio still foundered in the tiny Fin. They lacked even a paddle to maneuver out of the way.

  “We have no choice,” Delia said. “We must try.”

  Rogger turned to Tylar. “She’s determined to kill us as much as that bloody Shadowknight.”

  Tylar dropped back into the Fin’s cabin. Delia crouched between the two front seats, staring at the glass sphere, now empty of its alchemy. She unscrewed a silver plug from atop the sphere. “I’ve studied the mekanicals. I think we should risk it.”

  “Use my own blood to fuel the Fin?”

  She pointed the stopper at him. “You carry Meeryn’s Grace in you. The Grace of water. Like Fyla. Why shouldn’t it power the Fin?”

  Rogger spoke as he reentered the cabin. “Because it is not pure blood that runs a Fin. It’s an alchemical mixture. A blend of humours known to those trained in their manipulations. And as I recall, alchemists live very short lives. Blown up by their own miscalculations.”

  Delia dismissed his concern. “The mica tubing still contains residual alchemy, the last dregs. All we need is a bit of fresh blood to ignite the Grace inside the mekanicals for a brief time. Enough to flee out of reach. It’ll take just a little blood.”

  “A little?” Rogger repeated. “We’ve had this discussion already. If you’re wrong… if the explosion doesn’t kill us all, any fiery blast will draw the corsairs down upon us.”

  “They’re already upon us, if you hadn’t noticed.” Delia cocked a thumb toward the window.

  Tylar glanced from the lamplit sails back to the open cylinder. She did make a good argument. But it was his blood that would slay them if the works exploded. He found himself staring at his hands, unsure. Was it any better to take their chances with Darjon’s corsairs? He had only to think of Captain Grayl to know how his companions would fare. He pictured Delia and Rogger swinging from their necks.

  He would not let that happen.

  Earlier, Tylar had hoped the corsairs would dock at Tangle Reef and remain unaware of their presence, giving time for the current to drift them out of harm’s reach. Yet even that choice had its own difficulties. Adrift at sea-no food, little water-was only a slower form of death. But something had sent the corsairs searching wider. With Fyla distracted by the Gloom, word must have reached Darjon: The godslayer was loose.

  Now, as the corsairs bore down on them, hard choices had to be made.

  Tylar held out his hand to Rogger. “Your dagger.”

  The thief backed up a step, the only space left to him. “You’re both as bad as blood witches… fooling with Grace that you know nothing about.”

  Delia snapped at him. “I’m a Hand, not a skagging witch.”

  Rogger lifted a brow at her cursing.

  Tylar noted how tired she looked… and young. It was easy to forget. She had lost her god, seen her life turned inside out, and for what? To be hunted. He recognized the exhausted fear in her eyes, a haunting desperation.

  He continued to hold his palm up toward Rogger. He had his own sword sheathed at his belt, but the long weapon was unwieldy in the cramped space, ungainly for the work needed here.

  Finally, the thief slipped a tiny steel dagger from a sheath at the small of his back and placed it in Tylar’s palm.

  This calmed Delia. She nodded, wiping back a stray lock of hair from her eyes. “We’ll just try with a few drops. See how the mekanicals hold.”

  Tylar moved next to her. “Do I need to concentrate? Direct some will into the blood?” He thought back to the curse of ice he cast upon the jelly shark.

  “No,” Delia said after a moment’s hesitation, sounding unsure. “Raw Grace is needed here, pure force.”

  Tylar poised the dagger across his palm.

  “Let me,” Delia said softly, touching his hand. “It is my duty.”

  Tylar opened his fingers gladly.

  She took the knife and, with her other hand, turned his palm down, then up again, seeming to study the length of his fingers, the hairs along the back of his hand, the architecture of his bones. Finally, she pointed the tip of the blade at a ropy vein on the side of his wrist. Her other hand latched above it, causing the vessel to bulge. “Hold steady.”

  Tylar was surprised by the iron hold of her fingers. She had wicked strength. Her middle finger dug into a painful point behind a wristbone.

  “Take a deep breath.”

  He’d just begun to suck in air when she stabbed the dagger’s tip into the vein. Caught by surprise, he coughed with the bite of the knife-but there was no pain. She pressed her thumb over the wound before it even bled and stepped back, passing the knife back to Rogger.

  Delia drew him by the arm to the glass sphere. She positioned the wound over the hole in the tank and released her thumb.

  Blood flowed thickly down the inside of the glass.

  Tylar watched. With the release of Delia’s fingers, he felt a dull ache bloom from the wound. “How did you… I hardly felt-?”

  “Training,” she cut him off and knelt, studying the flow of his humour into the jar, watching it pool at the bottom.

  “I thought you needed only a little blood?” Rogger commented.

  “It is only a little. The bleeding will slow on its own.”

  Tylar saw she was right. Already the seep of blood thinned to rolling drops.

  “A true draining requires a slice deep to wrist, throat, or back of knee. This should be enough.” She stood and slipped a silk kerchief from a pocket. She tied a knot in it, placed it over the wound, snugged the ends tight around his wrist, and tied it in place with deft fingers. “Do not remove it for half a day.”

  Tylar had watched the seas through the window as she worked. “Here they come,” he mumbled.

  A quarter reach away, the sweep of high prows could now be seen, cutting through the black seas. Men moved in the rigging. Screened fire lamps shone out over the r
ails, lighting the waters, searching. Off to the left, the greater moon crested the waves, casting a swath of silver over the seas, pointing a finger directly at them. As Delia had noted earlier, there would be no hiding this night.

  “If you’re going to blow us up,” Rogger said, “let’s be quick about it.”

  Tylar made out the swinging form of Captain Grayl from the lead vessel. He felt the accusing eyes of the dead upon him. Then a fierce brightness enveloped the Fin. The path of one of the fire lamps had glanced over the craft-darkness descended again as the blaze swept away.

  Had they been spotted?

  Everyone held their breath. Even Delia halted her ministrations of the mekanicals.

  The blaze swung back, skittered over them again, then fixed in place, lighting the seas around them as bright as the midday sun.

  They had been found.

  The lead corsair turned, digging deep as it swung about. The macabre decoration swayed from the prow, the dead captain’s feet brushing the waves. Shouts echoed across the water, ghostly yet urgent.

  “I’m becoming more and more resolved to the blowing up part now,” Rogger said as he looked on, one hand raised against the glare.

  Delia hurriedly replaced the silver plug in the crystal sphere. “I’d hoped to test it first… to leach no more than a drop or two of blood into the mekanicals.”

  Tylar crouched beside her. “We don’t have the time.”

  Delia licked her lips, taking a deep breath.

  Tylar reached over and gathered her hands in his. Her fingers were ice cold. He warmed them by squeezing tightly. “You were Meeryn’s servant. She gave you her deepest trust and so do I.”

  “But-”

  “Let the Grace flow.”

  Delia nodded, her gaze firming. “Everyone hold on to something secure.”

  Tylar climbed into the pilot’s seat and waved for Rogger to sit.