Shadowfall g-1

by James Clemens

  Argent nodded to one of the seats. “The stables sent up word of your jaunt. I’d assumed you’d not broken your fast yet this morning. It would be my pleasure to offer you my table.”

  “How kind,” she answered, but she made no move toward the spread.

  As Lowl stepped aside, Argent turned to his servant. “That will be all, Lowl.”

  Lowl bowed himself out, retreating through a side door into the servants’ rooms.

  Once the door closed, Argent crossed to the table, speared a slice of apple with a knife, and bit a chunk. He settled to one of the two seats, legs outstretched, relaxed. He stared at her.

  Kathryn found the gaze somehow too personal, too intimate. She moved to the table to escape his study. She busied herself with slicing a chunk of bread and smearing a baked cheese onto it. Her eyes focused on her task, she spoke as evenly as she could manage. “Your manservant mentioned some word on Tylar.”

  “Yes. He’s been found.”

  Kathryn could not stop her shoulders from tightening as she glanced toward the man. His eyes-or rather eye — remained stone. Unreadable. He waited. She met his gaze and held it. She would not give him the pleasure of hearing her ask.

  Argent shifted and finally continued. “A Shadowknight out of the Summering Isles led a fleet of corsairs across the Deep, following bits of trail left behind by the godslayer. He was almost caught, engaged by this knight, but escaped in a vessel stolen from Tangle Reef.”

  “Tangle Reef? How?” Kathryn settled the knife to the table, ignoring the bread and cheese. Tylar is still alive.

  A shrug. “Fyla of the Reef has always been reclusive in her watery realm, suspicious of all. She has refused to communicate, even in this dire matter, withdrawing her realm from habitable seas. But in her wake, large swaths of dead tangleweed, singed and smoldering, foul the seas. Ships report a poisonous stench that kills with a mere breath. There can be no doubt that the realm was attacked most foully and now retreats to lick its wounds.”

  “Tylar…”

  “The godslayer proves his dark bent yet again.” Argent sat straighter, plucking a few grapes from a bunch. “But measures are being taken.”

  Kathryn frowned. “Measures?”

  He waved away her question with his knife. “I called a council. ’Til then we have more to settle between us. Please sit.”

  She remained standing.

  “Do you not wish to know why I chose you as castellan?”

  Warily, Kathryn obeyed. She sank to the other seat, too curious to refuse. “Why?”

  He leaned forward, elbows on the table. “Because I need you.”

  The earnestness of his words struck through her.

  “In the past, you have demonstrated the ability to place the welfare of Tashijan above personal gain or desire. When I was overseer for your betrothed’s adjudication, you set your own heart aside to speak the truth. I watched the pain with which you spoke those damning words of accusation. Yet you did not falter or attempt to obfuscate.”

  Kathryn looked down. The pain from that day remained with her. She had sat upon the chair of truth and told all how Tylar had come to bed on the night of the murder of the cobbler’s family covered in blood, smelling of ale and drink. She had already heard testimony about how his sword had been found among the bodies, how Gray Traders, under the cloak of anonymity, had shown records of Tylar’s dealings with them, and how on the night of the murders, a cross-street neighbor to the cobblers had seen a Shadowknight vanish into the night’s gloom.

  “Each word you spoke destroyed a small part of you,” Argent said.

  Kathryn forced her hands not to touch her belly. The heartache and anguish destroyed more than just her own well-being. She had been with child, Tylar’s child. She had been hoping to tell him the night he vanished, the morning he came home bloody to her sheets. But that moment was lost forever. During and after the trial, heartache wrung her body, finally choking the child from her. She remembered the blood on her hands, staining her sheets again. Strangely, there had been too little pain to take so much from her.

  “It is such bravery of spirit that has always stayed with me,” Argent said quietly. “It is such bravery that is needed now, during this dark time.”

  “Still, you chose me against tradition. One of the Council of Masters has always sat as castellan.”

  “Not always. There has been precedent in the past. During the rule of Warden Gilfoyl, he chose another knight.”

  Kathryn knew the story. “The two were lovers.”

  “So it was rumored, but the pair did rule Tashijan for two decades, well and with much accomplishment. And prior to that, for the first three centuries, there was no Council of Masters. Tashijan was ruled solely by knights.”

  “And is that what you wish again?”

  “Of course not. I would not usurp such power. Balance in all things is the best way to govern.”

  “So again, why pick me over an equally brave and well-spoken member of the Council of Masters?”

  His one eye narrowed. “Because you have no equal, Kathryn ser Vail.”

  Again the intensity of his gaze felt a violation. She reached to the mug of bitternut and warmed her palms upon its hot surface.

  “I’ve waited a long time to have you at my side.”

  Kathryn heard a hint of something deeper, a trace of huskiness in his voice. She remembered the stories of Warden Gilfoyl and his castellan. Leaders and lovers. Did Argent believe they, the two of them…? She shoved such a thought away, repulsed. Instead, one hand reached into a pocket and removed a black stone, her cast ballot. She placed it on the table. Painted on the stone’s surface, the crimson sigil was plain to see, a circle around a slash of crossed lines.

  “What of this?” she asked.

  Argent leaned forward again. “Ah, yes, the Fiery Cross.”

  “So you don’t deny that you are a member of this order?”

  “Not at all,” he said. “In fact, I’m the leader and founder.”

  Kathryn’s blood went cold. She couldn’t keep the shock from her face.

  “But please, don’t mistake the rumors and nighttime tales of the Cross. Such a group never existed. We don’t practice Dark Graces or blood rites. We don’t skulk around hidden chambers. We are merely a faction of knights who wish to see Tashijan function more independently of the rule of gods and men. It is a minor, yet volatile, distinction. Nothing sinister. So we took the old name of the Fiery Cross as our own. The symbol of fire was apt. It is only in flame that something stronger can be forged. And with Myrillia standing at a crossroads in history, choices have to be made. Which path to take? Ser Henri looked to the past, to the old ways. We knew such measures had grown stagnant and that a new path was needed. Ser Henri did not agree.”

  Kathryn attempted to hide any reaction to the name of Ser Henri, but something must have shown through.

  “No, I did not slay Ser Henri. We had our differences, but as I said, they were political and philosophical. Nothing to shed blood over.”

  “And what of Castellan Mirra?”

  “Ah, yes, now that is something of a concern.” Argent shook his head sadly. “Ser Henri and I had discussions about her. Few would know, but she has been growing more and more addled of mind and reason. Flights of suspicion that had no thread in reality.”

  Kathryn kept her own suspicions silent. He had all the right answers, but were any of them true?

  “Myrillia is faced with a dark time. Unrest and menace grow each day. Darkness has even reached Chrismferry, in the form of an assassin who slew one of Lord Chrism’s Hands.”

  Kathryn, like all in Tashijan, had heard the bloody story.

  “And there can be no doubt where the blame lies,” Argent said, brow tightening.

  “Where is that?”

  He stabbed a finger to the table. “Here.”

  Kathryn glanced sharply at him.

  “ ‘As Tashijan stands, so does Myrillia,’ ” he quoted. “And, likewise, as Tashija
n ails, so will the Nine Lands. For the past century, the number of Shadowknights has been steadily declining, likewise the number of sons and daughters schooled to be Hands to the gods. Across Myrillia, conclaves have closed or crumbled into ruin. Is it any wonder rot has crept into the rest of the landscape? Ill creatures grow in number. The hinterlands grow wilder and bolder with each passing year. And a daemonic godslayer has risen from our ranks, one of our own fallen. Can one ignore the finger pointed at our very heart? Pointed at Tashijan. We’ve stagnated under the rules and rites of tradition for far too long, grown fatted and lazy. If we are to face the growing dark tide, then we must start here first. The best must lead us. Those who have been tested under fire, whose loyalty and fealty to Tashijan has been forged and honed to a keen edge.”

  Argent took a deep breath. “We two-you and I-condemned Tylar. We proved our strength of purpose and focus. He should have been killed. But Ser Henri’s soft intervention and petitions won him a reprieve, allowed him to live. And see what such weakness has sown. A godslayer who threatens all.”

  Kathryn found her head spinning from his words.

  “I chose you, Kathryn ser Vail, because once again it is up to us to steel our hearts and make the tough choices, to harden Tashijan in a new flame, to face what must be faced without flinching or soft hearts. You have done this in the past. I ask you to take my side and do it again-for all of Myrillia. Can you do this?”

  Without willing it, her head nodded. A dark time was indeed upon them. Despite her suspicions, she could not deny Argent’s words. A renewed strength, purpose, and focus were needed to stand against the tide.

  “Very good. I knew I chose well. Now we must prepare ourselves for what’s to come. Time closes like a noose.”

  Kathryn raised her eyes, confusion plain to read.

  “The godslayer must be stopped.”

  She found her voice. “How…? I thought he escaped into the Deep.”

  Argent nodded. “But we know where he’s heading.”

  Kathryn frowned.

  “The godslayer is coming here… to Tashijan.”

  Kathryn paced before the balcony window. Sunlight streamed down upon her. She felt none of its warmth.

  “Impossible!” Perryl declared as he stood by the hearth.

  “Why would Tylar be coming here?” Gerrod echoed. He sat in a chair by the window, his bronze armor achingly bright in the light. He leaned forward, elbows resting on his knees. Though his face was hidden, his posture spoke his intense cogitation. “There is no benefit in returning to Tashijan.”

  “He’s coming for me,” Kathryn said, biting at the words as they came, repeating what Argent had spoken just two rings of the bells ago. “One of the sailors aboard a ship upon which Tylar had booked passage, a galleon with ties to the Black Flaggers, had spied upon their cabin. He heard their group speak of Tashijan.”

  “And you?” Gerrod asked.

  Kathryn shook her head. She stopped her pacing and stared out at the bower of wyrmwood beyond her window. The light glowed green through the foliage, a cheery day, one ill suited for the black mood in her heart. “Warden Fields supposes Tylar is returning to Tashijan because of me. To risk such a dangerous course, a strong desire must be driving him.”

  “Desire for what?” Gerrod asked. “To win you back?”

  Kathryn turned to the others. “Or for revenge. If anyone hurt him the deepest, it wasn’t the faceless Citadel that sent him into slavery.” Fingers clenched at her side-not in anger, but to hold back the tears that threatened.

  Gerrod seemed to sense her distress and straightened in his seat with a whir of his mekanicals. He turned to Perryl. “You met Tylar. Spoke to him. What can you say of his posture concerning Kathryn?”

  Perryl looked lost with all that had been spoken here, his amber eyes too young, his beard too thin. He wiped a hand through his blond hair, his gaze sinking to the rugs. “He… he wouldn’t let me speak her name.”

  “And when he told you this,” Gerrod continued, “was it spoken with sadness or anger?”

  Perryl shook his head ever so slightly. “The streets were dark.”

  “The manner of a man’s speech does not require lamplight to discern,” Gerrod pressed.

  Kathryn knew the young knight’s reticence lay in an attempt to spare her. “Speak plainly, Perryl. It’s important.”

  His eyes flicked up to her, then back to the floor. “He was angry. His words laced with fury. He would hear nothing about you.” Perryl glanced fully up at her. Pain and shame mixed in his eyes.

  Kathryn took a deep breath. It hurt to hear, but the truth often did.

  “So how do we play this?” Gerrod asked. “Do we believe the new warden’s explanations-about his lack of complicity in Ser Henri’s demise and the rather convenient disappearance of your predecessor, Castellan Mirra? Do we cooperate?”

  Kathryn moved into the room, stepping out of the sunlight and into shadow. She still wore her shadowcloak, loose over her shoulder, and felt the tickle of its Grace respond to the darkness. “I have no choice. I swore oaths. And until true evidence of Argent’s duplicity reveals itself, I must act accordingly.”

  “Ah…” Gerrod stood and joined Kathryn as she poured a glass of water from a waiting stand. The armored master touched a point on his breastplate and a small pocket opened. He removed a blackened fold of ermine fur. “Castellan Mirra’s cloak. I’ve tested it with various alchemies. It seems the little maid Penni spoke the truth earlier. It is not any Dark Grace that burned the cloak’s edge, only ordinary fire, most likely from lying too near the hearth.”

  Kathryn sipped. “So again, no evidence of misdeed. Nothing to connect to Warden Fields.”

  “Perhaps,” Gerrod answered. “But I did discover a trace of blood amid the fur. Too minuscule to see without an alchemist’s lamp.”

  “But that could be easily explained away,” Perryl countered, still looking morose from earlier. “It could have come from any scratch or cut.”

  “Ah, yes, Ser Corriscan, that might be true if it were human blood.”

  Perryl’s brow knit a neat crease. “Are you saying it came from a beast?”

  Gerrod shook his head.

  Kathryn stepped closer and retrieved the burned bit of fur. The remainder of the ermine garment still hung in her wardrobe on the chance Mirra would return. “If not man or animal, that leaves only..?”

  Gerrod nodded. “Blood of a god. The signature of Grace, while faint, was unmistakable.”

  Perryl stepped closer. “Which of the gods?”

  “Now therein lies the conundrum. Like all alchemists, I have a repostilum, a storehouse of preserved drops of humour from all of the Hundred gods.”

  Kathryn nodded. She had been in Gerrod’s study, seen his repostilum, the eight hundred tiny crystal cubes, each no wider than a thumbnail, resting in a special shelving system on the wall. Each crystal die held a droplet of precious humour.

  “I tested the signature upon the cloak and found no match among the Hundred.”

  Perryl frowned. “Surely a mistake. If the blood didn’t come from the Hundred…” His face suddenly paled as understanding dawned.

  Kathryn finished his statement. “Then it must’ve come from one of the hinterland rogues.”

  Gerrod nodded.

  She had to resist flinging the bit of fur from her fingers. Rogue gods were wild creatures of madness and strife. Unsettled to any realm, their humours defied the four defining aspects of fire, water, air, and loam. A mere touch could rave a man’s mind. To traffic in such humours was the blackest of all Graces.

  Gerrod took back the scrap of fouled cloak. “There is no danger. The potency of the Grace is long gone, only the signature is left.”

  “But what about before?” Kathryn asked. “Argent mentioned Castellan Mirra was showing some evidence of addlement. Supposedly Ser Henri and Ser Fields had even discussed it. Could she have been handling such humours?”

  The armored master offered a more dire p
ossibility. “Or the blood could’ve been exposed to her in secret, to weaken the sharpness of her mind.”

  “Poisoned by Grace,” Perryl said with a shudder.

  Kathryn had trouble fathoming such a horror.

  Gerrod held up a hand. “But in truth, I cannot say how the Grace presented itself here. Whether by Castellan Mirra’s own hand or another, further study is needed. I thought to examine the rest of the cloak, to see if any answers could be divined.”

  “Of course. It’s in my wardrobe.”

  Kathryn crossed to the door leading to her bedroom. As her hand touched the latch, a scuffle sounded beyond the door. She grabbed the handle and jerked the door wide. She found her maid, Penni, scrambling backward out of her way. She carried an armful of folded linen in her arms.

  “Mistress…” A hurried curtsy helped balance the maid’s load.

  “Penni, what are you doing here?” Upon assuming the hermitage, Kathryn had kept Mirra’s maid for her own. “Were you listening upon us?” she asked, her words harsher than she intended, surprised to find the girl in her bedroom. But then again, Penni was always appearing out of nowhere.

  “No, mistress, a thousand times no.” She curtsied again, eyes wide with horror. “At least not with good meaning to. I had just finished changing the bed linens to take to the washerwomen when I heard you and Master Rothkild arrive with Ser… Ser Perryl.” She glanced sidelong into the room toward the young knight, her eyes shy, clearly enamored. “Mistress Mirra did not like to be walked in upon when speaking with guests. So I waited here until you were finished.”

  Kathryn frowned at her own lack of foresight. Knowing such dire matters were to be discussed, she should have thought to make sure no ears were listening. But she was still ill accustomed to having a maid doting about her rooms.

  Penni kept her head bowed, hiding her face behind the brown curls escaping her white lace cap. “I beg all your pardons.”

  Kathryn reached a hand to console her, but let it drop. “Penni, mayhap it best you went about your chores with the linen.”

  “Yes, mistress, right away.” Another curtsy.

  She made room for the girl, but Gerrod stopped the maid from escaping. “Hold there, Penni. I would bend your ear a moment longer.”