But then those eyes opened and destroyed the illusion.
An ancient wickedness shone forth, born of too sharp an intelligence. There was a leering quality to the glint.
Dart bit back a gasp.
“Wyrd Bennifren,” Tylar said formally.
The babe wiped milky spittle from his lips with a pudgy arm. “You look like rotted shite, Tylar.” The voice was reedy and thin-childlike but far from childish. It made the hairs on Dart’s body quiver with revulsion. “Crook-backed and hobbling. Not much of a godslayer now.”
“Either way, here I am. We’ve come to offer terms for the knowledge you possess.”
“You bring the skull, then?” the child asked hungrily.
From the side, Krevan answered, “A piece of it. All that is left. The rest was destroyed in fires up in Saysh Mal.”
“That was not our agreement, Raven ser Kay.”
“Our agreement, by your sworn word as the free leader of the Wyrdling clans, was to bring you all that remains of Keorn, son of Chrism. So we have done. You must honor your bargain.”
The babe sneered, a frightening expression on such a small face, like a sewer rat given human countenance. “Then let us be done with the matter.” He turned to study Tylar up and down. “It seems this is a night to settle many debts. Follow me.” Guided by some silent signal, the slack-jawed woman heaved around like a foundering ship and headed off along the flooded bank. Babe and woman rounded a cluster of rocks to reveal a fire blazing amid a circle of standing stones.
Dart glanced to them. Dancing firelight revealed cryptic marks inscribed into the stones’ faces. She recognized them from historical texts back at school. It was the old human written language, all straight lines, little warmth, guttural in appearance.
Wyrd Bennifren led them to logs rolled close to the fire. Flagons of ale and fresh water waited, along with carved bowls piled high with spiced dry meats, hard cheeses, and strange berries as crimson as blood. It was a bountiful fare for such a dreadful gathering in a dark, flooded wood.
Still, bellies did not judge.
Once they were settled in, Krevan spoke around a mouthful of rabbit. “You swore to know more about the rogue god Keorn. Secrets of interest to us, to the girl.” He nodded to Dart. “The Black Flaggers waged significant resources to discover Keorn’s fate and to bring you a piece of that god. It is time for you to make full payment.”
“The Wyr honor their bonded word,” Bennifren said. He was nestled in the dull woman’s lap. One hand pawed her teat, half absently, half lasciviously. “But I also know that you’ve already gleaned much about Keorn on your journey out and back. Still, there are more secrets known only to us. Secrets whispered in the ear of the raving, thought never to be repeated.”
“Spoken to whom?” Tylar asked.
“This one’s mother, for one,” Bennifren said, his gaze drifting to Dart. “It can be lonely when you’re the only sighted man in a world full of the blind. That was Keorn. He bore some special Grace that kept him at the edge of raving but never beyond.”
Tylar shared a silent glance with Rogger. Both were careful not to look at Brant. Better the Wyr didn’t know about his stone.
“But even a god has needs,” Bennifren said. He tugged hard on the woman’s nipple, earning a yip of surprise that quickly subsided back to dullness again. “Like when he bedded that godling’s mother. He told her many things, secret things that he thought she would forget when the ravings took hold again. But when his seed took root, he protected her, sheltered her with his steadying Grace. During that time, balanced on that fine edge of madness, she whispered his secrets. And we were there, listening, drawn by the rare birth.”
Dart shivered despite the fire’s warmth. He was speaking about her birth.
“What sort of secrets?” Tylar asked.
Bennifren grinned with malicious delight. “Secrets about a father and son at odds.”
“Chrism and his son?”
Bennifren nodded to Tylar. “I’ve heard what the daemon claimed when you confronted him in Chrismferrry last year. How it was Chrism himself who forged Rivenscryr in their old world, wielded it during a great war there, and in doing so, accidentally split his world, sundered land and people, casting them adrift to settle here as flesh, naethryn, and aethryn.”
“So he claimed.”
“And it was just that… a claim. While all was true about the Sundering, what was not true was that Chrism forged your sweet sword.”
Tylar’s hand drifted to the gold hilt.
“Chrism had a lust for power, and he candled those desires in the reflections of sword blades. He constructed a private smithy where he designed and forged weapons of great edge and balance.” Bennifren pointed a pink finger at the other blade on Tylar’s belt. “Who do you think designed the shape and form of your knightly swords?”
Rogger nodded. “He’s right there. It was Chrism. According to ancient texts. He offered that first sword to the last human king, the one who founded the shadowknights, as thanks and a bond between them. All other swords were patterned after that first.”
“So you see,” Bennifren said, “a heart’s desire is not so easy to shed. Even after he was sundered, Chrism’s desire was too large to split away entirely. His fascination with swords. Perhaps that’s why his aspect of Grace, once settled, revealed a heart of loam. A love not so much of root and leaf as of iron and ore.”
Tylar stared at the two swords on his hip. “So Chrism had nothing to do with Rivenscryr’s actual forging?”
“Exactly. He only wielded the sword-or perhaps it wielded him, in the end. It was a weapon too powerful, beyond his understanding.”
“Then who forged it?” Krevan asked, clearly perturbed.
Bennifren’s ancient eyes looked upon Dart slyly. But she already knew the truth. The way her blood ignited the sword, her blasted heritage-there could only be one answer.
“It was my father,” Dart said.
All eyes turned for confirmation to the small Wyr-lord. He seemed to enjoy their shock. “Like father, like son. It seemed the passion for the blade was passed to the son. But it was not the power of the sword that fascinated Keorn as much as it was the artistry of the honed blade. His passion lay in seeking the perfect sword. That he got from his mother, for a son is only half his father. His mother inspired him equally, gifting him with a questioning mind, a love for knowledge, and an appreciation for hidden secrets. At her knee, he was taught arcane rites, and in turn, he forged powerful insights and secrets into the steel of the sword, creating a formidable weapon like no other.”
“And Chrism stole it,” Tylar said.
“How could he not? His lust overcame his caution. He used it during the war and sundered everything in his ignorance.”
Bennifren then smiled, showing his toothless gums. “And therein lies a good lesson. You must be careful how far you reach. Better to be large here.” He tapped his head. “And have shorter arms. Keeps one wiser where one reaches.”
Krevan sighed, his face tight with irritation. “So the rogue forged the Godsword. What does any of this-?”
Bennifren raised his tiny arm, silencing the pirate. “Patience is also a virtue of the wise.” He turned to the others. “For you see, Keorn wanted no part of his father’s war, and he certainly did not want his perfect creation wielded in it. So the last secret Keorn imparted to the mother of his child, his most heartfelt private shame, was that he had damaged his own sword. He built a flaw into it. He made it imperfect.”
Dart felt a sickening lurch in her stomach.
Bennifren’s sibilant voice made the final truth so much more horrible. “It was this flaw as much as Chrism’s wielding that led to the end of their world. This was Keorn’s final secret to his ravening mate, a secret he never intended be known. As much as Chrism, Keorn was to blame for the Sundering that destroyed their world.”
A stunned silence followed.
“Like father, like son,” Rogger finally mumbled.
“So I’d be careful how you wield that sword,” Bennifren warned. “That flaw still remains.”
“But what was it?” Krevan asked. “What did Keorn do?”
Tiny shoulders shrugged. “I don’t think the how weighed on the god’s mind as much as the end result. He never whispered that secret across a pillow. But plainly his guilt ate like a worm in the belly. We believe that is why he protected the growing child, kept the mother from raving long enough to give birth to his daughter, someone whose blood could forge the sword anew.”
“But why go through the effort if the blade was flawed?” Tylar asked.
“Because of what we found later, when we were hunting Keorn through the hinterlands,” Bennifren said. “The god lost us, but we found his trail again.”
Dart remembered the first crumb of that trail. How could she forget? She could still feel the cold of her garret as Krevan wrote the name of her father on the wall in Littick sigils, a name found at the bottom of a piece of hide tacked to an elder’s wall in a hinter-village.
“That scrabbled missive,” Bennifren continued, “inked in Keorn’s own blood. We never did reveal what those words said, only that it was signed by Keorn.”
The Wyr-lord allowed the weight of his words to hang like a raised sword. Then he finally spoke again. “His words were few, already showing a hint of seersong in his inked blood, possibly his last words before he was swallowed up.”
“What did he write?” Brant asked, speaking for the first time, suspense loosening his tongue.
Bennifren didn’t even glance his way, but he did answer his question. “‘The sword must be forged again, made whole to free us all.’”
Tylar stirred. “So there is a way to make the sword complete.”
“And he offered no word about the flaw?” Krevan asked again.
“If you’d found him sooner…before he was just skull and curse…” Bennifren shrugged.
Krevan kept his lips tight, brows hard. “The Flaggers spent much time and coin to just buy whispers and old secrets that bear little weight in the here and now.”
“I believe you’ve been paid well for a sliver of bone,” Bennifren said, his face reddening. “Do not question the honor of our word because you bargained so poorly.”
Krevan began to rise, but Bennifren waved him down.
“Then I will give you something as solid as rock to finish this deal. Something you can touch-though it may burn you.”
Tylar waved Krevan to patience. “What?”
Bennifren again turned those eyes toward Dart. “The Godsword is as much his mother’s inspiration as his father’s. If you are looking for a way to discover more about the sword, perhaps you should start there. I wager that is why Keorn fled down here after Dart’s birth.”
“Why?” she asked.
“He came looking for his mother’s counsel and advice,” Bennifren answered and pointed to the south.
Through a break in the canopy, the mountain blocked the stars. Its flanks flowed with molten streams, bright in the darkness. Fiery tears-not just for a daughter but perhaps also for a son.
“Takaminara was Keorn’s mother.”
Tylar stood up, half in shock, half to better view the volcanic peak. He rested a hand on Dart’s shoulder. He felt her tremble under his touch, her eyes fixed to the same fiery peak. He understood her distress. Buried within the mountain lay not only a god but something she must have been searching for her entire life.
A part of her family.
A great-mother.
“Then the Huntress-Miyana,” Brant said. “She was Keorn’s sister.”
Lorr mumbled, “At the end, he must have been trying to reach her.”
Dart shivered. In days, she had gained an entire family, one drenched in blood and terror. Both in the distant past…and now again.
But any further family reunion would have to wait.
The rogues had to be found.
Tylar turned to Bennifren, but his hobbled knee almost toppled him into the flame. He had been sitting for too long after the hard march.
Bennifren noted his discomfort. “I believe I’ve met my debt well and then some. But there is another debt yet to settle. You were wise in your negotiations in the past, but our bargain has long grown stale.” He eyed Tylar up and down. “And as shiteful as you look now, I fear what is owed will be lost. Especially knowing where you must venture. I believe it time you honored your word, too.”
Tylar inwardly groaned, but he kept his face calm. He walked off and motioned for Bennifren to follow. Rogger and Krevan trailed with them, but Tylar waved the others to their meal. Here was a matter he wanted settled with less of an audience.
Stepping out of the ring of firelight, he faced Bennifren. He had no intention of freely cooperating, and he stated it firmly now. “As you recall, time was a condition of our bargain. My time, my place. I see no reason to relinquish it now.”
“True and well said.” Bennifren’s eyes narrowed behind soft lashes, a wicked gleam of cunning shining through in the dark. “I would think less of you if you had settled without remapping a new bargain. So let me tell you this. We have not been idle while you’ve been traipsing about. The Wyr are well-known here in the hinterlands, valued for our purse as well as expertise. Over these past days, we’ve spent our coin and time well and discovered something that might pry that stubborn seed from your loins.”
Tylar waited. When it came to the Wyr, silence was often the best shield during any negotiations.
“For the last humour you owe us,” Bennifren continued, “we offer you a special encouragement. We offer you maps of the hinterlands.”
“We have maps,” Tylar said dryly.
“But do your maps have the location of the enslaved rogues marked upon them?”
Tylar stared, struggling not to show the depth of his desire.
“And traced upon our maps is the safest route by which to reach the gods,” Bennifren added. “All this, for a few moments of your time…”
Tylar felt the other two men’s eyes upon him. With such a map, the search would be measured in bells rather than days. He could not refuse. All of Tashijan hung in the balance.
Still, he hesitated. Off to the right, he noted Meylan leaning against the pinnacle, buried in shadow, her face lit up by the pipe she was smoking. Her sisters were spread out in groups and singly.
Bennifren misunderstood his attention. “Whichever woman you want-I’ve heard she and her sisters are quite skilled.”
Tylar went cold at that thought, but he also knew he had no choice. The bargain had to be settled, and the offer of the rogues’ location was a price he could not refuse.
He faced Bennifren. “I’ll go along with your new bargain.” He held up one finger. “A single sample for all your maps. Then our deal is finished.”
“Done and bound.” Bennifren waved a small arm in a grand gesture. “I can bring you whichever woman you’d like to help you loosen your seed. Or if you so prefer, a man-or a child.”
“That won’t be necessary,” he said coldly. “A bit of privacy will be enough.”
“This way, then.” Bennifren turned away, carried by his milk mare. “All is ready. You can use my tent. It is the last and largest.”
Tylar noted where he pointed and motioned for Krevan and Rogger to stay. This was a duty that did not require their attendance. He headed toward the tent with Bennifren.
Rogger called after to him. “Remember-don’t work too hard!” Then in the next breath, he added, “No! I take that back! In this matter…”
Tylar shook his head, blocking out the thief’s next words as he rounded the rock, glad to be rid of Rogger. This duty would be difficult enough to accomplish.
“I’ll have a repostilary for your humour brought to you,” Bennifren said and guided his woman off to the sid
e. “And don’t worry, you’ll have your privacy.”
Tylar kept his gaze fixed on the tent ahead. He had never spilled his seed for the sake of Grace. Not even at Chrismferry. He had shared all his other humours with varying degrees of humiliation. But he had always refused to relinquish this one humour, one of the most powerful, second only to blood. It allowed Grace to be imbued into living tissue, essential for a great many alchemies. But there were plenty of gods out there already. As regent, he saw no need to contribute to this storehouse himself.
Until now.
For the sake of Tashijan, he had to relent. No matter what foul alchemies were to be performed on his seed, it was a debt that must be paid. As he walked alone now, he remembered the only child ever birthed from his seed. Long dead, winnowed by grief while in the womb. Had his seed always been cursed?
This dark thought reminded him of Kathryn, of better times, of moments they shared when life was bright and the days seemed endless before them. Now he knew better. He knew it was a black bargain being completed here, but it was done in the hopes of again returning the world to brighter times.
If not for him, at least for others.
He reached the tent and pulled open the hide flap. Ducking inside, he noted that no lamp burnt, and the thick leather shut out the stars and the moon. He dropped the flap behind him, happy for the darkness, better to hide his shame. But could he hide from himself?
He would not find out.
Somebody already hid here.
From the back, where the darkness was thickest, shadows stirred and birthed a figure in a cloak to match his. A fair face shone back out at him, lit by eyes that flashed with dread fire.
The black ghawl swept toward him, sword raised.
“Perryl…”
Brant approached Dart. She had wandered to the bank of the flooded forest when the strange Wyr-lord and the regent had stepped away to discuss the fate of an old bargain.
She sat on a narrow sandy strand, hugging her knees. She had pulled up the hood of her half cloak against the growing chill.
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