Shadowfall g-1 Read online

  “Watch your starboard!” Rogger yelled from the back.

  Tylar spotted it too late. What had first appeared to be shadow was a smoking column of Gloom. He slammed the right rudder. It was too much. The Fin spun completely around, sweeping through the cloud of Gloom. All the mica tubes flared to a bright fire, protecting the ship. Then they were clear of the Gloom.

  Tylar straightened the Fin, raised its nose toward the sky, and sped away. The glow of the Reef slowly faded below them, disappearing amid the thickening forest. Soon, only the luminescent globes that dotted the tangleweed’s branches lit their path. Somewhere far above, the sun waited for them.

  “How are the reserves?” Tylar asked shakily.

  Delia measured the tank with her palm. “That single brush cost us a good fifth of our alchemies.”

  “Let’s not do that again,” Rogger suggested.

  “I wasn’t planning-”

  The miiodon attacked from above, dropping upon them like a fisherfolk’s net. Tentacles swallowed the Fin completely. The weight of the jelly shark rolled the ship. They were tossed about the cabin. Tylar sensed them dropping, tumbling back into the inky depths, to where the naether waited. The rolling stopped as the Fin stabilized, upside down in the clutches of the jelly shark. Tylar and the others lay sprawled upon the cabin’s roof, the controls overhead.

  Delia spoke near the bow. She crouched with her face pressed to the crystalline dome. “There’s a space here between two tentacles. You can see through a bit.”

  Tylar joined her. The Reef glowed nearby. They had fallen back to where they had started. He rested his forehead against the dome. A column of Gloom roiled off to the port side. Death lay all around.

  “What about loosing your daemon?” Rogger asked. “Maybe it could slay the beastie before we’re crushed.”

  Tylar shook his head. He remembered how back at Summer Mount the dred ghawl had turned the guard’s arrows to ash. He feared what it would do to their Fin if it tried to pass through the walls to the seas beyond.

  “Then charm the miiodon again,” Rogger persisted. “With blood and piss like before.”

  Delia leaned back. “We need to be able to touch it to charm it.”

  “Maybe not…” Tylar had a sudden idea and swung around. “Delia, I need you to man the wheel and rudder. Hurry!”

  She knit her brow, but climbed to her feet under the controls, arms raised in hesitation. “Someone has to push the rudder pedals by hand. I can’t man the wheel at the same time.”

  “I’ll help,” Rogger said.

  Tylar pressed his face to the dome, studying the landscape. “When I say now, I need you to burn as much alchemy as you can while pulling hard on the wheel and left rudder.”

  “What are you-?”

  “Get ready!” His target came into view. He held his breath. “Now!”

  Rogger and Delia worked the controls. A vigorous trembling shook the ship. The mica tubes grew bright and hot as the craft fought the miiodon’s bulk. It proved too heavy. Nothing happened. They continued to drop into the depths, unimpeded.

  “More power!” Tyler scolded.

  “Hang on,” Delia gasped. “I’ll break the damper valve.”

  Glass shattered with a small pop. The Fin jolted as if kicked by a loam-giant. The mica tubes flared with intense heat. Slowly the miiodon’s bulk, clasped around the Fin, began to slide horizontally through the water, dragged by the sputtering ship.

  “A little farther…” Tylar begged.

  As he held his breath, the edge of the jelly shark brushed into a neighboring column of Gloom. The reaction was immediate. Tentacles spasmed, fonts of venom spewed into the surrounding seas. Like the weed and the schools of fish, the miiodon was a creature of this world, not the naether. The Gloom ate through its bulk as it fell farther into the heart of the naether bloom, feeding its substance to the void.

  The Fin was dragged with it.

  Again the mica tubes blazed sun bright with protective alchemies. Tylar’s right hand brushed a cross tube, singeing his skin.

  But they were free.

  “Release the rudder!” he cried.

  The Fin jumped forward, passing out of the Gloom and into clear waters. Shoving to his feet, Tylar took Delia’s place at the controls and rolled the ship back into proper position. They regained their seats, and he fought the Fin up at a steep angle.

  “With the damper broken,” Delia said, “we can’t slow her down.”

  They shot between the spiraling trunks of tangleweed, racing out of the depths, going faster and faster, cleaving through snarls and branches. No one spoke until the midnight waters lightened to twilight.

  “The sun,” Rogger gasped.

  High above, a pool of watery brightness promised fresh air and escape. As the waters brightened to aquamarine, they shot free of the tangleweed forest and into the clear seas. Tylar held white-knuckled to the controls, keeping the ship angled upward.

  “Hold tight!” he called.

  They breached the ocean, bursting forth from the waves like a monstrous fish leaping into the air. The Fin sailed high for an endless breath, then crashed back to the seas with a jarring splash. For a moment they sank again, but the Fin bobbed quickly back up, jostling and rolling in the swells.

  The sunlight through the dome was blinding, even with the sun close to setting by now.

  “We made it!” Rogger cheered. “Not that I didn’t think we would, mind you.” He clapped Tylar on the back.

  Delia sighed, not as pleased. She pointed to the spherical tank of bloody alchemies. It was empty. “We ran dry a few fathoms ago. We were climbing on buoyancy alone.”

  “Let’s worry about that later.” Rogger crossed to the stern, cracked the hatch, and threw it wide. A clean breeze swept into the cabin. “For the moment, at least we’re still breathing.” To demonstrate, he took a dramatic chestful of fresh air.

  Tylar joined him, glad to face the sun. Still, a dark shadow remained around his heart. He considered what Fyla had given him, a name that revealed nothing but dread and mystery. “The Godsword,” he mumbled aloud to the setting sun.

  Rogger grunted. “An ominous epitaph indeed.”

  “Could it be real?” Tylar asked. “I’d thought the sword a fable.”

  Rogger shrugged. “Maybe it is. But fables often have some seed of truth.”

  Tylar still found it hard to believe. According to black myths told throughout the ages, the dreaded Godsword harkened back to the lost past of Myrillia, to the time of the Sundering itself, when the home of the gods was shattered. No one knew the true form of this dread weapon, though artists and storytellers dwelled upon this mystery, while philosophers debated its very existence. Only one detail was shared by all the tales: the Godsword was the weapon that shattered the gods’ realm and brought about the Sundering.

  But what did Meeryn mean by uttering it in her last breath?

  He remembered Fyla’s cryptic final words. Though it is neither, you call it the Godsword. He rubbed at the ache between his eyes. Though it is neither… What did that mean?

  Rogger sighed, sensing Tylar’s internal turmoil. “There is only one way to find out more about this Godsword, Rivenscryr, and that’s in the libraries of Tashijan, where we are already headed.”

  “And where, if you are right, Meeryn’s trust was betrayed.”

  Delia called up from the cabin. “I see sails on the horizon!”

  Tylar and Rogger swung around to stare across the bow. Off to the west, limned against the setting sun, a cluster of full sails climbed into the sky.

  Tylar ducked down. “A spyglass!”

  Delia found one secured in a cubby. She passed it to him.

  Tylar popped back up and pointed the glass toward the ships. The horizon sprang closer. He read the flags at the top of a center mast. A black castle against a silver background. The flag of the Shadowknights. And beneath it flapped a blue flag with a yellow sun emblazoned on it. He had lived under that flag for the past y
ear.

  It was the fleet of corsairs out of the Summering Isles.

  He shifted the spyglass lower. At the ship’s prow stood a figure draped in black. The distance was far, but Tylar knew who watched there.

  “Darjon ser Hightower.”

  Rogger groaned. “And we’re sitting in a floating milkweed pod. I don’t suppose we can hope for rescue from the Grim Wash?”

  Tylar focused on something hanging below the corsair’s prow. “No,” he said with pained sorrow.

  Dangling there, hung by his neck, was Captain Grayl.

  10

  BLOOD RITES

  Matron Shashyl smoothed Dart’s gown with an experienced hand, pulling hems straight, tucking away a loose gather, ruffling her half cloak so it fell evenly from her trembling shoulders.

  “Calm yourself, child,” she hushed in warm tones. “You’ll shake yourself right out of your petticoats.”

  Dart nodded, but her trembling worsened. Her knees threatened to betray her at any moment. She could not feel her toes.

  Shashyl sighed. “Child, you’ve already met the Lord. You know he won’t bite.”

  Laurelle stepped to her other side. She moved like a flow of moonlight in her silver dress. She had affixed a diadem of kryst jewels to her ebony hair. The priceless stones, also called God’s Tears, sparked in the light from the chamber’s lanterns. A single Tear could ransom an entire village, but Laurelle wore the diadem as easily as a crown of woven grass.

  Dart’s friend touched her cheek. “You look so beautiful.”

  The words startled Dart out of her terror of the ceremony to come. Her disbelief must have been plain on her face.

  “Come see,” Laurelle urged, drawing her to the silvered looking glass.

  Dart stepped in front of her reflection. She was draped in crimson high silk, a rich cloth that flowed like water. Her gown streamed from her buttoned neck to the stone floor beneath her slippered toes. A gold sash cinched the silk tight around her waist, while the sleeves billowed loosely at the wrist. A fire ruby rested in the hollow of her throat, seeming to flash with her own heartbeat.

  Her hair had been scented with oils and combed back from her face, held in place by a gold net that sparkled with tiny fire rubies. Her cheeks blushed at the sight. Such richness could make a fatted sow beautiful. Still, she found herself staring at the image in the glass, wondering if this was truly herself. Pupp had followed her. He nipped at the trailing edges of her gown, his teeth passing harmlessly through the silk. She ignored him, focusing on the stranger in the looking glass.

  “If you two lasses are done admiring yourselves, perhaps we could finish your primping.” Shashyl waved them over to her. “The horns will be sounding your summons at any moment.”

  A knock drew all their attention. The door opened to reveal two figures dressed in similar hues to Dart and Laurelle: a man draped in crimson, a woman in moonlit silver. Blood and tears. They were attended upon the arm by two servants.

  Dart and Laurelle bent a knee each in a hurried curtsy.

  Shashyl simply placed her hands on her hips. “Mistress Huri and Master Willym, if you get my girls to soil their dresses on this filthy floor, I’ll not forgive you.” Her words were stern, but her face smiled warmly. The woman, Mistress Huri, the Hand of Tears, entered the room, assisted by her maid on one arm and leaning on a cane with the other. “We would not think to spoil such loveliness, Matron Shashyl.” Her eyes were milky, near blind, her back bent under the weight of ages. She was only fifty-six birth years, but appeared twice that. Such was the burden of Grace.

  She hobbled to Laurelle, guided by her maid. “Come, child, let us speak.” Laurelle stepped away with the woman whom she was meant to replace. Dart noted the awe in her friend’s gaze.

  Next came Master Willym. He was younger. Fifty-two birth years. But he moved as if death had already claimed him. His gold shirt and crimson surcoat hung on a frame of bones. He teetered as he walked, supported by a servant, but he kept no cane. He shuffled into the room toward Dart and lifted a hand. His skin was luminous and translucent, showing blue veins.

  “I believe you are named Dart, is that not so?” he asked, his voice surprisingly firm, a remnant of the young man he once was. In his voice, he carried a smile warmer than the feeble curl of his trembling lips. “So you are the young lass come to take my place at my Lord’s side.”

  She curtsied again, unable to speak. This was the first time they had met. The other Hands would be introduced at the ceremony as Dart and Laurelle were formally presented and raised to their place in the court.

  She followed him to a small cushioned bench. It took him some gentle maneuvering to settle to a seat. He fell the last handspan with a heavy sigh, leaning back, eyes closed. “Ah, to have a young man’s legs and back again…”

  Dart hovered over him as Pupp sniffed at his pant leg. Willym finally patted the cushion beside him.

  She sat on the edge, back straight.

  He swung to face her. His eyes were cloudy, but shone with a spark of fierceness that belied his fading body. “It is custom for one handservant to speak words of comfort and reassurance to their successor.” He reached and took her fingers between his own. “But I was never one for custom.”

  He nodded over to Laurelle and Mistress Huri. The pair embraced. “I can only imagine Huri has spoken all the sweet words required with great diligence and earnestness. Such is her way.”

  Dart stared over at them. Their very poses spoke of comfort.

  Master Willym cleared his throat. His hands were cold on hers. “Instead I will share with you the counsel my esteemed predecessor instructed me with some four decades ago when I sat on this same bench.” He stared hard at Dart. “Gods live forever by sucking the life from their servants.”

  Dart gasped at such blasphemy, drawing away her hand.

  A dry chuckle escaped him. “Do not look so shocked. I saw your face as I hobbled in here. I must have worn the same expression four decades ago. It is one thing to understand the price of bearing a god’s Grace, but it is another to see its wrinkled face before you, is it not?”

  Dart gulped and kept her gaze upon the stone floor.

  “Answer me, child.”

  She swallowed hard and choked out one word. “Yes…”

  He struggled to sit straighter, assisted by his servant. “Face me.”

  She slowly turned.

  He took her hand again. “Listen closely. Flesh is only wood, slowly burning to ash as we age. It is green when we are young, resisting the flame, smoking with all the fervency of youth. In the middle years, life’s flame begins to lick and devour. And at the end, all will be consumed.” He patted her fingers. “Understand, to serve a god is not a loss of life span. Our fires are not snuffed out early, but only stoked higher, to burn more brightly. Do you understand?”

  Dart nodded tentatively.

  Fingers squeezed hers as he leaned back. “Then you are better than I,” he sighed. “I think what I said is all so much shite.”

  She again started.

  A true smile formed on his lips. “I guess all I can really tell you is that I do not regret my life and service. Instead, I rejoice in it. As will you. There are no fancy words I can share that can encompass what you are about to experience, to live in Grace, to shine with it, to share your life with a god.”

  Dart trembled, knowing herself unworthy of such an honor, more so now than a moment ago. She was tainted. All would soon know. Lord Chrism had failed to note her disgrace when they had first met within the Eldergarden-he clearly must have been distracted-but her secret could not withstand his full attention.

  A trembling hand reached to her chin, drawing her eyes back to Master Willym. Amusement faded to concern in his gaze. He seemed to be searching for something. After a moment, there was the faintest nod. His eyes flicked away to the room, then back again. Almost a nervous gesture. Strange in one so esteemed. His lips parted as if he were to speak again.

  A horn sounded from
the larger chamber beyond.

  Willym turned, breaking the spell. He lifted an arm for his servant to take. “It begins.” For the first time, his voice sounded as tired as he looked. Helped to his feet, he led the way toward the door, joined by Mistress Huri and Laurelle.

  Matron Shashyl fussed over Dart one last time before finally letting her go. Dart took her place at Master Willym’s side.

  He kept his face forward but spoke one last bit of wisdom to her as the doors pulled open before them. “Trust only in blood… and your own heart. And all will be fine.”

  Dart took a deep breath, praying he was right.

  Tigre Hall was named after the great river that splits the First Land into halves. It flows through the center of Chrismferry, a township that dates from before the coming of the gods, when the river’s raging course had been forded by a ferry bridge here, the only means of crossing for a thousand reaches. Mills were built, tolls collected, and the trading post grew to a village, and the village into a township. It became a central site for trading, commerce, and countless wars. The ancient stone footings of the original bridge became the foundations for Chrism’s castillion. The very hall down which Dart now paraded stood over the Tigre River. If one listened quietly, the river could be heard passing below.

  Dart gaped around her.

  Gentlefolk and those of nobility lined the curving rows of benches that faced the central high dais and the lone chair. It was as yet empty, a seat of carved myrrwood, ebonized, tall backed, arms curling to either side in gentle waves.

  Behind the throne, a curve of smaller seats lined the back of the dais, four to each side, places for Chrism’s handservants. The seats were occupied-all except two places, of course. Dart eyed the seat to the immediate right of the throne. She knew this was her place. Laurelle’s chair awaited her, second to the left. Panic beat about Dart’s chest like a loose sparrow. She hated to be even that far from Laurelle, especially now.

  The pair trailed behind the two Grace-bled servants, hanging back, allowing the pair one last entrance into Tigre Hall as handservants to Chrism. The pace was gratingly slow. Eyes followed Dart’s every step, weighing upon her like lead. She drifted closer to Laurelle, who seemed to take the procession with easy strides. She nodded to the occasional viewer, whether out of simple courtesy or some familial acquaintance Dart knew not.