No weapon could pierce the naether tangle.
Save one.
Tylar could not see the Godsword in his hand. But he felt it. The hilt clung to his broken hand, refusing to let go. Tylar willed his body to move, to strike out at the daemon wearing Mistress Naff’s skin, the one who slew Meeryn and won this body. Tylar knew the real woman was long gone. All that was left were shadows and light, meant to trick him, to lure him astray like a will-o’-the-wisp in a dark wood.
Echoes, as his naethryn had claimed.
He struggled to raise the weapon, but he found no strength in his broken limbs. All he had was will. And that wasn’t enough.
Laughter met his struggle.
“We will have the sword… and you,” the daemon promised. A slim arm rose and reached for Rivenscryr. “With it, we will tear open this world, like this shell I wear now, and claim it for our own! We will be free!”
Tylar struggled, broken and hopeless.
There was no escape.
Fingers closed on the Godsword’s hilt.
Dart heard Mistress Naff’s voice from a landing away.
We will have the sword!
Dart hopped from the hound’s back, almost breaking her leg on the stairs. The sudden loss of his rider stopped the bullhound. Dart did not want to be dragged unwilling into the same trap as the others.
She left the hound below. She hoped her command to stay was obeyed.
Reaching the open doors, she crouched and studied the hall.
We will be free!
Dart ignored Mistress Naff. She spotted one knight down on the floor, blood pooling around his head. The others seemed at a loss on how to penetrate a tangled web that locked Tylar and Mistress Naff together. From her hiding place, Dart searched for Lord Chrism, but he was nowhere to be seen.
She returned her study to Tylar… and his sword.
He had to be broken free.
But how?
Kathryn despaired as she watched the daemon woman’s fingers close upon the hilt of the Godsword. She had heard the woman’s mad claim.
But how could they stop her?
Rogger circled the pair, seeking any means to penetrate the snarl of Gloom. He had tried striking from behind, but still the Gloom had thwarted him, burning his dagger to molten steel that dripped and steamed to the stones.
Krevan hovered by his fallen friend. His face was a mask of fury, but there was no outlet for his anger. Eylan and Gerrod stood to the side. Eylan pointed to a torch on the wall, then to the rug at her feet. Plainly she was thinking to set it on fire.
Gerrod wisely shook his head. Even if they could light the rug, it was doubtful flames would fare any better than steel.
Krevan stirred from his vigil and pointed his sword back to the door.
Kathryn turned, dropping lower, wary.
A small figure ran toward them.
It was the child. Dart. What was she doing here?
Kathryn closed upon her, intending to keep her back. The godling must not fall into Chrism’s hands. Especially if the monster recovered the sword. Kathryn’s fingers tightened on her own hilt. She could not let the child be taken alive.
Still, Kathryn stared down at the girl’s small flushed face as she joined her. Do I have the strength to slay this girl if I must?
“Castellan Vail,” Dart gasped. “You must throw your dagger!”
She grabbed the girl’s arm as she tried to move closer. “We already tried. No blade can reach her.”
Dart fought her grip. “Not her.” She freed her arm and jabbed it forward. “Him!”
“Tylar?”
Dart bent and touched Kathryn’s calf. “Strike him here. She may not expect that.”
“But-?”
“Do it!” The small voice chimed with a mix of command and desperation.
Kathryn twisted around, trusting the girl for now. She slipped a dagger free. “Rogger!” she called out. “Strike from behind again! All of you! On my command! Attack together!”
Kathryn pushed Dart behind her. She hoped the additional distraction might allow a blade to slip by the smoky defenses and strike Tylar’s calf.
“Now!”
Blades fell from all sides, aimed for the woman.
Kathryn swiped her dagger low, swinging from the hip. She put all the force of muscle and shadow into her throw.
The blade flew from her fingertips, sent with a prayer.
Elsewhere, steel exploded into fiery, molten splashes.
All done to protect Naff.
Not Tylar.
Kathryn’s blade slipped through a break in the tangle. The dagger struck Tylar’s calf, spearing completely through it.
Kathryn straightened. Nothing happened. The stalemate continued. Tylar did not even seem to notice the blow, too racked in pain already.
She stared down at the girl.
If Tylar lost this battle…
Kathryn lifted her sword. The girl did not even notice. She continued her focus on the two in the smoky tangle.
Dart’s lips moved, a whisper. “Go, Pupp…”
Frowning, Kathryn turned back to Tylar.
At his knee, something formed. A misshapen, molten chunk of bronze. It moved, defining itself into some four-legged creature of sharp points and razored edges. Its nose was pressed to Tylar’s calf, to the dagger.
To his blood!
“Tylar’s Grace!” Gerrod gasped, stepping to them, laying a hand on Dart’s shoulder. “It ignites her creature!”
“Pupp,” Dart corrected.
The bronze creature stalked around Tylar’s leg. Unseen and without substance before, it must have slipped in and waited for a source of Grace.
It found it in Tylar’s blood.
The daemoness finally noted the monster in her midst and jerked back. But it was too late.
Pupp leaped, flying high, all four claws extended. He latched onto Nass’s belly, flaring brighter. She screamed.
Flames shot out her back as Pupp buried his fiery muzzle into her flesh. She fell backward, tumbling out of her protective tangle and into Chrism’s rooms.
As she fell, the web shattered, releasing Tylar. He toppled back, sprawling without strength.
From both their chests, the dark streams receded, sucked back into the void from which they came. Tylar sat up, shaking away the residual shock. He tested his limbs, as if making sure they were still his.
He stood up, but almost fell as he put weight on his impaled leg. He glanced to the dagger, then back up again. He hobbled to Naff.
“That’s enough, Pupp,” Tylar said.
He motioned with his sword. It shone brightly.
Pupp backed away.
The ruin that was Mistress Naff steamed and bled. The reek of charred flesh wafted heavily. But she was still alive. Eyes moved, tracking Tylar. Feeble tendrils of Gloom wormed from her chest print.
Words bubbled with blood. “What you carry is no blessing. It’ll eat you, too. From the inside!”
Ignoring the threat, Tylar lifted his sword and held it high in both arms. “This is for Meeryn… and Mistress Naff.”
The creature at his feet struggled, but its spine had been shattered.
Tylar drove the blade down, through the center of the black mark. It slid to the hilt, despite the stone under the body. Tylar yanked it back. Flames followed the sword up, but the blade was gone.
A wail tore through the hall, issuing from the black well.
Kathryn dropped her sword and clamped her ears. She and the others fell to their knees. The keening ripped at the edges of her mind-then it was gone.
On the floor, Mistress Naff’s body burned away quickly, flaming to ash.
“Only a shell,” Tylar mumbled. He touched his own mark. Kathryn read the fear in his eyes. Was he anything more himself?
She gained her feet and hurried to him. He began to slump, wasted and worn. She caught him, pulled him to her.
Off to the side, Pupp faded again, the blood and Grace burned away.
Krevan joined them. “And where is Chrism?”
From up and down the hall, laughter echoed forth, tinkling in a handful of voices. Kathryn turned. From doors along the hall, figures stepped forth, moving woodenly, eyes blazing brighter than stars.
Chrism’s Hands.
Laughter flowed from their throats. But it was plainly not their own. Enthralled, the Hands had become Chrism’s eyes and tongue, too.
Their words echoed up and down the hall.
“I will face the godslayer alone… or all of Chrismferry will perish!”
25
CABAL
“You can’t go alone,”Kathryn pressed.
“You heard Chrism,” Tylar said and waved at the Hands. Their eyes blazed. The creatures watched their every move. Tylar wondered how much humanity was left in them. “I have to go alone or he’ll tear down the entire castillion and dump it in the river. And all of Chrismferry will follow.”
They had all heard Chrism’s order and command.
It was no idle threat.
A moment ago, Krevan had attempted to use the outer stairs. None of the Hands tried to stop him, but their eyes watched. Upon setting a foot on the top step, a mighty crack sounded to the south, followed by a crash of heavy stone, louder than thunder. The entire castillion shook.
“Chrism is still master of loam,” Gerrod had warned. “Perhaps he couldn’t tear all his realm apart, but certainly he could shatter this castle, pull down the river’s dikes and levies, flooding the entire city.”
So they had no choice. They were trapped in the High Wing. Only one person could descend.
The godslayer.
“It’s a trap,” Rogger said. “You know that, of course?”
Tylar did not even bother answering the thief’s question.
“This is wrong,” Eylan said stiffly and nodded to Dart. “Chrism seeks to separate you from your sheath. He knows therein lies your strength. He will divide and conquer.”
“We could still run,” Krevan said. “Attempt to escape the castillion before it falls. Stand to fight another day.”
“No,” Gerrod answered. The master was kneeling on the floor, marking in charcoal a rough layout of Tigre Hall, where Tylar was to meet Chrism. The grand hall at the base of the tower was where the god normally conducted his affairs of the realm.
Gerrod leaned back. “Even if we escape, if Chrismferry falls, so falls the First Land. And in such chaos, all of Myrillia will be threatened.”
Tylar nodded. “Right or wrong, we make a stand here.”
“ You make a stand,” Kathryn said sourly.
“This is my battle,” Tylar said. “You all know it. From the moment Meeryn touched my chest, it was to prepare me for this fight.”
Silence met his words.
Finally Krevan stirred. “If you must go alone, then take a part of me with you.” He stepped forward and held out his sword. The golden wyrm glowed along the length of silver. “Serpentfang is only steel, but there is no stronger blade or one as finely balanced. Perhaps what Grace can’t defeat, steel may.”
Tylar accepted the sword and Krevan’s scabbard. He belted it in place.
Rogger came next, shrugging out of his belt of daggers. “I guess these are only going to gather rust.”
Tylar snugged the belt across his chest.
“But I want those back when you’re done,” the thief added. “It’s not like I’m givin’ the blades for keeps or nothing.”
Gerrod waved Tylar over. “All I have is my knowledge.” He pointed to the charcoal sketch. “Best to know the lay of the land when engaging battle.” He quickly went over the map.
Tylar nodded when done.
“There’s a back stair,” Gerrod said, pointing to the far side of the High Wing. “It leads directly to Tigre Hall through a small anteroom.”
Eylan stood next to him. “I have nothing to give but my sworn word,” she said. “I’ll forsake my duty for now. Let you leave with your seed.”
Tylar nodded his awkward thanks.
Dart came up next. “And all I have is my blood, which I’ve given freely.” She had already ignited his sword. “And Pupp won’t leave my side. Not here.”
Tylar knelt and touched Dart’s cheek. “He’s done enough, as have you.”
Dart glanced to her toes. “But there is still one thing left for me to do.” She met his eyes. Again they seemed so much older than the face that held them. The girl’s fingers touched the dagger worn at her belt. Yaellin’s cursed dagger. Her voice was a whisper. “I won’t be captured.”
Tylar opened his mouth to object, but she was already backing away. The girl knew the truth. False hope would only insult her.
Tylar stood as Kathryn stepped to him. She shimmered out of her Shadowcloak and held it out to him. “It’s ripe with power.”
“But I’m no blessed knight.”
“Still, it will serve you for a short time, until it’s bled of Grace. Use the shadows wisely.”
She attempted to help him into it, but it became too awkward. His elbow struck hers. She stepped on his toe. They no longer moved well together. She backed away.
Tylar settled into the cloak on his own, relying on old habit.
Kathryn met his eyes. Tears welled. Again she seemed unable to say something. It was as if they were locked behind some door, waiting for a key. Tylar did not have it. He wasn’t even sure he could find the lock. Too much guilt and grief clouded everything. It was hard to say where hers began and his ended.
And what, in the end, did he have to offer? He touched his chest. He had seen the horror in her eyes when she had viewed the broken form that was his true shape. The body he wore now was only memory, a shell of who he once was. Illusions, echoes, shadows, and light.
He turned away, knowing all was suspect.
Even his heart.
The Hands stirred. Voices raised in that eerie cadence, rising from all the throats together.
“Bring the sword now.” The castillion shook again. Stones toppled deep in the keep. “I will wait no longer.”
Tylar took a steadying breath. He faced the others.
The time for words was over. He gripped the sword and headed for the back door. The others followed, as did the Hands, moving woodenly. Puppets manipulated by the god below. Were any of them freer?
Tylar reached the door, opened it, and without glancing back, he headed down the narrow stair.
Kathryn watched him depart, disappearing down the dark throat. She flashed back to the docks below Tashijan, spying upon Tylar in chains, leaving her life, broken and stripped. Tears finally flowed. She turned away.
The Hands simply stared, eyes on fire.
Kathryn wanted to take a sword to each, to savage them completely. Her shoulders shook. Her fingers clenched on the hilt of her blade. But the folk here were not to blame. To put them to the blade would serve no end.
She stared at the others, her companions.
It was difficult to meet anyone’s eyes.
To do so was to read the hopelessness in each.
Kathryn fell to her knees on the stones. She covered her face, bowing her head to the floor. She had not allowed herself to break down. Not in front of Tylar. Pain wrenched through her. He had left her again, with nothing but her guilt. Her belly ached, remembering an old pain… and blood.
She hated him at that moment.
But as before, on her knees, she wanted only one thing.
Come back.
Tylar stalked down the stairs. The way was narrow. Only a few torches lit it. He kept his mind fixed to what he must face, but at the edges of his perception, he felt the shadow Graces flowing throughout his cloak.
As he swept past a torch, the power ebbed to the deepest folds, and as he descended into darkness again, it flushed anew. This tidal rhythm was as familiar as his own heartbeat… yet it was muff
led. He was cut off from it fully. It felt more like memory than reality.
And in many ways, it was.
He descended swiftly, tasting the power, remembering a time when he wore such a cloak without ever feeling it. It was a second skin. But this was not his skin, he reminded himself.
It was Kathryn’s cloak.
She had worn this same cloth when she had sat and denied him in court. Expressed her doubts of him. But then again, how honest had he been with her? She had known nothing of his dealings with the Gray Traders.
At the time, he had been brash enough to believe he could slip between the black and the white. It had all started to raise funds for the orphanages of Akkabak Harbor, where he had grown up. He didn’t want others to face the same cold streets and rough peddling that he had. Few survived. And he’d still had contacts among the Traders from his own days among the alleys.
But slowly things changed. Coins began to find their way into his own pocket. A few at first, then a bit more. It seemed a minor thing, done for the greater good.
Tylar felt old bile rising. It was hard to recognize when gray darkened to black, when twilight became true night.
But it did.
Then there was Kathryn. They were to be one. Her light finally opened his eyes to the darkness. He tried to break away. But mistrust was the coin of the Gray Traders. Murders were laid at his doorstep.
Old anger flared. Old injustices.
If only he had never met her…
He closed his eyes, knowing it wasn’t fair. But the anger still burned, deeper than he cared to admit. And mixed amid it all was a new, rawer guilt. His child. Lost in blood and heart-break. How could she ever forgive him?
And somehow that guilt, that question, only fueled the anger inside him. His steps began to hurry.
He found the cloak suddenly cloying.
But at last, he reached the end of the stairs. There was nowhere else to run. He forced his feet to slow, his breathing to even.
He halted on the bottom step and took a deep breath.
It was time to stop running.
Stepping down, he moved to the door. It led to a small antechamber, the walls lined with benches and pillows. He inspected the room from the doorway, ready for another trap. It was empty. The far door was grander. According to Gerrod’s sketch, it opened to the main hall.
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