“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 whirr
ed 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.”
Tylar nodded. It was a chilling thought. Chrism gone rogue.
They continued the trek in silence. Winds shook the upper tree limbs. Dried leaves fell with whispery rattles, putting everyone on edge, making it seem like the forest itself gasped and wheezed. The darkness grew to a midnight gloom. The only light came from strange luminescent berries decorating thorny bushes and palm-sized butterflits resting among the branches.
After a time, Yaellin lifted an arm and waved them to an even quieter tread. “We skirt the Heartwood. Take care we don’t wake it.”
The knight led them around in a wide arc. Tylar caught glimpses of the massive bole of the tree, the heart of the wood, corrupted and ilked like the men and women who served Chrism. Very faintly, the rustle of dried wood… or bone… whispered from that direction.
No one spoke.
They slowly passed the Heartwood and continued farther into the myrrwood. A light rain began to patter the canopy, but few drops reached the ground. They might as well have been indoors.
“Not much farther,” Yaellin said.
They paused to take a short break. Bandages were checked. All of them bore wounds, except for Gerrod, who worked on the creaking joints of his armor.
Then they set off again, moving more slowly, eyes wary for any ilk-beasts still lurking here after the ritual. But the woods appeared empty. The hunt out in the streets still occupied Chrism’s minions.
But for how long?
“There!” Yaellin said.
He pointed toward a pair of stone pillars in the middle of a glade of massive trunks. The branches overhead wove together to form a massive raftered roof. A few drizzling streams wormed through the canopy and tinkled to small pools of rainwater.
They waited at the edge for Kathryn and Yaellin to make a complete circuit of the glade. All seemed quiet. A faint smell of old woodsmoke hung in the air. Tylar spotted a circle of fire pits, dug into the ground, gone cold.
Yaellin and Kathryn reappeared.
“No one’s about,” Kathryn said.
“I found some spoor,” Yaellin said with thick distaste. “Ilk-beast. But nothing fresher than two bells. I think we’re alone.”
“For the moment,” Kathryn said. “We’d best make a fast inspection, then find a less conspicuous place to ride out the storm and decide what course to pursue next.”
As if agreeing with her, thunder grumbled distantly.
Tylar led the others into the glade, aiming for the twin pillars. They were white granite, etched with yellow lichen, and half overgrown with vines that were now brown and dead.
Despite all that had occurred, Tylar could not help but feel a bit of reverence for this site. Here is where the present age of Myrillia had begun, the longest stretch of sustained order and relative peace. Chrism might be corrupted now, but his great sacrifice here four thousand years ago could neither be dismissed nor belittled.
Tylar walked around the pillars. Here Chrism had himself bound, cut at throat, groin, and wrist. He bled himself in despair, refusing the very madness that now consumed him. He sought an end, but instead found a beginning.
What had happened?
Gerrod knelt between the pillars. He dug up a handful of soil. Tylar twinged a bit at the violation of the sacred ground. Gerrod sniffed at the soil, then replaced it with a pat.
“Fresh loam,” Gerrod mumbled. “I don’t understand. I smell no corruption.”
Tylar heard the disappointment in his voice.
“Maybe if I had more time… my alchemy tools…” He straightened up with a creak. “Nothing’s here.”
“What did you hope to find?” Tylar asked.
“Proof for what we must claim. Who will believe Chrism is corrupt? You heard on the street. Those who saw the ilk-beasts believe we are their masters. We’re also blamed for the flippercraft’s crash and the subsequent damage to the lower holds of the castillion. But if we could’ve shown this spot to be corrupted…” He shook his head. “I’m sorry. I led you all out here for nothing.”
Kathryn laid a hand on his shoulder. “We needed to hide, to regroup. No harm is done.”
“I had hoped maybe the Godsword was here,” Gerrod continued, crestfallen. “If Yaellin could find no sign of it in the High Wing, maybe it had been sequestered here.”
“I searched here, too,” Yaellin said. “There is no sword.”
“Chrism must keep it with him,” Tylar said.
A new voice interrupted them, coming from around the edge of Kathryn’s cloak. “I… I don’t understand.”
Kathryn turned, revealing Dart. She stood near one of the pillars.
“What is it?” Tylar asked.
She pointed to the ground. “There’s a sword stuck in the dirt right there.”
Tylar saw nothing.
She shooed her fingers at the ground. “Pupp, get away from there.”
Tylar glanced to Kathryn, then Gerrod.
Rogger spoke aloud what they all suddenly understood. “She can see it! Just like her dog creature.”
“ ‘A sword of shadow and light,’ ” Gerrod said. “No wonder it’s never been seen or found.”
“Rivenscryr,” Tylar gasped. “The Godsword.”
Dart frowned at all their reactions. They had to be mistaken. The sword appeared be ordinary dull bronze, even its unadorned hilt. Surely this was no dire weapon to shatter worlds.
But all eyes were upon her. From their expressions, they failed to see what was evident to her. She watched Pupp again nose up to the embedded sword. His bronze form was almost a match to the blade and hilt, except his form glowed with a molten sheen. The sword appeared cold and somehow ancient.
“Can you describe what you see?” Gerrod asked.
She did, knowing they were mistaken. There must be some blessing or curse placed upon the blade, hiding its form, but it could not possibly be the dreaded Godsword. “… and it’s shoved into the dirt, almost to the hilt. A handspan of blade still shows.” She held out her hand, fingers splayed to indicate.
“Are there any markings?” the master asked.
Dart stepped closer to be sure. Everyone else had backed from the space between the pillars. She leaned down. One hand reached out.
“No!” a firm voice commanded.
She yanked her arm back. The order had come from Eylan. Few words had ever been spoken by the Wyr-mistress, but these now had the force of familiar command. She was used to being obeyed.
“She mustn’t touch the Godsword,” Eylan said, her voice dropping slightly upon the others’ sudden attention.
“Why’s that?” Rogger asked.
Eylan’s eyes, black already, darkened further. She turned to Tylar. “The sword is meant only for the god-bearer.�
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Tylar frowned. “Me?”
Rogger harrumphed. “It’s a better name than god slayer.”
“What do you know that you’ve not told us?” Tylar asked.
The Wyr-mistress glanced from Dart to Tylar. “We were not sure. When you came to the Wyr, you came with Grace. You came alone. But in the tower, I bore witness to the god inside you. And in the same tower, you found your sheath.”
“I found my what?”
The Wyr-mistress again glanced down to Dart. “She is the sheath.” Eylan faced Tylar again. “And you are the sword.”
Tylar pinched his brows.
Gerrod spoke up. “I believe Wyr-mistress Eylan is referring to Dart’s blood. As the child of two gods, she alone has the ability to whet the sword from shadow to substance. But apparently, you are the one meant to wield the sword.”
“According to whom?” Castellan Vail asked.
Again attention focused to Eylan. Still, Dart’s breathing remained labored. She glanced to Laurelle. Her friend had her arms crossed tightly about her chest. Yaellin guarded over her. Dart dropped back to them, fearing what would be spoken next.
“Who spoke of this sheath and sword?” Tylar asked.
Eylan met his gaze, but nodded toward Dart. “This one’s mother.”
“What?” Dart gasped.
Yaellin bent down to her. “It’s all right, Dart,” he whispered.
She leaned in to him. It was all too much for her. For so many years, she had wondered about her mother and father, fantasized about them, been plagued with questions. But the truth was worse than never knowing. Yaellin held her and wrapped her up in shadow, offering what comfort he could.
Gerrod shifted toward the Wyr-mistress, understanding glowing in his eyes. “It was you who carried the message to Tashijan from the hinterland god, the child’s mother. You were the emissary who told Ser Henri about the child and urged her rescue.”
Eylan did not disagree.
“But there was more that was never told to Ser Henri,” Gerrod said. “Wasn’t there?”
A slow nod answered him. “The god and mother raved. Such creatures are sometimes so flamed by Grace that all moorings to the present are burned away. They travel to the past… and to places yet to come. The god-mother saw the great war of the ancient past… and an even greater war to come to Myrillia.” Eylan stared hard at Tylar. “And they were the same war.”
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