Shadowfall

by James Clemens

  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.”

  It seemed sleep was not the only thing this thief had been feigning. There was more to the man than first impressed. “Who are you?” Tylar asked.

  Rogger started to wag a finger at him, then thought better of it and used it to dig a flea out of his beard. “Just a thief and a pilgrim.” An eyebrow rose as he paused in his scratching. “Or rather should I say I’m as much a thief and pilgrim . . . as you are a knight?”

  Tylar’s head hurt from trying to riddle meaning out of these strange words. “Are you truly on a pilgrimage? Was your story of Balger’s punishment true?”

  “Alas, as true as the stripes on my back, I’m afraid. But one story does not make an entire man, does it?”

  Tylar had to agree. “You mentioned hearing other grim tidings on your journeys. What sort of happenings?”

  “Rumors, whispers in the night, tales of black blessings and ilk-beasts stirring from the hinterlands. Your young friend has barely nicked the flesh on what’s really going on, but he still hit the heart of the matter. Something is indeed stirring out there.”

  “What?”

  “How in the naether should I know?” Rogger rolled back to his straw billet. “And now that I finally have a bit of quiet, maybe I could get some true sleep. I doubt we’ll get much rest this night.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “The bells, ser knight, the bells.”

  Tylar had almost forgotten. Meeryn’s deathwatch ended with the rising of the Mother moon. The death bells would announce her passing. They would surely peal all night.

  He settled back to his own bed and pondered all that had be
en told him. But his thoughts kept returning to one moment—or rather one word.

  Rivenscryr.

  What did it mean? Why had Meeryn blessed him, healed him? Was it for him to be her champion, as Perryl had suggested? Was this word supposed to mean something to him?

  Tylar sensed something unspoken in Perryl. The young man had paled with the mention of Rivenscryr. But if Perryl knew more, why hadn’t he spoken?

  There could be only one answer.

  Perryl must have sworn an oath. While the young knight might show his face to a man who had once been his teacher, even protect him, he would never break an oath.

  Perryl had learned that much from Tylar.

  Rolling to his side, Tylar tried to stop thinking, stop remembering.

  It hurt too much.

  Tylar startled awake in his bed, sitting up. He vaguely remembered dreams of being crippled again . . . and now waking to his hale body, he felt oddly disappointed. His broken body had sheltered him, hidden him these long years, requiring nothing of him but survival. But now Tylar had to face the world again, a whole man.

  He groaned.

  From beyond the lone window, hundreds of bells pealed, ringing and clanging. The noise was deafening.

  He glanced upward. Full night had set in. Evening mists flowed in through the high barred window, pouring down like a foggy waterfall. His eyes grew accustomed to the gloom and spotted Rogger across the cell. The thief was standing under the window, bathed in mists.

  “It’s all over,” Rogger said, noting him stir. “The Hundred are now ninety-nine.”

  Tylar stood, joining him. He had heard the sorrow in the other’s voice. Despite the thief’s calculating and dismissive demeanor earlier, the man understood the loss, felt it deeply.

  “This is just the beginning,” Rogger mumbled. “The first blood spilled. More will flow . . . much more . . .”

  Though the night remained hot and muggy, Tylar shivered. Bells rang and rang, echoing out to sea and beyond. Cries could be heard rising in the night, mournful, pained, angry, frightened. Prayers were sung from a tower top, cast out to the skies.

  The pair in the cell remained silent, standing under the window for a long stretch. Rogger finally turned away, staring at Tylar. “You talk in your sleep, ser knight.”

  “So? What does it—?”

  Rogger cut him off. “You were speaking in Littick, ancient Littick, the old tongue of the gods.”

  Tylar found this claim doubly odd. First, he was hardly fluent in Littick. And second, how did a thief from the Dell even recognize Littick, especially ancient Littick? “What did I say?” he asked, expecting no real answer.

  “You were whispering. It was hard to make out.”

  “Yet you’re sure it was Littick.”

  “Of course. What I did make out was clear enough. You kept saying, ‘Agee wan clyy nee wan dred ghawl.’ Over and over again.”

  Tylar pinched his brow. “What does that mean?”

  Rogger pulled on his beard in thought. “It’s nonsensical.”

  “Then it’s probably nothing. Dream babble, nothing more.”

  Rogger seemed not to hear him. “ ‘Agee wan clyy’ . . . break the bone. ‘Nee wan dred ghawl’ . . . and free the dark spirit.”

  Tylar waved the words away. “As I was saying, dream babble.”

  “Then again,” Rogger continued, “clyy could mean body, rather than bone. Depends on the emphasis.” The thief sighed. “And you were whispering.”

  “How do you know Littick so well?”

  Rogger dropped his hand from his beard. “Because I once taught it.”

  Before Tylar could inquire about such an oddity, voices arose from the hall, right outside the door. The peal of bells had covered the sound of approach.

  Both men turned as the door was yanked open.

  Castillion guards filled the hall, including the captain who had spat at Tylar days ago and named him Godslayer. The dungeonkeep backed aside to let in two others: one cowled in a bloodred robe that glowed ruddily in the darkness, rich in Graces, and one dressed formally in gray with silver rings on each finger and ear.

  A soothmancer and an adjudicator.

  Their eyes fell on Tylar.

  The gray figure stepped forward. “Tylar de Noche, you are to present yourself to the Summer Mount Court to be soothed and judged.”

  Guards sidled in with swords drawn. The captain followed, carrying clanking iron manacles for wrist and ankle.

  Rogger backed aside, mumbling, “It seems your friend’s cloak was thinner than even he supposed.”

  Tylar did not fight his manacles, even when they were snapped too tightly, pinching. Perryl was leaving as soon as the deathwatch had ended. These others must have come for him as soon as he boarded the flippercraft and was away. So much for respecting the command of a Shadowknight.

  Poked in the back by the point of a sword, he was led out of the cell.

  “Bring the pilgrim god-sinner,” the soothmancer commanded from under the cowl of his red robe. “His guilt is as plain as the brands on his flesh. On this mournful night, we will cleanse our house of all who have blasphemed. The way must be pure to grieve the loss of the Brightness of the Isles.”

  The adjudicator nodded and waved to the guards.

  There were no additional manacles, so Rogger was simply grabbed and hauled.

  They were led roughly down the rows of cells and up the long winding stairs into the central keep of Summer Mount, rising out of the dank darkness of the island’s natural stone and into the sunbaked brick and tapestried walls of the castillion. The odors of piss and blood were replaced by the scent of braziers smoking with incenses: sweetwood, dried clove, and sprigs of thistledown.

  The scents of the isles . . . in memory of Meeryn.

  The deeper into the castillion they traveled, the more cloying the odor became. Braziers burned everywhere, as if death and grief could be smoked out and away. Every mirror they passed was shattered to hide the faces of those mourning. Black drapes covered windows to hold back the sun.

  And over it all, bells rang and rang. Children dressed in black finery ran the halls, even among the guards, carrying small cymbals, clanging away, meant to chase away ghosts. It was supposed to be an act of grief, but spatters of laughter trailed the wake of the little ones. Death was not their concern, not even the death of their god.

  More somber figures stood at doorways, bearing witness to the procession through the castillion. Tylar was cursed, spat at. Many carried silver bells, ringing them violently toward him as if trying to beat him with the noise.

  At last, they reached the doors that led into the central court. They were flung wide, and Tylar and Rogger were led into the spacious hall beyond. The heavy doors closed behind them, rows of guards falling into place. The great hall, muffled from the bells beyond, seemed deadly silent.

  Tylar stared at the court. It was plainly adorned, unlike some gods’ courts. The walls were painted white, simply decorated with frescoes of twining vines and small purple flowers. Eight windows, thickly draped in black, lined one wall, facing the sea.

  Aligned against the opposite wall stood seven figures, draped like the windows. They might have been statues, except for slight movements, the turn of a head, the shift of an arm. Tylar guessed who they were. The Hands to Meeryn, men and women in service to the late god, numbered eight, one for each bodily humour. But only seven stood here now. One was missing.

  Rogger noted them, too, and whispered under his breath, “They’ll all need a new trade now.”

  Tylar remained focused ahead. A high bench crossed the breadth of the court. Only two figures sat there, dressed in gray like their fellow adjudicator. Past their shoulders, a tall seat rose. Meeryn’s throne, empty now, but seeming to bear her presence still.

  The group was led before the high bench. The adjudicator who had collected Tylar from the dungeons climbed the steps and took his seat with the other two adjudicators. An old woman sat in the center, har
d-eyed and stoic.

  “Tylar de Noche,” she said. “You know why you are brought before this court. To be soothed and judged for the death of Meeryn, the Brightness and Light of the Summering Isles.” Her voice cracked slightly upon naming her god. “How do you speak?”

  Thrust forward, Tylar stumbled toward the lone chair. Painted red, it stood before the high bench. He knew the procedure well enough, having attended such trials before from both sides. “I swear to all assembled here that I had no hand in the death of the god Meeryn. I am innocent.”

  “So you have claimed before,” the other adjudicator said. He appeared even older than the woman, heavy with weight and age, sagging in his seat. “The honorable Perryl ser Corriscan has informed us of your past and your fall from grace. He also vouched for you, asking for a stay in this court until the matter could be attended in Tashijan.”

  “The Shadowknights have always served the gods and the realms,” Tylar pressed, hoping that Perryl’s request might still be honored. “I would bow to the Courts of Tashijan in this matter.”

  “As you have once before,” the adjudicator that brought him here said. “They let you live when you should have been slain for murder so foul. If they had attended their duties without sympathy to one of their own, Meeryn might still live.”

  Tylar held back a groan. They thought Tashijan had been lenient upon him. If anything, the opposite was true. But his word would not be believed. The folk here had no faith in far-off Tashijan.

  He tried another tactic. “A court of this import must be attended by those of the Order.” Shadowknights were required to be present at trials of murder or serious offense.

  “Then it’s good fortune I returned from the outer islands this very night,” a new voice interrupted. Shadows shifted near the back wall and a figure unfolded from the darkness, revealing himself. A Shadowknight. Cloaked and featureless behind his masklin. “My name is Darjon ser Hightower, the last of those sworn to Meeryn, the last still living. And before I see my duty done among these islands, I will see her avenged. So fear not, the Order is represented here.”