Tylar gave up his struggle, happy to listen.
But another was not.
Deep inside him, beyond bone, his naethryn surged in a violent quake, writhing, as if the song burnt. Tylar had never felt it thrash with such force, as if struggling to claw itself free. It bashed against the cage of his ribs. But escape was impossible. The song would snare its trapped prey, and Tylar with it. There was only one key to its escape.
“Agee…” Tylar moaned from between lips frosted with ice.
It was all he could do. He was trapped between ice and song.
But his one word was heard, caught out of the air by the same who had first spoken it to him. Agee wan clyy nee wan dred ghawl. It was ancient Littick, the tongue of the gods. Rogger knew its meaning. Break the bone and free the dark spirit.
The thief was already on his knees, weighted down by the storm, face anguished. But one hand, the one clutched at his chest, shifted to a neighboring fold. To a hidden belt. A dagger appeared in the thief’s fingers as if born of Grace out of the very air.
It was the last Tylar saw. Darkness folded over him as the song’s warmth washed the world away. Even the thrashings inside him calmed to its sweet lilt.
Then the barest flash of silver cut through the darkness.
The thrown dagger struck Tylar in the face—where Eylan had punched him a moment ago. But it was not the blade that struck him, only the butt end of its steel hilt. Struck glancingly from the side and broke his nose.
Tylar’s face was too numb to feel it. But like a loosened pebble that starts an avalanche, the small break spread in a sweep of agony throughout his body. One leg broke under him, then the other. He toppled, only to have his arm shatter to the shoulder. Bones knit, callused, broke again, and reformed crooked. All his old injuries, once healed by Meeryn, returned in a blinding instant, leaving him the same cripple again.
He writhed, and freed of its bone prison, his naethryn rose like smoke out of the black handprint on his chest, burning through cloak and cloth. It sailed high into the air, black wings unfurled, fraying with wisps of smoke, a neck stretched. As it settled to the snowy street, ice melted and steamed around its claws. Fiery eyes opened upon this world. Half wyrm, half wolf, it glared toward the storm.
The pain warmed Tylar’s frozen form and melted his joints. He pushed to his knees, then stood, bent-backed and hobbled, a broken knight once again. As he straightened, he still felt the cold, but less so now, more like a dream one tried to remember upon waking.
He stumbled over to Rogger, who was careful to remain ducked from the wings of Tylar’s dred ghawl, the dark spirit that was Meeryn’s naethryn. Sculpted of Gloom itself, it was deadly to touch, to all except Tylar. He remained tethered to the creature by a smoky cord that sailed out of the print on his chest. The edges of the cloak and underclothes still smoldered where it had burnt its way out.
Tylar helped Rogger to his feet.
“Next time I won’t challenge the wits of rats,” Rogger chattered.
Tylar still heard the strains of seersong behind the falling motes of snow. But they held no power. Freeing the daemon had broken whatever spell it held upon him. Upon both of them.
The naethryn hunched in the street, smoky mane flared in challenge toward the storm.
Tylar searched closer, realizing someone was missing.
“Where—?”
Then movement drew his gaze farther down the street. Eylan was at the edge of the village, stumbling toward the storm.
“Eylan!” he called.
She continued, deaf to him. Tylar knew her ears were too full of seersong. She was Wyr, born of Grace, rich with its blessing or curse, susceptible like Tylar. She had resisted for as long as she could, tried to break its spell on him, and maybe even his nose. Had she known freeing his daemon would free him, too?
But she had failed.
Tylar stepped toward her, ready to drag her back. But hobbled and still half-frozen, there was no chance. A moment later, he watched her vanish into the storm. One moment there, the next swallowed away.
No…
Before him, the figure of the storm stared down at him, sketched in gloom by a wavering hand, cold and dispassionate. Then in a single brushstroke of wind, it all vanished, wiped away as if it had never been there, swept back into the storm. But Tylar still remembered, now and from long ago, from another life. He knew whose countenance had fronted the storm.
It made no sense.
“There’s nothing we can do,” Rogger said, tugging on his arm. “We must let Kathryn know what we face.”
And who.
“There can be no doubt now,” Rogger mumbled.
Tylar turned to the thief. “What do you mean?”
Rogger stared toward where Eylan had vanished, toward the storm that circled Tashijan.
“We are under siege.”
8
AN INOPPORTUNE SURPRISE
“NOT A SOUND,” LORR BREATHED OUT.
In the dark, Dart perched atop her step, with Pupp beside her. Brant crouched on the stair above. Below, the two trackers huddled over their dimmed lamps, their glow further shadowed by their cloaks. In the darkness, Dart noted that the light far below was growing fainter. The furtive voices faded with it.
Whoever was down there was retreating deeper. Surely they were just masters, going about their usual secretive pursuits, buried away under Tashijan. But from the sounds of them, these skulkers were sunk quite deep.
A spider thread tickled Dart’s cheek. She brushed it away.
The air slowly stirred in the passage, flowing up, then down again, as if some great beast slumbered below, breathing in and out.
The tickle returned—then she felt something scurry down her cheek to her neck. Skags! She swatted at it, shifting in disgust.
The sudden movement almost dislodged her, but Brant caught her before she slipped from her stair and bumped into Kytt. Unfortunately the turn of her heel ground heavily upon an old lip of stone, and it broke away under her. A fist-sized chunk of rock bounced off the lower step and rolled down the ladder-steep staircase.
Crash…Crash…Crash…Crash
The echo faded into silence.
No one breathed.
Maybe the ones below hadn’t heard…
But the quiet was too deep. The bits of whispers had fallen silent. And Dart could still discern the glow below, steady now, no longer fading.
Keep moving away, Dart willed the light.
Lorr made a motion, waving them off, back up the stairs, but before any of them could move, a new sound flowed to them: a hushed noise. No voices, no words. Just a fluttering raspiness, like a flock of bats taking wing at sunset. Sweeping toward them.
The glow below suddenly vanished or was blocked by what rose toward them now, sinking all into an inky cavernous darkness.
Dart’s heart rose to her throat, choking back a rising scream. She reached blindly for the wall to make sure she was still in this world.
Even Pupp was a dull ember, as if fearful of revealing himself.
Down two steps, Lorr hissed as the noise grew, plainly sweeping up toward them. He stood and tossed back his cloak to reveal the amber glow of his lamp.
“Go!” the tracker urged with quiet command. “Kytt, take them back up. Keep your lamp shuttered.”
Defying his own words, Lorr opened the doors on his lamp, flooding the stairs with light. He took a step downward.
“What are you—?” Dart began.
“There is a side passage four steps down. I will set a false trail.”
As Lorr began to turn away, two small shapes soundlessly rounded the lower stairs and dashed into and through the group.
Pupp flared brighter in molten warning, bristling and snarling.
Dart squeaked in fright, flattening against the wall.
But Brant knelt and caught one in his cloak, bundling it up. Lorr snatched the other by the nape of its neck. Dart noted the dark fur, the white-tipped ears.
The los
t whelpings.
The one in Lorr’s grip mewled in abject terror, pissing a hot stream of yellow bile. The tracker bent to sniff its fur. His nose crinkled.
“Black blood,” he mumbled just loud enough for Dart to hear. She heard a note of recognition in his voice—and deep concern.
Lorr heaved the wolf cubbie toward Brant, who scooped it under his cloak, alongside the first. Bundled together, the whelpings quickly settled. Perhaps they knew Brant’s scent. Perhaps they simply knew it was best to hide.
Lorr lifted his lamp. “Kytt, get ’em up there. Take Barrin with you. Get these two to Castellan Vail.”
Dart hesitated, not wanting to leave the tracker’s side.
Lorr’s yellow-gold gaze fell upon her. “Tell Castellan Vail that something foul has taken root deep in Tashijan. And now it stirs.”
“But what—?”
“That’s what I mean to find out.” Lorr swung away and swept down the steps, heading toward the heart of the darkness. As the tracker’s light vanished around the turn of the stair, Brant touched Dart’s arm.
“Hurry,” Kytt urged needlessly.
They set off back up the stairs, the young tracker in the lead, guiding with his shuttered lamp. Dart followed, while Brant stumbled after them, one arm supporting the whelpings, the other running along the wall, supporting himself.
Around and around, they ran.
Dart kept glancing behind her. She realized that they had outrun whatever had made that strange noise. Lorr must have succeeded in drawing it off. Still, the tiny hairs all over her body stood on end.
Behind her, Brant stumbled, brushing the wall with his cloak. The whispering rasp of cloth over old dusty brick struck her ear. She frowned, slowing a step.
Brant misinterpreted her hesitation. “I’m fine. Keep going.”
Dart hurried on after the weak glow of Kytt’s lamp, but her thoughts remained behind her. The brush of Brant’s cloak. It sounded the same as what had swept up toward them out of the bowels of the land. Only not one cloak but a host, a legion, rising swiftly, too swiftly, unnatural.
Or maybe not.
While training, Dart had witnessed many times the speed born of shadows, when a knight drew upon the Grace of his shadowcloak.
Her frown deepened by the time they reached the dislodged stone.
Kytt kept guard with his lamp and waved them to crawl through to the far room, back into the Master levels, into Tashijan proper.
Dart went first at Brant’s urging, herding Pupp ahead of her. On the far side, she waited, her arms hugged around herself, fearful for herself and for her friend she had left behind. In her ears, she could still hear the rustling rush. She remembered Lorr’s cryptic mumble to himself.
Black blood…
Dart knew she had to reach Kathryn as soon as possible. The urgency kept her heart pounding in her ears. Brant struggled through with the pair of cubbies. Kytt followed on his heels.
Dart waited until they all stood. “What about Lorr?”
Kytt spoke stolidly. “A wyld tracker knows how to hide a trail.”
Dart wished she had as much confidence, but she had no other choice. Together, they fled through the dusty chamber and found a large mound blocking the door.
Barrin lifted his head from his paws. He lay sprawled across the opening. He shoved up to his haunches, then to his legs. Kytt went to get the bullhound moving out into the hall.
Dart smelled blackleaf smoke and discovered its source. The two loam-giants flanked the threshold on either side, leaning against the wall. They shared a single pipe, blackened from years of use. Smoke palled the air.
“Master Brant, there you are! Thought maybe I’d have to cram Dral here through that tiny mouse hole of yours.”
Dralmarfillneer straightened and puffed out a perfect ring of smoke. “Would have to be me. That wide arse of yours barely fits through most barndoors.”
Brant hefted up his bundled cloak. “I have the whelpings.”
Dralmarfillneer’s eyes widenened. “Ock! Masterful, Master Brant!”
Malthumalbaen clapped the young man on the shoulder, almost dropping him to his knees.
“Enough,” Brant said harshly. “Take the cubbies up to my room. Don’t let any of the house staff tell you otherwise.”
The giant brothers responded to Brant’s tone, faces growing hard with worry, nodding.
“It will be done,” Malthumalbaen said.
Brant passed them the pair of whelpings. Both giants got bit, but neither complained. Freed of the wolves, Brant turned to Dart. “I’ll go with you to see the castellan.”
Dart was relieved. It was a long climb. She would appreciate someone at her side, but she needed to be discreet.
Kytt stood with Barrin, ready to follow, but Dart knew that the bullhound would draw too many eyes.
“Best you stay,” Dart told the tracker. “Watch for Lorr?”
Kytt frowned.
“Barrin knows his master,” she pressed. “Search deeper through the Masterlevels for him. None of the masters will bother you—not with Barrin at your side. Once Lorr shows his face, fetch him up to the castellan’s.”
Kytt nodded his head.
With matters settled, Dart led the giants and Brant toward the stairs. She had to take the central staircase. It was the only one that connected the masters’ subterranean domain to the knights’ Citadel. Once above, she could slip into less-well-traveled passages and stairs.
As they climbed, Dart kept to the shadows of the giants, allowing the large men to draw attention. No one was looking for a company that included giants. Brant took the lead, too, assuming a commanding posture. Dart kept her shape small behind them all, playing servitor, just a page guiding one of Tashijan’s new guests.
And for once, Dart was happy to find the crowd on the stairs. Their group was jostled and pummeled. But the giants forged through them, moving their group steadily out of the Masterlevels and into Tashijan’s upper floors.
Dart allowed herself to breathe easier once they had cleared the logjam at the crossroads between the Masterlevels and the Citadel. They continued onward, climbing higher. Another floor up and Dart knew a quieter path. Though it was more circuitous, there would be fewer eyes.
She increased their pace.
Pupp bounded at her side, plowing through cloaks and legs.
Then disaster—
“Dart!” A shout of glee rose ahead.
She glanced up, recognizing the voice. A tallish girl resplendent in silver loose blouse, half coat, and billowing dress rushed down the steps. A flag of ebony hair flounced as she flew down the four steps and drew Dart into a firm hug.
Dart returned the affection, if not without a sinking of her stomach. “Laurelle! What are you doing here?”
Laurelle was the regent’s Hand of tears. The last Dart had heard, Laurelle was unable to attend the knighting ceremony, though her excuses now in hindsight seemed trivial. It had been a ruse.
“Isn’t it a wonderful surprise?” Laurelle said. “I wanted it to be a delight! Is it not?”
Dart might have appreciated the sudden appearance of her friend from school if not for the poor moment of its revelation. Others noted Laurelle’s outburst. And though only a year older, Laurelle had filled out more fully into a woman. Her figure’s always generous curves had deepened. Several of the young knights must have been already trailing her heels, like the boys had at school.
Those same eyes discovered Dart.
She heard the murmurs—at first uncertain, then more solid.
“It’s the castellan’s page!”
“It’s her!”
A knight in full cloak stood at the next landing, arm pointed at her. “Hold her! By order of the warden!”
Behind her, arms reached and grabbed: elbow, shoulders, back of her neck. Their grips were iron hard.
She was torn from Laurelle’s shocked embrace.
“Dart…?”
Plainly her friend had yet to hear the talk of
daemons—or maybe she had but had not associated it with Dart. Either way, Laurelle’s ire was piqued.
“Unhand her!” she said with an imperious authority.
The grips on Dart loosened.
Then the knight from the landing drew up to them. “She is the one we seek!” he said, sweeping out his cloak. He wore the Fiery Cross stitched at his shoulder. “Warden Fields has ordered her apprehension.”
Laurelle attempted to protest, but she was ignored.
Pupp ran about the stairs in a molten panic.
Dart remained calm, though her knees threatened to weaken. She caught Brant’s eye. He stood to the side with the giants. None seemed to notice him or be aware of his complicity. But judging by the dark set to his lips, he was weighing coming to her aid, calling upon the strength of his twin companions. That must not happen.
“Castellan Vail,” she mouthed to him. Word had to reach the hermitage. Dart also gave a half nod in Laurelle’s direction.
Brant understood and stepped forward to touch her friend’s arm, drawing her attention. Laurelle opened her mouth, then suddenly recognized the young man from school. He whispered into her momentary confusion.
“Leave her to the knights. Come with me. We can help your friend better above.”
Laurelle glanced to Dart, ready to protest.
Dart nodded. Go with him.
Laurelle took a shuddering breath and composed herself by shifting a stray lock of ebony hair from her cheek. It was a familiar resiliency that Dart envied. Her friend stared up at the knight in charge, meeting his gaze without flinching.
“I am the regent’s Hand of tears. Where are you taking her?”
The knight seemed abashed to be so confronted, but Laurelle held her step, blocking him. He would have to knock her aside to proceed. But even a member of the Fiery Cross was reluctant to assault someone who shared the High Wing of Chrismferry with the new regent.
Hinterland Page 17
