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  Delia spoke when she reached his side, glancing askance at his body. “I’ve convinced them to allow me to harvest your last three humours. Blood and tears are especially delicate to collect. And as a chosen Hand, I’ve the most experience.”

  He nodded.

  She smelled of sweetwater and lemon. Clearly she had been allowed to bathe. Her hair was damp and combed back behind her ears. It looked even blacker, almost oiled. And she had changed out of her muddy wear and into a soft shift of green linen, belted at the waist with a braid of bleached leathers. The shift clung fetchingly to her. He noted how fair shaped she was: apple-sized breasts, slender waist.

  So young… too young, he reminded himself. Still, he could not discount how she shortened his breath, especially now. With the mud of the road washed from her, she came to him less like a fellow companion and more like a woman.

  She stepped to his side and unrolled a silk scarf atop a table, revealing an array of silver and crystal utensils. She picked up a glass blade and crystal cup. She waved him to the table. “Lift your arms.”

  He did as she instructed. “You don’t have to do this…”

  “I served Meeryn,” she said. “I will serve her still.”

  She drew the dull edge of the blade along his heat-dampened skin, from shoulder to waist, scraping the sweat from his body. She deftly collected the runoff into the tiny cup, then continued across his back, under his arms, down his legs, not unlike a stableman brushing down a sweated horse.

  But she was no stableman.

  As she stepped around to work his chest, he felt himself stir and fought against it, willing himself to distraction. But she continued her work, moving the blade up and down his chest, scraping delicately and smoothly.

  Unbidden, a shiver trembled through him.

  She finally seemed to note the flush to his skin. She glanced up to his eyes and saw something that widened her lashes. She lowered the blade. “I… I think that will be enough.”

  Gratefully, he slipped into a cloak, covering his half-naked form before turning back to her.

  Delia set up for the next harvest, laying out a silver lancet and twisting up a cord of silk.

  Tylar cleared his throat, needing to break the silence. “Delia,” he began, his voice coming out strained. “You’ve done much to get me here, given up much, risked more. But now that I’ve reached the First Land-”

  Without looking up, she cut him off. “I’m not leaving your side. Meeryn is inside you. She is still my duty.”

  “What’s inside me is not Meeryn,” he pressed. “She died.”

  “No.” Delia continued her preparation.

  Tylar took a deep breath, glanced to the door, then back to Delia. He lowered his voice. “What is inside me is not spellcast daemon but one of the naethryn.”

  Delia glanced up again, eyes narrowed.

  Tylar moved closer. “One of the undergods.”

  “How do you know this?”

  He balked at telling her about his dream. “I just know.”

  Delia motioned for him to kneel before her. He did. Their knees now touched. She sat silent for a long breath, her brow crinkled. “I should have considered that possibility,” she finally mumbled.

  Tylar frowned. “What do you mean?”

  She took his arm and rested his hand in her lap, palm up, then tied the silk at his elbow. “When the gods were sundered, they were split into three parts: the gods of flesh here, and their counterparts up in the aether and down in the naether. Meeryn had spoken of how she could sense her other parts, lost to her, but still there, tied ethereally and eternally.”

  “Until now.”

  Delia nodded. “Somehow Meeryn, as she died, must have used this tie to draw a part of herself into you. Her naethryn self.”

  Tylar glanced down to the black palm print.

  Delia ran her fingers over his forearm.

  He shivered again. And it wasn’t from Delia’s touch this time. He considered what lay inside him… not just any naethryn, but Meeryn’s undergod. What did it all mean?

  Delia concentrated on her work, a lock of hair hanging over one eye.

  Tylar reached up and brushed the stray bit of hair back in place. It was a reflexive gesture, from another time, another man… another woman. He quickly dropped his hand.

  “This vessel will do,” she said, and gripped his wrist, pressing deeply as before, numbing his hand. She slid the lancet into his arm, then caught the flow into another repostilary.

  Tylar looked away.

  “If Meeryn’s naethryn is inside you,” Delia continued, “then I cannot leave your side.”

  “Why? You swore no oath to her undergod.”

  “I did not serve Meeryn upon oath alone. I loved her… as did all her Hands. She died to bring you this gift.” A tremble entered Delia’s voice. “I will serve its bearer like I served her.”

  “I asked no oath of you.”

  A touch of firebalm flared from his wrist, marking the end of the bloodletting. Delia’s next words were so soft Tylar barely heard them. “As with Meeryn, it’s no oath that binds me…”

  He stared into her eyes. They glistened more brightly in the torchlight.

  “Oy there!” a voice shouted from the door. It was the crook-backed alchemist. “Enough jabbering. Be quick about your harvest. I’m late for my dinner.”

  Delia placed aside the blood-filled jar and called back to the Wyr-man, “All we have left are tears.” She set about preparing for the next harvest, picking up a glass straw to wick his tears, then pinched a bit of salted powder to sting the eyes.

  All we have left are tears.

  Tylar considered their future, all their futures. He suspected no truer words had ever been spoken.

  Tylar stumbled along with the others. They had been blindfolded for over two bells, guided like sheep through the warren of tunnels beneath the Kistlery Downs. He had at first balked at being put at such a disadvantage, but Krevan had voiced his unconcern. “The Wyr will not break an oath once sworn.”

  Tylar had honored his side of the bargain, giving up his humours. Even now he shied his thoughts from what ill-use they would serve for the alchemists of the Wyr.

  Tylar felt a freshening breeze on his cheek, coming from ahead. The end of the tunnels. He found his steps hurrying. The Wyr-man who gripped his elbow and guided his steps forced Tylar to slow. He heard the creak of some ancient wooden gear and the twang of strained ropes. Another trap was being undone. This last must guard the easternmost entrance to the Lair.

  Tylar was anxious to be free of the blindfold and free of the tunnels. As they had traversed the Lair, he had heard strange cries, howls, and low mewlings echoing up from the deeper levels of the Lair. During such moments, he was glad for the blindfold. His guide moved him forward again-into the face of the fresh breeze.

  In four steps, he sensed the world open around him. The press of stone lifted, filled by the noises of meadow and forest: the twitter of swifts, the cronk of a frog, the slight rustle of water over stone. Somewhere far ahead, a dog barked, echoing up from below.

  He was led another hundred steps, moving up and down, stumbling in his haste.

  Finally, he was pulled to a stop. The hand on his elbow vanished. He stood for a moment, unsure where to move.

  Delia’s voice called out. “Tylar… Rogger…”

  Tylar reached toward her voice, bumped into someone, grabbed hold.

  “Watch what you’re a-grabbing there,” Rogger’s voice erupted.

  Tylar let go and ripped away his blindfold. He blinked back the dazzle. The others were doing the same. Krevan already stood a few steps away with Corram, at the edge of a steep incline. Their weapons were piled at their feet.

  Tylar glanced around the sparsely wooded glen. All the Wyr were gone… except for Eylan. She stood a few steps back, stoic, staring in the same direction as Krevan and Corram. The others must have retreated to the Lair’s hidden entrance, keeping its location unknown.

 
Tylar crossed to Krevan, along with Rogger and Delia.

  The knight pointed an arm.

  Ahead stretched an open plain, broken into green pasture-lands and patches of crops. A small township lay not far away, by a small freshwater lake. Muddlethwait. It was where they were to rendezvous with any of the surviving knights.

  But that was not where Krevan pointed.

  The sun, high overhead, shone clear to the distant Strait of Parting. Near the horizon, a steeple seemed to float above the thin layer of sea mist and cloud. Tylar would recognize that sight anywhere. It had called him home many a day.

  Stormwatch.

  The highest tower of Tashijan.

  “How long to reach there?” Delia asked.

  “We should have horses in Muddlethwait awaiting us,” Krevan answered. “If we ride hard, we’ll reach Tashijan in the dead of night. A good time to seek entry.”

  “Good or not,” Rogger said, “it’s the dead part that worries me.”

  Tylar stared across the plains. Now in sight of the tower, the enormity of their task threatened to overwhelm him.

  Rogger touched his shoulder. “Are you ready for this?”

  He had no choice. Both his past and future lay ahead of him.

  “Let’s go.”

  16

  CHARNEL PIT

  “I believe I've discovered who called upon castellan Mirra,” Gerrod Rothkild said. “The one who brought her that swatch of linen in the middle of the night, soaked in blood.”

  Kathryn stood out on her hermitage’s balcony, leaning on the balustrade. The day had proven to be warm, the first kiss of true spring. The rains of the past quarter moon steamed from the damp grounds of the courtyard, trapped between the four stone walls of Tashijan. The air was redolent with flowering buds from the giant wyrmwood tree blooming just these last few days, opening honeyed petals of snow-white. The branches of the wyrmwood dappled the balcony with their shadows, while across the courtyard, Stormwatch Tower climbed endlessly upward, basking in the sun like a sword raised on high.

  It seemed too pleasant a day for such dark conversations. It should be night with rain falling. She sighed and turned to her friend. Gerrod’s bronzed armor sparked in the patches of sunlight, as if on fire.

  “What have you discovered?” Kathryn asked.

  Gerrod turned from the balcony and strode back into her rooms. Such words were best spoken in private, away from the open courtyard. Voices could carry oddly, echoing from the yard’s walls.

  Kathryn followed him inside, closing the balcony doors.

  Gerrod reached to his neck and retracted his helmet with a whir of mekanicals. His pale features seemed even paler. He ran a hand over his shaved scalp. The tattoos of his mastered disciplines stood out starkly, looking more like wounds than ink. “What I’ve found is most odd.”

  Kathryn crossed and poured them each a tiny glass of rose wine. “Tell me all.”

  “I was able to loosen the stableman’s tongue, the one who took the stranger’s horse,” Gerrod said, accepting a glass. “Though the groomsman proved stubborn. But what was sealed with gold finally broke under more.”

  “What did he tell you?”

  “Unfortunately not as much as I’d wished.” His frown deepened, along with the furrow across his brow. “He knew nothing of what the man carried or what his purpose was in coming so late on so road-worn a horse. But he did know that the man had traveled from Chrismferry.”

  “And as I recall,” Kathryn said, “he returned there again after meeting with Castellan Mirra.”

  Gerrod nodded. “The stableman also managed to note a detail about the man. At the man’s collar, he wore a stitching of oak and twig.”

  Kathryn’s eyes widened. “A healer?”

  “So it would appear.”

  “By why would a healer bring something so foul to the castellan and in such a guarded manner?”

  “That I can’t answer.” Gerrod stared at her with those penetrating green eyes, shining with sharp intelligence. “But my gold did buy one additional bit of information.” A bit of wry amusement glinted.

  “What?”

  “A name.”

  Kathryn lowered her wineglass to the table. “The stableman caught his name?”

  “Not exactly. The healer left his ride behind, taking a fresh horse for the long trip back.”

  “He took one of our windmares,” Kathryn said, remembering the man’s urgency. He had needed speed to return to Chrismferry, borrowing an air-graced horse.

  “And he rode in on the same,” Gerrod commented. “One by the name of Swifttail. This detail, of course, the stableman happened to note. He might miss a man’s name, but such a blessed bit of horseflesh would not escape his eye.”

  “And how does this help us?”

  Gerrod stepped to the table and picked at a piece of hard cheese left from her midday meal. He raised a brow inquiringly, asking permission.

  “It seems what you bought in gold I must pay in cheese,” Kathryn said.

  He cut a chunk and gingerly used his armored fingers to nibble at its edge. He washed it down with his wine, sighing contentedly, then continued. “It is lucky that Swifttail’s heritage was well-known to our stableman. His knowledge of all the First Land’s horseflesh is quite extensive. He spent most of a morning reciting Swifttail’s lineage.”

  “And where does this lineage lead us?”

  “To a stable as distinguished as our own. A private stable.”

  “In Chrismferry.”

  “Indeed… at the Conclave of Chrismferry to be exact.”

  “The school?” The Conclave was the oldest and most illustrious of Myrillia’s institutes of training for young handmaidens and — men. Many of the Council of Masters had once taught there or still consulted.

  “And the Conclave has only one healer in residence,” Gerrod said. “A fellow by the name of Paltry. I did some investigation and found he matched young Penni’s description of Castellan Mirra’s night visitor: black haired, fair of features.”

  Kathryn narrowed one eye. “Healer Paltry. Why does that name sound familiar?”

  “He also serves as the private physik to the High Wing of Chrism. You may remember hearing how the man saved several of his Hands from the pox scourge that struck the city two years ago.”

  Kathryn nodded. “Of course. And now you think it was this healer who brought the bloodied swath to Castellan Mirra.”

  “I am confident he is the one.”

  “But why? To what end?”

  “That’s something that will require further investigation in Chrismferry.”

  “I can send a cadre of knights-”

  “And alert all of Tashijan, including Warden Fields.” The name was spoken with a thick scowl. Fields had been instituting changes throughout the Citadel, not all well received. He had trimmed control of the Council of Masters, giving Master Hesharian powers to dictate without a quorum from the rest of the council. Power was concentrating into fewer and fewer hands, and all of those under the thumb of Argent ser Fields.

  “What do you propose then?” Kathryn asked.

  “There is an early-morning flippercraft headed to Chrismferry. I hope to be aboard it. I’ll make an excuse of needing to consult the libraries in the city. Once there, I can make some discreet inquiries, see if I can trace the source and reason for this strange visitation by Healer Paltry.”

  Kathryn shook her head. “I don’t want you to go alone. You’ll need an escort.”

  “I can fend for myself. And I am armored.” He tapped a fist on his thigh with a clank.

  “No.” A firm tone entered her voice. “I want a sword at your side and someone who knows how to use it. You’ll take Perryl with you. To lessen suspicion, I can send him as courier to the court at Chrismferry. As castellan, I have some authority.”

  “At least for the moment,” Gerrod countered dourly.

  She sighed and glanced to the door, sensing the tracker and beast at her threshold. “He keeps me on
a short enough tether as it is. And once Tylar is captured”-her voice caught in her throat-“or killed, my use to the warden will end.”

  “I’m not so sure,” Gerrod said more softly. “He eyes you most salaciously at times. I think his plans for you don’t end with Tylar’s capture.”

  Kathryn remembered Argent’s talk in his chambers, a hint at some possible union between them. For the good of Tashijan… and in turn for all of Myrillia. Such had been his rhetoric these past days as new laws were posted to doors and common rooms, justifying the concentration of power. And she was no exception.

  “Perhaps Perryl should stay at your side,” Gerrod said.

  Kathryn rested her hand on the diamond pommel of her sword. “I have a blade… and know how to use it.”

  Gerrod reached and took her hand from her sword. “Still, beware. Trust no one, not even your fellow knights. Shadowcloaks are good at hiding one’s heart as well as form.”

  She reached and hugged him. “You should take the same advice in Chrismferry. It seems something foul is at work there… something that struck at the heart of Tashijan.”

  “Not just Tashijan,” Gerrod mumbled and broke the embrace. He raised his helmet. “Perhaps its reach extended as far as the Summering Isles.”

  Kathryn studied the bronze figure. “The slaying of Meeryn? You think it’s all tied together?”

  “A master’s first lesson is to be suspicious of a chain of circumstance. Something stirs beneath all this. It hides behind many faces, but wears only one.”

  Kathryn felt the chill of certainty in his words.

  “Hopefully I’ll learn more from Healer Paltry.” Gerrod bowed his head. “Step carefully, Kathryn.”

  “And you do the same.”

  The bullhound growled, crouched at a cross passage ahead.