Shadowfall g-1 Read online

  A scream strangled from her, coming out as a mewl.

  Dart rushed to her, tearing, ripping, clawing at the clinging roots. She tugged Laurelle free, both of them tumbling to the center of the tunnel. Pupp hurried toward them, eyes shining with fury and concern.

  Laurelle scrambled and fought to free herself from Dart’s tangled limbs. Dart searched around for what so terrified her friend. Had she seen Yaellin? Was he coming for them?

  But the passage, well lit by Pupp, was empty.

  “A daemon…” Laurelle cried, still sounding strangled. She gained her feet and backed away, one arm out toward Dart, trying to draw her, too.

  On the ground, Dart finally noted the source of her terror. Laurelle’s gaze was fixed upon Pupp. She could see him. The blood from the root must have splattered over him.

  “There’s nothing to fear,” Dart said hurriedly and reached out for Pupp. Her fingertips found substance again. He pushed his muzzle happily into her palm, needing reassurance. His bright glow faded with his relief. “He’s my friend.”

  Laurelle remained standing, but ready to bolt. “What… how..?”

  Dart stared up, pleading with her eyes. “He’s Pupp.”

  Laurelle’s brow pinched in confusion, then drew even tighter. “Pupp… I remember… Margarite told me… laughed… some imaginary friend of yours… You used to speak of it when you were a firstfloorer.”

  “Not imaginary,” Dart said.

  Laurelle stared from girl to daemon. She slowly lowered herself to her knees. The horror faded from her face and something bordering on curiosity replaced it. “What is he?”

  Dart glanced to Pupp, who sat on his haunches, glowering at the arch of roots. She remembered bits and pieces of her dream a few nights back. She had been a babe. Pupp had been suckling at her navel. “I don’t know,” she said softly. “He’s always been with me. A shadow no one could see or touch.”

  “He’s fading,” Laurelle said.

  “Is he?” Dart still felt his bronze shell, smooth, as warm as a mug of steaming bitternut. Then her fingers fell through him again.

  “He’s gone.” Laurelle searched the passage, blind to Pupp, who continued to sit on his haunches.

  Dart waved her fingers through his body. “No, he’s still here.”

  “Truly? Then what made him plain to the eye just now?”

  Dart pointed to the glowing ichor on the floor, still dripping from the torn root. “Blood… blood rich in Grace,” she answered, then added quietly, “… or my own blood.”

  “We must show him to Lord Chrism,” Laurelle said, renewing her resolve to continue. “Perhaps Pupp has something to do with Yaellin’s interest in you.”

  “I don’t see how. No one but me has ever seen Pupp.”

  “Lord Chrism will sort it all out.” Laurelle nodded forward. “I think the others have stopped. The light has stopped moving away.”

  They continued together. Dart sidestepped the bleeding root and waved Pupp away from the pool below it. He seemed happy to oblige, though he did sniff at it. Could he smell the Grace?

  As Dart continued, she eyed the knots of roots with raw suspicion. Blood roots. If these were indeed the roots of the myrrwood tree, why did they bleed? She recalled the history lesson given by Jasper Cheek, the magister of the grounds and towers. His words repeated in her head. She could still hear the pride in his voice. Lord Chrism was the first god to marry himself to the land and share his Grace with all. His own hand laid the first seed, watered with his own blessed blood.

  Dart shivered. Was that why the roots bled even now?

  She kept well away from the tangled root briers. The tiny hairs continued their ominous waving, seeking purchase.

  “Do you smell that?” Laurelle asked.

  Dart noted a sweetness to the air, a blend of honey and loam. She drew in a deeper breath.

  “That’s myrr,” Laurelle said. “I have some sweetwater scented with it, a gift from my mother.”

  Dart felt a slightly warmer breeze wafting to them, the exhalation of spring, warming away the damp, winter chill of the passage. They were drawn toward it. Their pace increased. The lamplight grew brighter, plainly having stopped not far ahead.

  They hiked the last few bends in the passage.

  A short stair appeared, leading up, lit well.

  They cautiously approached. There were only ten steps.

  At the top, the lamp appeared in view, hanging on a peg and shining upon another stone door. This was carved like the first: twining rose vines amid a smattering of Littick letters. Warded, too, Dart noted. And like the other, it was ajar.

  A murmur of voices could be heard now. More than two. A gathering.

  Laurelle glanced to Dart, then back to the door. Together they both cautiously mounted the stairs and crept to the door. There was enough room for both to peek out. Pupp simply walked through the door and out into the open glade beyond.

  From the doorway, Dart spotted the limbs and trunks of the ancient myrrwood, lit from below by small fires dotting the edges of a glade. Trunks were so thick that it would take a dozen men linking arms to measure around them. Heavy limbs climbed so high even moonlight failed to shine through. The glade appeared more like a giant raftered court than a forest glen.

  Voices could be heard, talking in low tones, but clearly urgent.

  The speakers were not in plain view.

  Laurelle urged Dart out with a nudge. They slipped out the open door and hurried to a patch of bushes at the edge of the glade. They ducked down. The bushes were unknown to Dart but appeared more thorny than leafy. They could peer through them with ease.

  Beyond, lit by the fires, a strange group of people gathered in the center near a raised mound surmounted by a pair of twin stone pillars. The stone columns were plainly ancient, hoary with lichen, half-wrapped in brown vines.

  Lord Chrism climbed the mound, arms raised. He was bare-chested now. Both wrists had been cut and bled down the length of his arms.

  The others gathered at the foot of the mound, a score of men and women. She recognized not only Mistress Naff, but also Jasper Cheek, and several guardsmen who served the High Wing.

  Chrism faced the others, standing between the two pillars. When he spoke, it was in his softly assured, sad tones. “Here is where I first settled the land.” He pointed to the mound at his feet, blood dripping to the soil. “I allowed myself to be tied here, strung between these two pillars. I had my body cut at the throat, at the wrist, and the groin. That is how a god settles a land, tying place to blood and flesh.”

  A murmur passed through the crowd.

  “No longer.” Chrism stepped back and spat at his feet. “I have broken free of my place, severing my connection, freeing the land and returning it to my people.”

  Dart tensed at these words. Laurelle and Dart shared a frightened glance. Was what Lord Chrism claiming true? Had he unsettled himself from the very land he had blessed? Dart remembered Jacinta’s last words before falling upon the cursed blade, expressing a similar sentiment: Myrillia will be free.

  Chrism continued. “As I was the first to bring peace to Myrillia, so now I will bring it true freedom. You are my chosen. Together we are the Cabal. Others across Myrillia already join our ranks. Let us once again, as we do with each new moon, swear our allegiance. Raise your cups. Be blessed and draw strength from my Grace.”

  All around the mound, the gathered men and women lifted their cups and drank. Dart noted the glow about the cups, the same as seeped from Chrism’s wrists.

  Blood… they were drinking his blood.

  “No,” Laurelle moaned under her breath.

  Blood drinking was an abomination, used in black rites. A god’s Grace was too strong. It took only a touch to the skin, a single drop, to pass on a blessing. To consume blood risked the loss of both will and body. It enslaved and deformed.

  Chrism raised his arms out to his minions. A glow spread over the god’s form, starting at the wrist and spreading outward.
He was calling down a blessing.

  “Be free.”

  The men and women gasped and let out small screams. They fell to the soil, on their sides, backs, facedown. They writhed and racked. Dart could hear bones breaking. Cries turned to howls. Across the glade, men became beasts, rising up on misshapen legs. Women crouched and hissed, faces stretched into bestial visages. All eyes, now aglow with wicked Grace, stared toward Chrism.

  “As your flesh has changed, so will the world.”

  There was only one figure untouched by the transformation.

  Mistress Naff climbed the hill to join Chrism. She slipped an arm around his naked waist and pulled him down into a kiss. It was a savage, bloody kiss, less passion than violence. As they parted, a dark smoky tendril connected their lips, a black umbilicus. It pulsed and roiled, seeming to almost take form, but not quite.

  From that mass of darkness, fiery eyes opened and stared toward their hiding place. A keening wail filled the glade, sounding like the scream of slaughtered rabbits.

  Laurelle pushed back into the wood. A misstep snapped a branch.

  The noise was as loud as a clap.

  Eyes… all eyes swung in their direction: beast, god, daemon.

  Dart stood up, knowing they were found. She turned and fled with Laurelle. But in three steps, shadows swept down from the branches above, falling about them like water. She was blind, choked, panicked.

  From the heart of the darkness, words reached Dart. “If you wish to live, move swiftly.”

  Dart knew the speaker.

  Yaellin de Mar.

  18

  PAST AND PRESENT

  Tylar kept his back to the fire, but he felt none of its heat. He stared at Kathryn. Her auburn hair had been plaited into a single braid. Her form was clothed in black. A shadowcloak lay swept behind one shoulder and draped to her ankles. He stared, unblinking. She hadn’t changed. How could that be? Even now her blue eyes carried the same mix of doubt and confusion as when last he had seen her, seated before Tashijan’s court.

  Tylar was unprepared for his reaction. He had never intended to come across her. He had planned on avoiding the upper reaches of the Citadel where the warden and castellan kept their rooms. But here Kathryn was, standing before him.

  Met with those eyes, Tylar could not move. A part of him wanted to lunge out, pull her into an embrace, kiss those lips, taste the woman to whom he’d pledged his heart… but another wanted to simply lash out. How could she have doubted him? Hadn’t she known him better than any woman? And still even deeper down, a final part of him wanted to drop to his knees and beg her forgiveness for all he had done, all he had cost them both.

  He tried speaking. “Kathryn…” But any further words died to ash in his mouth.

  She turned her eyes away. Tylar found he could move again and stepped toward her. She stepped farther away. He relented and spoke the words that needed to be declared. “I didn’t slay Meeryn.”

  “I know,” Kathryn mumbled, her back to him. “And I know you didn’t murder that family of cobblers five years ago.”

  Tylar stumbled at this. “How-?”

  Kathryn cut him off. “The story is long.” She glanced to the door. “It’s not safe for you here, Tylar. Why did you return?”

  “To clear my name. To expose the true slayer of Meeryn.”

  She glanced quickly back at him and away, but Tylar caught the flash of pain in her eyes. Her gaze dropped to the floor. Anger fired her words. “How does coming here help you?”

  “A burden was placed upon me by Meeryn,” Tylar said, and he briefly recounted Meeryn’s death and her final words to him. “She cured my broken body but left me with this duty, this mystery.”

  “ Rivenscryr? What does that mean?”

  Tylar frowned. “According to Fyla of Tangled Reef, the word is a name in ancient Littick, the god’s name for the talisman that sundered their world four thousand years ago.”

  Kathryn swung back around. “You mean the Godsword?”

  He nodded.

  “Why mention such a dread thing?”

  “That’s the answer I came here to find. Tashijan’s libraries are the best in all of Myrillia. I’ve brought others to help me search.” He motioned to the dark doorway to the neighboring bedroom. His companions appeared at his signal, stepping out of hiding, all draped in shadowcloaks. One carried a sword in hand.

  “May I present Krevan,” Tylar said, “formerly known as the Raven Knight.”

  Kathryn’s eyes widened in shock. Her eyes traveled to the ancient sword in his hand. Serpentfang could not be mistaken.

  There was no time for lengthier introductions as the others pushed into the small room, crowding it. Tylar named each in turn. “This is Rogger, a scholar turned thief. And Delia, one of Meeryn’s former Hands.”

  Delia bowed her head. “Castellan Vail,” she said formally.

  “And lastly Eylan, Wyr-mistress from the Lair.” The tall woman in leathers eyed Kathryn up and down, apprising her as a threat.

  Once finished, Kathryn stared about the group. She’d been so focused on Tylar, she’d not considered that their might be others hiding in the next room. “How did you all get in here? Why are you in Perryl’s rooms? And what’s become of Perryl?”

  Rogger nodded to Kathryn. “The last is as much a mystery to us as it is to you, my dear castellan. As to entering Tashijan, it was not hard when you’re accompanied by a cadre of knights.” He picked at the edge of the cloak he wore about his shoulders.

  “Though we can’t use the Grace in them, a cloak is a cloak. Hiding the ordinary just as well as the extraordinary.”

  Tylar waved him back. “Perryl was the only person I knew I could trust here,” he explained.

  Kathryn winced at these words, but remained silent.

  “It took only a few discreet inquiries to find our way to Perryl’s domicile. We’d only just arrived and found him gone when you came knocking.”

  “You mentioned blood on his bed.” Kathryn glanced to the back bedroom.

  “Not much. A splattering of drops across his sheets. But a table was overturned. There had clearly been a struggle.”

  Kathryn paled visibly. “They’ve taken him.”

  “Who?”

  “The Fiery Cross.”

  Tylar scrunched his brow, remembering rumors of such a clandestine order within the ranks of the Shadowknights. “How do you know this?”

  A knock interrupted any further words.

  “Castellan Vail,” a voice said at the door.

  Kathryn waved them to silence. “What is it, Lorr?”

  “I just wanted to make sure you were secure.”

  “I’m fine, Lorr. Perryl and I are just finishing up.”

  “Very good.”

  Kathryn backed farther into the room. Her voice lowered. “I have no time to explain more. We have to get you away. I’ll see to Perryl, but I know who might help you with your research into the Godsword.”

  “Who?”

  “Master Gerrod Rothkild. A friend. I can give you directions to his rooms and will leave a note bearing my seal introducing you.” She turned to a table by the hearth and found a piece of parchment. She quickly scribbled a note.

  Tylar watched over her shoulder, making sure what she wrote wasn’t a betrayal. The content of the note was brief with a promise to explain more. It asked the master to extend his trust of Kathryn to Tylar’s party. She sealed it with melted wax and impressed the castellan’s seal into it using her ring.

  She handed the note to Tylar. “Stay hidden. I’ll leave first and take my guard and his hounds away.”

  “Hounds?” Rogger asked. “What hounds?”

  Kathryn glanced to the thief. “Warden Fields knew Tylar was coming here. He mistook his intentions. He thought… that Tylar was coming for me.”

  Rogger grinned. “Baiting a trap.” He glanced to Eylan. “It seems everyone’s been doing that lately with Tylar.”

  “Yes,” Kathryn mumbled, “but I gues
s the bait here wasn’t attractive enough for the godslayer.”

  Before Tylar could respond, Kathryn headed to the door. “Wait a quarter bell to be sure,” she said. “Then follow my directions down to Gerrod’s room.”

  Tylar met her at the door, stopping her from leaving. He whispered his words. “We’re placing all our trust in you.”

  “You did that once before… and look what happened.”

  Tylar stared again into her eyes. He saw none of the doubt of a moment before, just sorrow.

  “Keep hidden,” she repeated. “And move swiftly. All of Tashijan is alerted.”

  Tylar fell back behind the door as she pulled the latch.

  With the release, the door flew open, throwing Kathryn back and knocking Tylar against the wall.

  Across the threshold, a great shaggy beast lunged into the room, as tall as a man and as massive as a bull. It roared, claws digging, hackles raised. Saliva sizzled through the threadbare rug.

  On the floor, Kathryn crabbed out of its way, but her cloak tangled her.

  Heart pounding, Tylar leaped off the wall, dagger in hand, and flew to stand between the beast and Kathryn. It snapped at him. Tylar twisted to the side. It caught the edge of his cloak, yanking. Before losing balance, he raised the dagger and plunged it into the hound’s eye.

  The beast howled and tossed its head, ripping the dagger from his fingers and whipping Tylar away. He struck the wall again, hard, hitting his head. Lights dazzled. He sank to the floor.

  Krevan appeared along with Eylan at the bedroom door, swords in hand. At the door, a beastly looking man stepped behind the haunches of the hound. He bore daggers in both hands, his eyes aglow with Grace.

  A wyld tracker.

  Head aching, Tylar watched Kathryn rise to her feet, arms out, warding away both friend and foe.

  “Stop!” Kathryn shouted, her voice firm with command. She had to end this.

  The man claiming to be the Raven Knight kept his wary stance, as did the Wyr-woman at his side.