Shadowfall g-1 Page 5

  “Tylar.”

  “So how’s a Shadowknight end up here?” The man touched three fingers to the corner of his eye, indicating Tylar’s tattoos.

  “Apparently I killed a god.”

  Rogger choked out a gobbet of gristle. “You! So you’re the one!”

  Tylar glanced up to the barred window high on the stone wall. He had been imprisoned here seven days. He’d not had one visitor until now.

  “No wonder there were so many guards in the halls,” Rogger continued, his face buried in his meal, spitting out pieces of bone as punctuation. “I even spotted a pair of bloodnullers at the end of each hall, reeking and covered in shite.”

  Tylar nodded. Bloodnullers were smeared in a god’s black bile, their soft solids. Such a blessing granted the power to vanquish the Grace of a person or object with the mere touch of a single finger. They were stationed to keep Tylar in check, in case he attempted to use Dark Graces to escape. Their continued presence seemed a waste since they had already run their hands over his entire body when he first arrived here in shackles. If he’d had any hidden Graces, they would have been abolished at that time.

  Still, Tylar understood their worry. While occasional rogue gods had been killed, never had one of the Hundred been slain. No one was taking any chances.

  Rogger coughed a piece of gristle loose from his throat and nodded at Tylar. “It seems they must crowd all their god-sinners into the same damn cell on this cursed island.”

  Tylar returned his attention fully to the man. “God-sinner? You? What did you do?”

  He laughed. “I was caught sneaking into ol’ Balger’s place, trying to nick a bit from the bastard’s vault.”

  “At Foulsham Dell?” Tylar asked, eyebrows rising. Balger was one of the seven gods that shared the First Land. His settled realm, Foulsham Dell, lay at the foot of the Middleback Range, bordering the wilds of a hinterland, where rogue gods roamed and no law governed. The Dell was a place of murderers, pirates, and scoundrels. And the god Balger was the worst of the bunch, known equally for his debaucheries and his cruelties. He was as close to a rogue as any of the hundred settled gods. His entire realm made Punt seem a tame and civilized place.

  Tylar eyed the man, wondering what sort of thief tried to steal from such a god’s larder.

  “And I would’ve made it out of there,” Rogger added, “if it hadn’t been for some handmaiden coming to the vault to deposit a jar full of her lord’s blessed piss.”

  “A jar? You mean a repostilary?” Shock rang in his voice. Repostilary jars were vessels of a god’s humoral fluids, sacred beyond measure, handled only by handmaidens and handmen.

  Rogger nodded and laughed again, spraying spittle out his beard. “Apparently ol’ Balger has trouble holding his bladder throughout the night.”

  “So you were caught?”

  As he ate, the man tilted to the side, baring his right buttock. A brand, long healed, had been burned into the flesh:

  Tylar eyed the sigil. It was ancient Littick. “Thief,” he read aloud. “I don’t understand. How did you end up in a dungeon on the Summering Isles, a thousand reaches from the Dell?”

  Rogger finished his bowl and gingerly settled back against the wall, wincing from his whipping. “Because of you, now that I crank on it.”

  “Me?”

  Rogger lifted his arms and exposed the undersides. More Littick sigils lay burned into the thief’s skin, aligned in neat rows.

  From his training as a Shadowknight, Tylar recognized them: all names of gods. “Balger’s punishment…” he mumbled, sickened.

  “A pilgrimage,” Rogger conceded sourly.

  It was a cruel judgment, and not unexpected coming from a god of Balger’s ilk. As punishment, Rogger had been marked and exiled, forced to travel from god-realm to god-realm, sentenced to collect a certain number of brands. Only after you were properly marked could you return to your home and family.

  “How many gods were you assigned?”

  Rogger sighed, lowering his arms. “Remember. It was against Balger I sinned.”

  Tylar’s eyes grew wider. “He didn’t…”

  “A full pilgrimage, no less.”

  “ All the gods?”

  “Every blessed one of them. All one hundred.”

  Tylar finally understood why Rogger was imprisoned here. “And with Meeryn dead, you can’t complete your punishment.”

  “Once I learned of her death, I tried to escape, but that’s hard to do when you’re standing between two guards, knocking on the damn gates to Meeryn’s castillion. They snatched me up, whipped me thrice for the rudeness, and tossed me in with you.”

  “What’re they going to do with you?”

  “The usual choices I imagine: hanging, garroting, impaling.”

  They were the three standard punishments meted to a pilgrim who failed in his journeys and tried to settle somewhere else.

  “I think I’ll go with hanging. Garroting is too slow, and as for impaling, I’d prefer not to have anything shoved up my arse.” He shifted uncomfortably. “ ’Course, I have a couple days to think about it. They’re still attending Her Highness up there, seeing if she’s truly dead.”

  Tylar sat up straighter. “Is there hope?”

  “Hope is for the rich. All we have is shite and piss. And speaking of that…” Rogger climbed and crossed to the pail that served as the room’s privy.

  As the day wore on and his thievish companion stretched on the floor snoring, Tylar considered his companion’s words. Could Meeryn still be alive? If so, she could clear his name, attest to his honor, what little he still had left. But in his heart he knew better. He had seen the light fade from her eyes.

  Voices echoed down the dank hall of the dungeon. Guards arguing, then the stamp of boots sounded on the stone floor. Tylar climbed to his feet, hearing them approach. Rogger continued to snore in his corner.

  Shadowed faces appeared at the small barred window. “Open it!” a familiar voice ordered.

  The bar was slipped with a scrape of wood, and the door swung open.

  A cloaked and masked figure filled the threshold.

  “Perryl,” Tylar said, trying his best to stand tall when naked and covered in filth. Healed of his hunched back, Tylar now stood a fingerbreadth taller than his former squire. He kept his arms folded, not in defiance but to half-hide the black palm print, Meeryn’s mark, that rested in the center of his chest.

  Perryl’s eyes narrowed at his condition and turned to the dungeonkeep at his side. “I thought I left orders for the prisoner to be treated with care.”

  “Aye we have, ser knight. We’ve not beaten him once.”

  Perryl pointed to Tylar, his eyes never leaving the guard. “Give him your shirt and breeches.”

  “Ser!”

  “Do you defy the word of a blessed knight?” A hand settled to the diamond pommel of his sword, aglow in the sooty torchlight.

  “No, ser… right away, ser.” The dungeonkeep hurriedly stripped down to his underclothes and passed the outerwear to Tylar.

  “I think I was less soiled when I was naked,” Tylar grumbled as he pulled the sweat-stained jerkin over his head, but it did feel better to have some clothes on his body.

  His former squire waved away the dungeon guard and waited until he was gone. Rogger had grumbled at the commotion, then curled away and was already snoring again.

  Alone and private, Perryl freed his masklin, exposing a worried face. He eyed Tylar up and down, the glint of Grace bright in his gaze.

  Tylar crossed his arms again. “I heard there was a deathwatch.”

  Perryl nodded and paced the floor, parts of him slipping into and out of shadow as his cloak reflected its owner’s agitation. “Seven days. It ends this night, when the lesser moon’s face touches the greater moon.”

  “And there is no hope of her reviving.”

  Perryl shook his head. “Her heart is gone. The finest alchemists have tested her remaining fluids. There are no signs of Grace
in any of her humours. She is as empty as any man or woman. Even decay and corruption have set in, bloating her body.”

  “Then she is truly dead.”

  Perryl stopped his pacing and stared hard at Tylar. “This story of some Darkly Graced beast… you swear this is the truth?”

  “Yes, but I have nothing left to swear upon except the filthy body I’m wearing.”

  “An unbroken body.” A twinge of suspicion laced Perryl’s words.

  “Unbroken and marked.” Tylar parted his jerkin enough to expose the black fingers on his chest. “This is not a curse. Meeryn blessed me for some reason known only to her.”

  “But why?” Perryl began to pace again. “It’s all impossible.”

  “As impossible as a slain god?”

  Tylar read the dismay in the other’s eyes. For four thousand years, ever since the time of the Sundering, none of the Hundred had ever died. Every child knew the history of Myrillia, of the madness and destruction that followed the arrival of gods to this world. It lasted three centuries until the god Chrism chose the first god-realm and imbued his Graces into the region, sharing his powers to bring order out of chaos. Other gods followed, settling various lands, bringing to bear their unique Graces.

  Thus the Nine Lands were formed.

  Beyond these god-realms lay only the hinterlands, spaces wild and ungoverned, where rogue gods still roamed, as untamed as their lands. Occasional rumors and stories spoke of the death of gods out there, stories of great hinter-kings who slew maddened rogues, raving creatures of dark power.

  But never had one of the Hundred been slain… until now.

  Perryl stared up at the lone window. Night fast approached. “Already the Isles have judged you. The word godslayer rings through the streets. Only my cloak protects you from the gallows or worse.”

  “And I thank you for that.”

  Perryl turned back to Tylar. “But that protection cannot last forever. A single knight’s cloak is only so thick. As the sun sets, I will board a flippercraft headed to Tashijan, to seek the counsel of the full Order on your behalf.”

  “You waste Grace on such an effort,” Tylar scoffed. “The Order has no love for a fallen knight, especially me.”

  “I know of your past crime. Selling repostilaries to the Gray Trade, lining your pocket with gold marches. All preposterous lies.”

  Tylar shook his head. “The accusations were true.”

  Perryl blinked, looking a surprised boy again. “What? How…?”

  “I had my reasons. But I did not kill that family of cobblers on Esterberry Street.”

  “Your sword was found there.”

  Tylar faced Perryl. “Do I look a child killer to you any more than a godslayer?”

  “No, but then again, I never imagined you a trafficker in repostilaries.”

  Tylar turned his back on the Shadowknight. With even that one crime, he had broken his knightly vows. It was reason enough to have been stripped of his Graces and cast out of the Order, but the crime of murder carried a heavier sentence: to be broken on the wheel, then sold into slavery.

  “The caste of Gray Traders at Akkabak Harbor knew I was about to expose them. They sought to discredit me.” He glanced back to Perryl. “And they succeeded.”

  “So you claimed before the adjudicators, but the soothmancers said you spoke falsely.”

  He lowered his head.

  “And they were not the only ones,” Perryl whispered. “Kathryn-”

  Tylar swung around sharply. “Do not speak her name in my presence, Perryl. I warn you.”

  The young knight did not back down. “She said you were gone from your bed that night and returned bloody to the sheets. And when asked if she believed your claims of innocence, she denied you, a fellow Shadowknight and her own betrothed.”

  Tylar hardened. “I will not speak any more of this. I’ve paid for my crimes and won my freedom in the rings as was my right.”

  “And what of the slaughter you’re accused of now?”

  “I expect no fairer justice in this matter. I know how it must appear, so let them have me.”

  “I can’t.” Perryl balled a gloved fist. “A god has been slain, not some cobbler’s family. If for no other reason than to find out how you succeeded in bringing down one of the Hundred, the Order will intervene. The truth will be known.”

  “I have no faith in the Order.”

  “Then have faith in me.”

  Tylar saw the pain in the other’s eyes. He touched the man’s elbow. “You’ve soiled your cloak enough already, Perryl. Stay away before you’re dragged down with me.”

  Perryl refused to move. “There is much you don’t know. As I warned you on the streets, these are dark and perilous times.” The young man sighed. “Have you heard about Ser Henri?”

  “What of the old man?” Tylar asked cautiously.

  Henri ser Gardlen was the warden of the Order, the leader of Tashijan for as long as Tylar could remember. He ruled the Order and its council with a firm but even hand. It was only through Ser Henri’s intervention that Tylar had not been hanged for his crimes.

  “He died… most strangely and suddenly.”

  “By all the Graces, how?”

  “His body was found on the stairs leading up to his tower, his face a mask of horror, his fingertips burned to the first knuckle. Tashijan is keeping the details shuttered. When I left there a half-moon ago, the Order was still in chaos. Factions war behind closed doors, vying for the seat of succession. I can only hope matters have settled to deal with the tragedy here.”

  Tylar stood, stunned.

  “But that is not all. Strangeness abounds across all the lands. Over in the Fifth Land, Tristal of Idlewyld has gone into seclusion on his peak, cutting off all Graces to his sworn knights. Talk is that he raves. Ulf of Ice Eyrie has frozen his entire castillion, locking his court in hoarfrost. None can enter or leave. And across the Meerashe Deep, rumors abound of a mighty hinter-king rising on the Seventh Land, threatening to break out into the neighboring god-realms.”

  Tylar shook his head. “I’ve heard none of this.”

  “Few have. The tidings are scattered and scarce. Perhaps they are merely a spate of bad fortune, but now this.” He glanced to the doorway. “Ten days ago, Meeryn sent a raven to Tashijan and requested a blessed courier.”

  “You?”

  Perryl nodded. “It was my honor.”

  Tylar touched his brow in thought. Once gods settled to a land, they were rooted to it, requiring intermediaries to carry their messages between them. Only the most important messages were born by the sworn couriers of the Order.

  “I don’t know how Meeryn’s death ties to all this,” Perryl continued. “But I sense dark currents in the tides of the world. Something is stirring down deep, out of sight.”

  “And you think it struck here? To silence Meeryn?”

  “It seems an extraordinary coincidence that she summons a courier, and on the very day I step on this island, she is slain.” Perryl reached to Tylar, touching his hand. “If you spoke the truth about that awful night, then Meeryn blessed you for some reason, healed you with the last of her Grace. She must have championed you for some purpose.”

  “I don’t know. Perhaps it was simply a final kindness for the man who comforted her during her last breath.” He remembered the swell of Grace into him. His fingers wandered unbidden to the center of his chest, where she had touched him.

  “Did she say anything to you in those last moments?”

  Tylar dropped his fingers and shook his head-then realized he was mistaken. “Wait.” He focused back to Perryl. “She did say one thing. But it made no sense.”

  “What was it?”

  He struggled to remember the exact pronunciation. “Riven… scryr.”

  Perryl’s eyes pinched.

  “Does that mean anything to you?”

  Perryl shook his head. “I… I’ve never heard of such a name.” He backed a step, looking slightly paler. “But perhaps
the scholars at Tashijan or in Chrismferry will know better. I should be going. There is much to arrange before I leave, much to ponder.”

  As Perryl turned away, Tylar reached out to the edge of his friend’s cloak, but he dared not let his fingers soil it. The young Shadowknight fixed his masklin in place and studied his former teacher. “Be safe, ser.”

  Tylar let his arm drop. “And you,” he mumbled.

  “Until our cloaks touch again,” Perryl said, then vanished away.

  These last words were a common farewell among knights. Tylar turned to face his dank cell with its steaming chamber pot and snoring guest. Even fit and hale again, he felt like no knight.

  The door slammed behind him, and the bar was shoved in place. The dungeonkeep grumbled something about his clothes, but he didn’t dare ask for them back. Tylar wondered how long such protection would last once Perryl was gone.

  Rogger groaned and rolled to face Tylar. “Talkative fellow, that tall dark one.” The thief must have been feigning sleep the entire time. “A friend of yours?”

  Tylar settled to the mound of lice-ridden straw that was his bed. “Once… and maybe still.”

  Rogger sat up. “He had much to say… and little else of real worth to offer.”

  “What do you mean?” Tylar’s attention drew sharply toward the bearded and branded fellow. He spoke more keenly than earlier. Even his manner seemed more refined.

  “As a pilgrim, I’ve journeyed far and wide. I’ve heard, too, of the dark tidings of which the young knight spoke. And not only in halls and castillions through which your once-and-maybe-again friend walked, but in those many places where the sun doesn’t shine as bright.”

  His speech suddenly thickened again, his manner roughened, hunching a bit. “Th’art many a low tongue that’ll wag to a whipped dog that won’t speak to a lordling or maid.”

  Tylar knew this true enough himself. The underfolk kept many secrets unto themselves.

  “Then again,” Rogger continued, “there are many in high towers who speak freely at their castillion door, blind to the ragged pilgrim on their doorstep.” A sly glint blew bright in his eye. “Or on the floor of a cell.”