Hinterland g-2

by James Clemens

  Sten followed with Brant after barking a few orders to the remainder of his men. They continued their climb toward the highest levels of Tashijan. Liannora attempted conversation with Laurelle, but the girl set a fast pace on the stair. Soon shortness of wind silenced Oldenbrook’s mistress of tears.

  Brant hid a grin. Laurelle had the wits to match her looks.

  Around and around they went. The crowds grew thinner the higher they climbed. A commotion drew his attention back down the stairs. Below, a shadowknight brushed out of the remaining crowd, cloak billowing with Grace. He was masked, showing only the triple stripes of his caste, but something in his manner was black with danger.

  Even Sten lowered a palm to the hilt of his sheathed sword.

  In the knight’s wake, a stick of a man with a riotous sprout of red-gray beard followed. It looked as if the second fellow was carrying a dead animal in his arms. Only when half a flight away did Brant recognize it to be no more than a rumpled furred coat.

  “Out of the way!” he yelled. “Curse you all black, get clear!”

  Laurelle paused, half turning. Her eyes brightened with recognition. “Rogger!”

  The gaunt man’s eyes found her. And something glinted in his eye. A warning. As good as a finger to her lips.

  Laurelle had barely noted the knight at the man’s side-but now she glanced back and stared more intently. She opened her mouth, closed it, touched her hair. She was hiding something, something about the cloaked figure.

  Brant eyed the knight more closely as he swept up to them.

  “Ser Knight,” Laurelle said, a bit stiffly. “We are on our way to speak to Castellan Vail. On matters of some importance. Would you be gracious enough to escort us?”

  He bowed his head, swept through them, and headed up without a word.

  Liannora plainly found some offense at his silence, especially as he displaced her glorious Sten as their protector. But she remained quiet.

  They climbed the last three levels in strained awkwardness. At last, they vacated the stairs for a wide hall. Here the roof’s arched supports stretched taller than on other floors. The knight led them forward.

  They passed a wide door flanked by shadowknights. The Warden’s Eyrie. Their guide failed to nod toward his brethren, even turning his face slightly away. Brant wondered at it, but then they reached another tall door. It had to be the castellan’s hermitage.

  He knocked.

  Laurelle stepped up to him, half-blocking the way. “I believe the castellan wishes to see only myself and Master Brant here.”

  Liannora overheard. “If Master Brant is to attend Castellan Vail, then I should be present as senior Hand to Lord Jessup.”

  The knight studied Liannora over his black masklin. The door opened behind him, limning him in firelight. His voice was a low growl, thick with command. “You will be summoned at the castellan’s pleasure. Until then, you will wait without.”

  The gaunt man named Rogger pushed through the doorway, but not before making a bit of sweetbrittle appear in his fingertips and offering it to the mouse-haired maid who bowed at the door.

  “Sweet for the sweetest,” he said.

  The knight bustled the rest of them inside. Before the door closed, Brant captured the look of raw fury in Liannora’s face. To climb so far, only to be thwarted at the very last step. He knew there would be a cost to all this, but he didn’t have time to worry about such matters.

  Especially as the knight shook back his cloak’s hood and shed his masklin. Brant recognized the face with a startled shock.

  The castellan, wearing a matching cloak, appeared from a back chamber and hurried forward. She confirmed Brant’s appraisal. “Tylar…where have you been?”

  Brant gaped at the man. Tylar ser Noche. Here was the Godslayer…and regent of Chrismferry. In disguise. But why?

  “The storm,” the castellan said. “Gerrod believes there is something wrong with it.”

  Tylar nodded. “We’re under siege. Eylan has been stolen by seersong. But worst yet, the hand that drives the storm-”

  Laurelle cut him off, her voice strident with worry. “Dart is in danger!”

  They all glanced to her.

  “She’s been captured by the warden’s men. She is to be soothed as we speak!”

  Her words drew glances all around, but their eyes settled on Brant. He felt like an intruder, as if he had walked into a private tryst.

  Rogger was the only one wearing an amused expression. “It seems we all bring such happy tidings. What about you, young man?”

  He blinked, unsure where to start. “I-I bring a message from Tracker Lorr. Something foul hides in the bowels of Tashijan-and has begun to rise.”

  The thin man sighed with a shake of his head and mumbled under his breath. “So much for glad tidings this day.”

  Tylar stepped closer. Brant had to resist stepping away. The man seemed a thundercloud clenched in a cloak. “Tell us of this danger.”

  Brant quickly retold his tale, starting from his discovery of Dart being attacked and ending with the wyld tracker setting off to discover more about what lurked beneath Tashijan.

  “Danger from without and within,” Kathryn said.

  “It must be the Cabal,” Tylar said. “Seeking to strike at the heart of the First Land. As Tashijan stands, so does Myrillia.”

  “We must rally the towers.” Kathryn headed toward the door. “The warden must be informed of the threat. He’s down in the adjudicators’ chamber, attending the soothings.”

  “Dart-” Laurelle reminded everyone.

  Kathryn nodded. She had not forgotten. “We can use the crisis to help delay her soothing. Even Argent will set aside such matters when all of Tashijan is at risk.”

  Rogger scratched his beard with a single finger. “If we’re not too late already…”

  Brant followed the others, wondering if the strange man was referring to Dart-or to all of Tashijan.

  Dart stood under guard at the edge of the adjudicators’ chamber, under an arched threshold, awaiting her summons. She had a clear view into the oval room-and of her accuser.

  Squire Pyllor sat atop a wooden chair, painted crimson. It stood in the room’s center. Before him rose the high bench of the adjudicators, those men and women who settled matters of dispute and justice for Tashijan. It filled the back half of the oval chamber, while behind him rose three sets of tiered seats. But most of those seats were empty.

  Not so the high bench.

  Warden Fields sat in the centermost seat, flanked by a pair of adjudicators, an elderly man and a younger woman, dressed in gray suits, with the silver rings of their station adorning each finger and ear.

  Behind Pyllor stood a figure cowled in a bloodred robe, a soothmancer. A second of his caste knelt nearby, dribbling drops of fiery alchemy into a silver bowl. The first mancer had his fingers spread, touching Pyllor at forehead, temple, and angle of jaw.

  Dart read the pain from the squint in Pyllor’s eyes and the thin stretch of his lips as he answered the questions. The soothmancer, his fingertips anointed in the alchemy, read the truth of his words. Dart had never been soothed before, but she had heard tales of the flaming touch of the mancer’s alchemies, born from the blood of gods rich in the aspect of fire. It burnt away all deceptions.

  “And you intended great harm to the page?” the elderly adjudicator said.

  Pyllor trembled under the mancer’s touch. His severed arm was bound to his chest and wrapped in numbing salves. But the pain of telling the truth could not be so easily numbed.

  “We only wanted to scare her,” Pyllor mumbled through a gasp.

  A small shake from the soothmancer dismissed his words.

  “Do not make us ask you again,” Warden Fields said gruffly. “Out with it. The entire story.”

  Pyllor squirmed. “We were only looking for a bit of mischief. It was the ale. We drank too much. Talked too boldly. Dared too fiercely. We went out looking for mischief…not truly expecting to find it.
Then…then Page Hothbrin appeared. I owed her.”

  “For what?” asked the woman in gray. Her eyes were flint and steel.

  “Swordmaster Yuril took me to task for being too hard on her during sword practice. Shamed me.”

  “So you sought to do the same to Page Hothbrin.”

  Pyllor attempted to hide his face, but his head was firmly gripped by the soothmancer behind him. “Yes.”

  Under further inquiry, he went on to describe her abduction and the aftermath of his attempted attack. Though Dart had come too late to hear the other two squires’ stories, most of what Pyllor related seemed only to corroborate the others’ statements.

  She found her knees trembling with the telling. Circumstance and chance more than malicious forethought had brought her here. Now she was moments from being exposed, her secrets laid bare before the burning touch of the soothmancers.

  “Describe this daemon who took your arm.”

  “It-it came out of the darkness. Fiery and fierce. It struck me and knocked me back. I didn’t see it well. Bloodred eyes-that’s all I saw.” Pyllor shook his head, almost dislodging the soothmancer.

  Dart knew Pyllor had been panicked, in tears, eyes squeezed closed at the end. Even now terror seemed to leach away any further details.

  “Calm yourself,” the elderly adjudicator said with a tempered measure of compassion.

  The three at the high bench leaned together, heads bowed in private.

  Dart missed most of their words. Only a brief snippet reached her from the younger adjudicator. “Their stories stand together…but they strike out wildly when it comes to this daemon.”

  Finally they broke their conversation with a glance toward Dart. From their eyes, she knew they would seek those answers from her.

  “That will be all,” Argent said to Pyllor. Fury hardened the edges of his words. “You are dismissed. Your punishment will be settled and exacted later.”

  Pyllor was released. He was led to the side tiers by another knight in full cloak and masklin. Pyllor glanced toward her, then quickly away. She was shocked by the fear that shone in his face- fear of her.

  Then her name was called.

  “Page Hothbrin,” the elderly adjudicator summoned. “Approach the bench to be soothed.”

  Ushered by two knights, Dart stepped from under the arched threshold and out into the center of the room. The soothmancer, who had been judging Pyllor, knelt beside the silver bowl on the floor and dipped his fingers into the alchemy, readying for Dart’s inquisition.

  She was led to the chair and sat. She gripped the hard edges of her seat to keep from shaking. The source of all this discourse-Pupp-circled and circled the chair. He sensed her consternation but plainly did not know where to direct his wrath.

  “Are you ready?”

  She had no choice but to acquiesce. She nodded, not trusting her voice.

  The adjudicators motioned in unison to the soothmancer. He rose from his bowl of alchemies and stepped behind Dart.

  “We will know the truth about this daemon,” Argent warned, his one eye bearing down on her. There was a measure of calculation in his gaze.

  From the corner of her eyes, Dart watched the blood-tipped fingers of the soothmancer rise on either side of her head. They glowed with fiery Grace. Dart attempted to brace herself, not quite knowing how to gird against what was to come.

  “Stop!” a shout burst out behind her.

  Too late.

  Wet fingers touched her-at forehead, temple, and throat.

  Dart could not turn. Fire locked her in place, burning and probing through her skin toward the core of her being. Still, she recognized Castellan Vail’s voice. Relief flowed through her.

  “Tashijan is under attack!” Kathryn called firmly as she stepped into Dart’s view.

  Before anyone could react, the soothmancer behind Dart suddenly screamed, a bloodcurdling cry that burst from the man as if from his very bones. His hand fell away from Dart, freeing her. He stumbled to the side, holding out his arms.

  Smoke curled from his fingertips, each digit burnt away to the first knuckle.

  The stench of cooked flesh swelled out.

  Seeking relief, the soothmancer sank to his knees and plunged his seared fingers into the alchemy in the silver bowl. The blood in its basin ignited as if oil had been set aflame. The fiery conflagration coiled up the mancer’s arms, turning robe to ash, searing skin and hair beneath.

  Betrayed by his own alchemy, the man fell back into a contorted sprawl, writhing on the stone.

  At the high bench, the adjudicators were all on their feet.

  Cries echoed around the room.

  Dart noted Kathryn’s worried expression. Behind her, Brant stood with Laurelle, each with a look of dismay.

  A voice boomed with authority, cutting through the growing mayhem. Warden Fields stood with an arm pointed at Dart. “Daemoness!” he cried to the guards, to the knights of the Fiery Cross. “Slay her!”

  A MEASURE OF DARK GRACE

  Abandoning the Upper Citadel, Tylar crossed down into the subterranean lair of the masters. Here the oil lamps affixed to the walls were stationed farther apart, some gone dark, unwelcoming to all but the studious masters who found little cheer in anything but their studies. Tylar did not mind. He drew power from the deeper shadows, swelling the Grace in his borrowed cloak. Below the Citadel, the crowd on the stairs also thinned rapidly.

  Rogger matched Tylar’s more hurried pace.

  Kathryn had sent the pair below to discover what new threat lay within the cellars of Tashijan and to alert the masters to the danger in their midst. But Tylar also knew she had suggested this mission for a more expedient reason: to keep Argent and Tylar apart. She had to rally Tashijan and draw attention away from Dart. With little love lost between regent and warden, Tylar’s presence would only antagonize. So Tylar had not argued. He had seen the number of cloaks bearing the sigil of the Fiery Cross. They would need Argent’s full support if they were to raise Tashijan’s defenses to their full. And Tylar had no doubt that every cloak and sword would be needed.

  Both above and below.

  Tylar left the stairs and headed toward the quarters of their one ally here. Gerrod Rothkild. The bronze-armored master knew these levels better than any. But Tylar sought Gerrod for another purpose, too. According to Kathryn, he had been studying the cursed rogue skull and examining its traces of seersong, a measure of dark Grace still locked within the bones. If they were to withstand the threat hidden out in the storm, knowledge could prove mightier than any diamond-pommeled sword.

  But as he turned a corner, Tylar saw he was not the only one seeking Gerrod’s attention this night. The master’s door lay open ahead. Firelight shone into the dark hallway, bathing two figures.

  Master Hesharian stood with a thinner figure in a master’s robes.

  “I will not be thwarted,” the rotund master declared. “Any study into dark arts must be sanctioned by the Council.”

  “There is nothing dark in my studies here,” Gerrod answered, hidden within his doorway, blocking the way. From the slight ringing muffle of his words, Tylar could tell that Kathryn’s friend had secured his helmet. “And I will not have my work disturbed at this delicate juncture. So unless you have a signed edict to violate my door, I will ask you to leave me to my studies.”

  “If I find out otherwise…” A hard threat echoed behind Hesharian’s words. “Now is not the time for secrets when talk of daemons rings in our own halls.”

  Tylar approached, interceding. “If it is daemons you seek, Master Hesharian, then I’ve come in a most timely manner.”

  Hesharian turned at his words, as did his companion. The thinner master’s milky gaze fixed upon Tylar, faltering his step. The tattoos of the man’s mastered disciplines seemed to twitch in the flickering hearthlight, like spiders skittering across his bald pate. Then he stepped back from the doorway and into shadows.

  Tylar spoke as he reached them. “The castellan’s page h
as been captured. The one accused of summoning daemons. She is to be soothed as we speak.”

  Hesharian’s eyes widened in recognition of who stood before him. “Lord Regent,” he said formally, after tripping over his words for a breath. “How may I be of assistance to you?”

  “For the moment, you can best serve Tashijan by joining Warden Fields. Matters move quickly. I’ve come at the request of the castellan to fetch a master to attend the soothing in the adjudicators’ chamber. She sent me to ask Master Rothkild-”

  “Then it is timely indeed that you have come upon me,” Hesharian interrupted, stepping forward and half-blocking the doorway. “For such a dark soothing, it is only fitting that the head of the Council be in attendance.”

  “Of course. I’m sure Kathryn meant no slight.”

  “I’m sure,” he answered with faint enthusiasm. “And besides, it seems Master Rothkild is much too busy with his studies at the moment. Master Orquell and I will answer the castellan’s summons. I’m sure she will appreciate my personal attention.”

  Tylar offered a bow of his head in feigned gratitude. Master Hesharian and his elderly companion set off toward the stairs, pushing past them with hardly a glance back.

  Still, Rogger slumped into Tylar’s shadow as if not wanting to be noticed. Tylar glanced to his friend, but he merely shook his head, his eyes shadowed with worry. Tylar waited until the two masters vanished beyond the bend in the corridor before turning back to Gerrod.

  The bronze master glowed in the firelight. “Thank you for driving Hesharian from my doorstep.” He edged back into his room, inviting Tylar and Rogger inside with a whirring wave of his arm. “I can only guess there was a greater purpose in drawing off the head of the Council.”

  Tylar nodded. “Best he is out from underfoot. We have much to discuss.” He quickly related all that had happened in the past half bell, from the storm’s threat to Dart’s apprehension. “As Kathryn works above, we must work below. Word must spread through the Masterlevels. We must be prepared.”

  Gerrod nodded, expressionless behind his bronze mask. “But prepared against what?”