Brant realized they must be within the very trunk itself.
Gooseflesh prickled his skin.
They continued to the end…where a single plain door stood closed.
Matron Dreyd knocked softly. “Mistress, I have the boy named Brant.”
Silence answered her.
The matron glanced back to Brant, then back to the door. She lifted her arm to knock again-then words whispered through.
“Send him in. Alone.”
The matron nodded, though her mistress plainly could not see her assent. She stepped back and motioned Brant to the door. “Go inside.”
Brant took a deep breath, then reached for the latch.
Fingers gripped his shoulder, stopping him.
“Do not upset her.”
Brant glanced up to her. She clasped a hand over her mouth as if surprised the words had escaped her. His shoulder was released, and he was pushed forward.
Hands in full tremble now, Brant tried the latch, found it unlocked, and creaked the door open. A slightly foul smell wormed through the spiced oil.
Brant glanced again to the matron. He was shooed inside, but the matron’s words were stuck in his head. Do not upset her.
He had no choice. He stepped into the room.
The space was small, almost cozy, oval-shaped, with a low-domed roof and a hearth on the far side that glowed with red embers, the flames long died away. Still, it was the only light in the room. The glow washed over the walls and roof, bathing it in dark crimson. Brant noted the graining, all whorls and rings. This was no planked construction, but a chamber hewn from the tree itself.
The Heartroom.
On the far side, a chair rested before the hearth, alongside a small table. A single figure sat there.
Brant froze at the threshold.
“Do not fear, Brant, son of Rylland. Come forward.”
The words were spoken with soft assurance, sweetly melodic, though with a deep trace of melancholy. It spoke to the sorrow in his own heart.
He crept forward, unsure if he should bow or scrape a knee. He circled wide, edging around the oval room, attempting to keep as much distance between him and the speaker.
The Huntress of Saysh Mal.
One of the Hundred gods of Myrillia.
She sat, head bowed, brow resting on her folded hands, elbows on either arm of her chair, a posture of forlorn concentration. She was dressed in green leathers and white silk, a simple hunter’s cut. As he stepped into view, she lifted her head. Eyes glowed at him, rich in Grace. Even her skin seemed to shine with a waxen sheen.
He sagged to his knees.
A cascade of curls, as dark as shadow, framed her dark skin. Full lips formed the ghost of a smile, like a memory of innocence. Brant felt himself stir, deeper than his loins.
“I knew your father,” she said, glancing away, releasing him. She stared into the dying embers. “He was a great hunter.”
Brant stared at the floor, unable to speak.
“I’m sure you still miss him.”
Grief and pride freed his voice to a quiet squeak. “Yes, mistress, with all my heart.”
“Just so. He sifted many great treasures out of our sea here. A pelt of a balelion. The head of a manticrye. The antlered rack of the rare teppin-ra. Did you know teppin-ra comes from ancient Littick? Tepp Irya. Meaning fierce buck.”
“No, mistress.”
“So much forgotten…” She sighed. She remained silent for several breaths. Long enough for Brant to peek up.
Her gaze had shifted to the table at her side. A single object rested there, draped in black sailcloth, which appeared damp as it reflected the ember’s glow.
“But this was the greatest treasure your father ever attended.”
Curiosity drew Brant straighter.
She reached to the heavy cloth and tugged it free. Brant caught again the waft of stench. Only now did he recognize it. Black bile.
Dread flared in his chest.
In the ember-light, the skull glowed like blood.
At his throat, a fire exploded. Gasping, he clutched at the stone, the bit of rock that had been rolled to his toes by the dying rogue. The same fire that had consumed the trespassing god had come to claim him. Brant tore at his jerkin, ripping hooks.
The Huntress seemed oblivious, focused on the skull.
“He brought this to me…not knowing…surely not knowing.”
Brant cried out, digging for the stone. He had known his father had collected the skull after the god’s body burnt. He had picked it free of the ashes with the tip of an arrow through an eye socket. He had wrapped it in his own cloak. Brant had not known what had become of it. Of course, his father would have brought word here, of such a trespass by a rogue god. But afterward, Brant assumed the foul thing had eventually been destroyed or laid to rest in some manner. All but forgotten.
The only remnant of the frightening adventure was the small black rock, no bigger than the end of his thumb. His father had let him keep it so long as he swore to tell no one of it. The stone was a secret bond between father and son.
And now the stone meant to burn him to ash.
The Huntress finally seemed to note his writhing. At some point, he had collapsed to the floor. She rose to her feet.
“Do you hear its call, too?” She drifted toward him. “Poor boy. It can’t be resisted. I try to stay away, to keep it steeped in the blackest of biles, but still it calls. Day and night. And now I hear words…but I can’t quite understand…not yet. Only that somewhere it asked for you.”
Brant gasped out, “Help me…”
She knelt next to him, her face strangely calm as he burnt.
“I wish I could.”
She reached out and touched his cheek. Where her fingers touched, a cooling balm pushed back the searing agony. But the pain had to go somewhere.
The Huntress screamed.
Brant forgot the remaining burn. He struggled to roll away from her touch. He could not let her come to harm. But her fingers dragged down into his cheek and, nails scraping, her hand grabbed his throat. His skin flamed with her touch, more fiery than even the stone. Her eyes fixed upon him. The Grace within her flared brighter.
“No…you must not be here. You must go.” These words were spoken with a sudden intensity, shedding the strange malaise that had haunted her earlier words. She threw him aside by the neck. He smelled his burning flesh. Then the stone flared anew at his chest with its own flaming agony.
He writhed on the floor.
She stumbled to the table and ripped the bile-encrusted cloth back over the skull. The flames from the stone immediately vanished. He pawed at his chest, expecting crisped skin and burnt bone. But all he found was smooth skin. There was not even a residual warmth.
Not so his throat.
Where she had throttled him, his skin blistered and weeped.
The Huntress stood by the table, trembling from head to toe.
A pounding erupted from the door. “Mistress!”
Brant recognized the shadowknight who had led him here. They must have all heard the god shriek.
“Attend me! Now!” she barked out.
Brant remained on his knees on the floor.
The Huntress turned to him as the door burst open and a flow of shadows swept into the room, shredding into individual knights. Brant kept his focus on his god. He watched the flare of Grace subside in her eyes.
But before it was gone completely, she shoved an arm toward him. “Take him, chain him, get him out of my land by nightfall.”
Brant’s mind refused to make sense of her words.
Her eyes bore upon him, fading with Grace, full of sorrow and certainty. “I banish him.”
A world and a lifetime away, Brant wept in a chair. He could not stop the tears. He had told no one of his full story, his full shame, until this moment.
Tylar came forward and placed a hand on his shoulder.
Rogger had sheathed his dagger. “You and your father witnes
sed the rogue’s trespass and demise?”
Brant nodded.
The bearded man shared a studied glance with the regent.
Tylar tilted up Brant’s chin to examine the scar. “And you’ve been marked by a god, too,” he mumbled and stepped back.
The regent’s hand drifted to his shadowcloak.
Brant knew that beneath that blessed cloth Tylar bore the black handprint of a god, pressed into his chest by Meeryn of the Summering Isles, branding him a godslayer. He met the regent’s eye, sensing some bond between them-for better or worse.
“May I see this burning talisman of yours?” Tylar asked. “This stone.”
Brant reached up and tugged the black stone free. Tylar leaned down and reached for it.
“Take care with that,” Rogger warned.
The tall stranger edged closer, one hand on the serpent-headed pommel of his sword.
Tylar picked up the stone between two fingers. Nothing happened. He turned it around, examining all the surfaces. “Appears like a shard of rock, rough-hewn. I sense no great power here.”
“Let me see.”
Rogger shouldered up and bent down.
Tylar stepped back and to the black-cloaked stranger. “Did the Wyr mention anything about a black stone associated with the skull?”
“No,” the other intoned dourly.
“Those Wyr-lords do like to keep their secrets.” Rogger straightened, a fist resting on one hip. “But there must be a connection. I find it awful fateful that this boy ends up trapped here with us. The skull and the stone brought together again.”
“But is that a boon or a curse?” Tylar asked. “If the Huntress exiled him, banishing him away, perhaps she thought it best to keep them as far apart as possible. The way we keep Dart and the sword separated.”
“I don’t think we can place too much weight on the Huntress’s word. It sounds like the seersong had already sapped her in some way.”
Brant finally found his voice. “Is it true? The rogue’s skull? The one possessed by the Huntress is here? How…?”
Tylar nodded to his companion, permitting him to speak. “He should know.”
Rogger sighed and related his own experience in Saysh Mal. His description of the state of affairs in Brant’s former home helped push back his grief, replacing it with anger and horror. Over the four years he had been here in the First Land, ruin had settled over the cloud forest and its denizens.
All because of a cursed skull.
One Brant’s father had carried into the land.
“I would see this skull destroyed,” he said.
“Well, that’s the slippery part,” Rogger said. “We left it in a rather precarious situation. It’s down there with those daemon knights that you so kindly rooted out for us.”
Brant stood up, almost bumping the regent. “We must get it free from there!”
“We intend to,” Tylar said. “And after your tale, I think it’s even more important that we do so immediately.”
“Then you’ll destroy it?” Brant asked. There could be no question that it was riddled with black Grace.
The two men’s eyes glanced to the third, the tall stranger.
“It seems we still need the skull for a bit of bartering.”
“What?”
Tylar headed for the door. “We have no time to explain.”
“I will go with you!” Brant followed.
Tylar held out a hand. “No. You are safe here.”
“Nowhere’s safe this night.”
Rogger nodded. “The boy’s right there. And somehow he and his rock are tied to this skull’s story. It’s time we completed the tale.”
Tylar hesitated.
“Like you said,” Rogger argued. “Bringing them together is either a curse or a boon. If it’s a curse, then better it happen deep under Tashijan than up here. If it’s a boon, then the sooner we join the two the better.” He punctuated it with a shrug. “Besides, he can carry an extra torch. And right now, stone or not, that’s fine with me.”
The regent’s jaw muscles tightened. “So be it.” He forced the words out.
Brant was relieved. He would have followed them if necessary.
Others were not so certain. The back door to the room burst open and two large forms tumbled into the room.
“No, Master Brant!” Malthumalbaen shouted. “You can’t go alone. We’ll come with you!”
Tylar shared an irritated glance with his bearded friend.
“It seems someone’s been listening at our door,” Rogger said.
“Not listening,” Dralmarfillneer said. “That weren’t so. Our mammers gave us big ears. That’s all.”
“So I see. Too bad she didn’t gift you with the brains to match.”
Brant shook his head at the two giants. “Someone needs to watch the cubbies.” He dared not leave them unguarded with Liannora hovering about.
“One set of eyes is enough,” Mal said. “I’ll go and Dral can stay with them.”
“Shine my arse. The bloody nippers like you better.”
“We’ll pound for it, then.”
The two giants agreed, stepped back, and swung out with their fists, smashing them against the other. Malthumalbaen stumbled back a step. Dral kept his footing and turned triumphantly.
“Mal will stay.”
With the matter settled, the regent led them out into the hall-where a crowd had gathered, held back by the gray-cloaked woman’s sword. It seemed Sten had spread the word of the regent’s visitation. Liannora, Ryndia, and Khar stood amid a few of the captain’s guards.
“Clear the way,” Tylar demanded.
“Where are you taking a Hand of Oldenbrook?” Sten replied. “I have the right to inquire.”
Liannora stood at his shoulder. Brant suspected the inquiry and challenge truly arose from her.
“We have matters to attend below concerning the security of Tashijan. Brant has been in the cellars and his knowledge may be of assistance.”
Sten glanced between Brant and the regent. “This is the first I’ve heard of such matters.”
“And the last.” Tylar motioned for the others to head for the stairs.
Sten stumbled forward, shoved surreptitiously from behind by Liannora. “Wait!” he called. “If a Hand of Oldenbrook is to be taken from our halls, I must accompany him. The security of the retinue was placed in my charge by Lord Jessup himself. I will not shirk it, nor let it be taken from me.”
Tylar turned, face darkening, a fist forming.
Rogger stepped forward. “What’s another torch? Never hurt to have another sword, too.”
“We’ve wasted enough time here,” the tall stranger grumbled. “We’ve learned what we needed. Let us be off.”
The regent nodded. “You’re right, Krevan. Come if you may, Captain-but you’ll obey every word from here.”
Sten bowed, and Liannora smiled behind his back.
As a group, they headed toward the stairs. Brant studied the cloaked stranger’s back. Krevan. He now understood why an ash-faced member of the Black Flaggers had guarded their door.
Here was Krevan the Merciless, the leader of that black guild.
Brant also remembered the regent’s bearded friend mentioning some matter of bartering with the skull. With the Black Flaggers here, it could only mean some treachery or dark design.
Though he could not fathom what that might be, Brant knew one thing with steel certainty. No matter what the others planned, Brant would destroy the skull. Since the morning the flaming rogue had stumbled into his life, all had come to ruin.
This night, it would end.
A FIRE IN THE CELLAR
Tylar heard the shouting from down the hall. He had left the others at the landing. Ahead lay the fieldroom, where Warden Fields had set up a war council and gathered all the heads of Tashijan. The door stood ajar. Knights crowded the hall. Pages paced, ready to relay messages and commands to the various posts.
Kathryn’s voice reached him. “You
’re all being stone-headed! The skull must be fetched out of the cellars!”
Tylar hurried forward. While he had questioned the boy Brant, he had sent Kathryn ahead to meet with Argent, to lay the foundation for their request. She was supposed to have softened him by the time Tylar arrived.
Plainly that was not the case.
“Why didn’t you tell me about this skull when it was first brought here?” Argent boomed. “Such a darkly Graced item threatens all of us!”
Tylar reached the door and stopped at the threshold. Two knights drifted out of alcoves to either side, ready to hold him off, but when they spotted his bared face, they recognized him and hesitated.
Inside, Kathryn stepped to the scarred table that stretched the length of the room. It was across this same board that countless strategies had been construed and treaties signed, sometimes in blood. Around the room rose the ancient Stacks, massive scaffolding and shelves, buttressed by ladders, where maps of all the Nine Lands were stored, going back millennia, some said even before the Sundering. A more current chart of Tashijan had been tacked to the broad table with daggers. Additional rolled sheaves littered the top, all but forgotten during the heated exchange.
Kathryn continued. “We didn’t understand the full power of the skull until Master Rothkild examined it and discovered the cursed Grace locked within its bones.” She leaned on the table, palms down. “Either way, now is not the time to cast blame. Best we retrieve the skull before the force below becomes entrenched or discovers such a powerful talisman within their grasp.”
Argent scowled at her. “Who would lead such a sortie?”
Tylar stepped across the threshold. “I would.”
All eyes turned to him.
“I will take a small force below, armed with sword and flame. We’ll assault Master Rothkild’s study and be out in half a bell.”
Argent straightened, his one eye narrowing.
Beyond him, the fieldroom overlooked the tourney fields at the foot of Stormwatch, but for now the great windows were shuttered tight against the blizzard, except for one narrow pane. Movement beyond revealed a knight under a heavy cloak, posted on the small balcony to maintain a watch on the whirling storm that trapped them here.
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