Shadowfall

by James Clemens

  She hobbled to Laurelle, guided by her maid. “Come, child, let us speak.” Laurelle stepped away with the woman whom she was meant to replace. Dart noted the awe in her friend’s gaze.

  Next came Master Willym. He was younger. Fifty-two birth years. But he moved as if death had already claimed him. His gold shirt and crimson surcoat hung on a frame of bones. He teetered as he walked, supported by a servant, but he kept no cane. He shuffled into the room toward Dart and lifted a hand. His skin was luminous and translucent, showing blue veins.

  “I believe you are named Dart, is that not so?” he asked, his voice surprisingly firm, a remnant of the young man he once was. In his voice, he carried a smile warmer than the feeble curl of his trembling lips. “So you are the young lass come to take my place at my Lord’s side.”

  She curtsied again, unable to speak. This was the first time they had met. The other Hands would be introduced at the ceremony as Dart and Laurelle were formally presented and raised to their place in the court.

  She followed him to a small cushioned bench. It took him some gentle maneuvering to settle to a seat. He fell the last handspan with a heavy sigh, leaning back, eyes closed. “Ah, to have a young man’s legs and back again . . .”

  Dart hovered over him as Pupp sniffed at his pant leg. Willym finally patted the cushion beside him.

  She sat on the edge, back straight.

  He swung to face her. His eyes were cloudy, but shone with a spark of fierceness that belied his fading body. “It is custom for one handservant to speak words of comfort and reassurance to their successor.” He reached and took her fingers between his own. “But I was never one for custom.”

  He nodded over to Laurelle and Mistress Huri. The pair embraced. “I can only imagine Huri has spoken all the sweet words required with great diligence and earnestness. Such is her way.”

  Dart stared over at them. Their very poses spoke of comfort.

  Master Willym cleared his throat. His hands were cold on hers. “Instead I will share with you the counsel my esteemed predecessor instructed me with some four decades ago when I sat on this same bench.” He stared hard at Dart. “Gods live forever by sucking the life from their servants.”

  Dart gasped at such blasphemy, drawing away her hand.

  A dry chuckle escaped him. “Do not look so shocked. I saw your face as I hobbled in here. I must have worn the same expression four decades ago. It is one thing to understand the price of bearing a god’s Grace, but it is another to see its wrinkled face before you, is it not?”

  Dart gulped and kept her gaze upon the stone floor.

  “Answer me, child.”

  She swallowed hard and choked out one word. “Yes . . .”

  He struggled to sit straighter, assisted by his servant. “Face me.”

  She slowly turned.

  He took her hand again. “Listen closely. Flesh is only wood, slowly burning to ash as we age. It is green when we are young, resisting the flame, smoking with all the fervency of youth. In the middle years, life’s flame begins to lick and devour. And at the end, all will be consumed.” He patted her fingers. “Understand, to serve a god is not a loss of life span. Our fires are not snuffed out early, but only stoked higher, to burn more brightly. Do you understand?”

  Dart nodded tentatively.

  Fingers squeezed hers as he leaned back. “Then you are better than I,” he sighed. “I think what I said is all so much shite.”

  She again started.

  A true smile formed on his lips. “I guess all I can really tell you is that I do not regret my life and service. Instead, I rejoice in it. As will you. There are no fancy words I can share that can encompass what you are about to experience, to live in Grace, to shine with it, to share your life with a god.”

  Dart trembled, knowing herself unworthy of such an honor, more so now than a moment ago. She was tainted. All would soon know. Lord Chrism had failed to note her disgrace when they had first met within the Eldergarden—he clearly must have been distracted—but her secret could not withstand his full attention.

  A trembling hand reached to her chin, drawing her eyes back to Master Willym. Amusement faded to concern in his gaze. He seemed to be searching for something. After a moment, there was the faintest nod. His eyes flicked away to the room, then back again. Almost a nervous gesture. Strange in one so esteemed. His lips parted as if he were to speak again.

  A horn sounded from the larger chamber beyond.

  Willym turned, breaking the spell. He lifted an arm for his servant to take. “It begins.” For the first time, his voice sounded as tired as he looked. Helped to his feet, he led the way toward the door, joined by Mistress Huri and Laurelle.

  Matron Shashyl fussed over Dart one last time before finally letting her go. Dart took her place at Master Willym’s side.

  He kept his face forward but spoke one last bit of wisdom to her as the doors pulled open before them. “Trust only in blood . . . and your own heart. And all will be fine.”

  Dart took a deep breath, praying he was right.

  Tigre Hall was named after the great river that splits the First Land into halves. It flows through the center of Chrismferry, a township that dates from before the coming of the gods, when the river’s raging course had been forded by a ferry bridge here, the only means of crossing for a thousand reaches. Mills were built, tolls collected, and the trading post grew to a village, and the village into a township. It became a central site for trading, commerce, and countless wars. The ancient stone footings of the original bridge became the foundations for Chrism’s castillion. The very hall down which Dart now paraded stood over the Tigre River. If one listened quietly, the river could be heard passing below.

  Dart gaped around her.

  Gentlefolk and those of nobility lined the curving rows of benches that faced the central high dais and the lone chair. It was as yet empty, a seat of carved myrrwood, ebonized, tall backed, arms curling to either side in gentle waves.

  Behind the throne, a curve of smaller seats lined the back of the dais, four to each side, places for Chrism’s handservants. The seats were occupied—all except two places, of course. Dart eyed the seat to the immediate right of the throne. She knew this was her place. Laurelle’s chair awaited her, second to the left. Panic beat about Dart’s chest like a loose sparrow. She hated to be even that far from Laurelle, especially now.

  The pair trailed behind the two Grace-bled servants, hanging back, allowing the pair one last entrance into Tigre Hall as handservants to Chrism. The pace was gratingly slow. Eyes followed Dart’s every step, weighing upon her like lead. She drifted closer to Laurelle, who seemed to take the procession with easy strides. She nodded to the occasional viewer, whether out of simple courtesy or some familial acquaintance Dart knew not.

  She hung in Laurelle’s shadow. It took every bit of strength to keep her head high, shoulders straight. Her own stride must appear as graceful as a sway-backed pony.

  Laurelle caught Dart’s eye for a brief heartbeat. Her gaze flicked off to the right, indicating where she should look. Dart followed her direction, but saw nothing. Then out in the sea of folk, a small hand waved a bit of white silk, catching her attention. It was Matron Grannice, from the Conclave, the old school, her home.

  Dart fought back tears and failed. The same weakness afflicted the portly marm. The matron had to turn away. Only then did Dart spot Grannice’s escort.

  Healer Paltry stood at her side, an arm around the woman’s shoulder, comforting. His lips moved with what could only be kind words meant to soothe. But his eyes drilled toward Dart, cold and unreadable.

  Dart’s feet moved faster, a reflex to escape. A hollow pain throbbed in her belly, an echo of her attack. The mere sight of the cursed healer was like a phantom finger prodding a bruise that refused to heal. Warm tears turned cold on her cheeks.

  As she hurried forward, her toes struck the heel of Master Willym. His enfeebled pace stumbled. He went down on one knee before his startled manse
rvant could catch him up.

  Gasps and shocked exhalations spread outward, like the waves from a pebble dropped into a pond. Dart hurried to his side and helped him to his feet.

  “Please forgive me,” Dart murmured.

  Willym gained his wobbly legs, his face red. Angry? No, just flushed from exertion. He patted her hand and spoke loudly enough for those closest to hear. “Ah, Chrism’s Oracle chose well. A young lass with all the eagerness of an unbridled foal. Plainly ready to take my place. Whether I’m willing or not, it seems.”

  Gentle laughter joined his own.

  He took her under his arm in friendly fashion and waved aside his manservant, dismissing concern. But his weight leaned heavily upon Dart. He tilted his head toward her. “Be at peace, lass. But get me to my chair.”

  “I’m so sorry.”

  He smiled gently down at her. “There’s nothing to fear here.”

  An arrow pierced his throat, passing clean through. The steel tip of the bolt sailed past Dart’s left ear, whistling away, trailing a spray of blood. Master Willym’s eyes went wide as he fell upon Dart, collapsing atop her. Blood gouted from his mouth and nose.

  They fell together to the floor.

  Dart’s skull struck the stones with a ringing blow. She felt no pain, only shock.

  Screams rose around her like a whirlwind. In a daze, Dart watched Laurelle and Mistress Huri being shoved behind a bench. Nearby, Pupp ran in panicked circles around her, his molten coat as bright as golden sunshine.

  Willym lay atop her, choking on blood, bathing Dart’s throat with the last beats of his heart. His lips were at her ear, moving, attempting to speak, but all that came out was blood.

  “Be calm,” she urged him as her own vision wobbled and began to close tightly, the injury to her skull throbbing.

  Deaf to her, Willym choked a final flow, then lay still. A last breath sighed from him, bearing forth a single word, as clear as crystal. “Beware.”

  Black-booted guards tromped to their side, circling them. Several passed through Pupp as he continued his blazing vigil. They were too late. Through her chest, Dart felt the last beat of Master Willym’s heart.

  He was gone.

  She was now the lone handservant of blood, properly blessed.

  Her vision continued to shrink in on itself, to a pinpoint, then nothing. The single word followed her into oblivion.

  Beware . . .

  Dart dreamed.

  She was a child again, a babe swaddled in furs, being carried in an open wagon. Voices came from all around. A leafy bower flashed past overhead. The scent of torn loam, manure, and decay carried to her. The voices spoke in a tongue she did not understand, but they seemed frantic, yelling.

  A flash of silver swept over her face.

  A cry. A curse. A shouted call.

  Blood fountained from the left, bathing her hotly.

  She cried now, wailing.

  A face crept into view above her, tiny as a babe’s fist, shining brightly under the dark bower, more fire than bronze. He nuzzled into her, panicked, too.

  Together they cowered.

  The scent of something feral reached her, huffing behind her, rank and musky. A horse whinnied in terror. A wagon jerked under her.

  A warning reached her, beyond language, but still clear.

  Flee . . .

  Dart woke with a startled wail. She fought the hands that held her.

  Flee . . .

  “Calm yourself, child. We must clean the blood off you.”

  Her eyes focused upon Matron Shashyl, bent over her, a fouled rag clutched in her hand. Her caretaker turned to rinse the cloth in a bucket of steaming-hot water.

  Dart saw that Laurelle was clutched against her, hugging her. Only now did she recognize how naked she was. She was back in their tiny wardroom, sprawled on the same bench where she had chatted with Master Willym.

  “Master Willym . . . !”

  “Gone,” Laurelle answered her. “Murdered most foully.”

  Dart again heard the whistle of the arrow past her ear. The blood on her face, neck, and chest was not her own. The back of her head, though, throbbed. She reached back and fingered a hard knot.

  “You struck your head but good, child.” Matron Shashyl nodded toward a kettle on a tiny brazier. “I’m steeping some willow bark and scamptail. It’ll take the ache away.”

  “We thought you dead like . . . like Master Willym.” Laurelle’s voice dropped to a whisper. Arms hugged her tighter. “All the blood . . .”

  Dart sat up and pulled her friend into her own arms. “I’m fine.” She spotted Pupp down by the brazier, sniffing at the brewing herbs.

  Matron Shashyl waved the girls apart. “Be off, Mistress Laurelle. You’ll foul your petticoats. Let me finish the bathing.”

  Dart allowed herself to be cared for, too weak to resist. She was bathed clean and dabbed with towels warmed by the brazier. Once done, the matron wrapped her in a dry blanket.

  “The assassin?” Dart finally asked. “Why did he . . . ?”

  Matron Shashyl hushed her. “He escaped into the dark. Whys and wherefores must await his capture. Dawn nears, and guards have been woken from all the barracks. Grace-blessed hounds have already been loosed. None will rest until the fiend is caught.” She wiped a tear and turned away. “Who could do this? Master Willym was dearly loved.”

  Not by all, Dart thought to herself. She remembered his last word. Was it delirium? Beware . . .

  Beware what? Still, Dart sensed the warning had been meant for her and her alone. Spoken with the last trickle of life. If he had a message for her, why hadn’t he spoken it earlier, here on this same bench when they had chatted?

  She remembered the attack in the garden. She had told no one of what she had witnessed, trusting in silence, praying to remain unknown to the secretive nobleman. Now a second murder in one day. Were they connected? Maybe she should have spoken to someone about the bloodshed in the garden. Maybe Master Willym’s assassin could have been stopped.

  Though clean, Dart still felt bloody.

  Laurelle returned from emptying the scrub bucket down the neighboring privy. She had stripped off her own dress and wore only her petties and slippers. “Mayhap we should return to our own room.”

  Dart nodded. She would not sleep the rest of the night, but it would be good to be surrounded by her own things. The small closet she and Laurelle shared as servants-in-waiting was cramped, but now Dart longed for its closeness, to lay with Laurelle in the single bed, under the covers until the sun rose and this long dark and bloody night ended.

  Matron Shashyl had composed herself and faced them. “You’re most correct. Your rooms are waiting for you. I’ll have a maid bring up tea to your chambers.”

  Dart looked at Laurelle.

  “Chambers?” her friend asked the matron.

  Shashyl nodded. “Indeed. You are no longer servants-in-waiting. Though the presentation ceremony was interrupted so foully, this night still marks your ascendance to full handservants. Matron Willym and Mistress Huri had already vacated their quarters in the High Wing. Your personals should already be up there. Come. I’ll show you the way.”

  Dart numbly donned a set of small clothes and slippers, and wrapped herself in a full cloak of warm velvet. Crimson, like her missing gown. Laurelle modestly covered her own limbs with a silver cloak, thick and ruffled at the hems.

  “We’ve a ways to climb,” Shashyl warned them.

  Dart didn’t care. She was relieved they didn’t have to head back through Tigre Hall. They left by another door. It opened upon a spiral stair that led only upward, to the High Wing. They mounted the stairs, past a guard at his post at the doorway . . . Dart had been this way once before, late for her studies under the matron. Shashyl had a suite of rooms in the High Wing as was her honor. Besides their tutelage, Matron Shashyl oversaw the maids and manservants that serviced the tower and its nine occupants: Lord Chrism and his eight Hands.

  Pupp followed after them, hop
ping from step to step.

  The climb, as warned, was long. Twenty flights. They passed the same number of guards, liveried in gold and crimson, Chrism’s colors, one for each level.

  Reaching the top, Matron Shashyl recognized the man guarding the double doors to the High Wing. He was older, black hair going to gray, but his eyes were spry and alert. He wore a nasty, tortured scar across his left cheek. “Kyllan, what are you doing posting a mere door? As Master of the Garrison, shouldn’t you be overseeing the hunt for the assassin?”

  His eyes flashed. He spoke with the terse tones of the fierce Thirdlanders. “I’ve given my orders. Huntsman Freetile leads the Graced hounds from the bestiary. Guards are on the streets. A pair of wyld trackers have been summoned from the Seer guildtower.”

  “And you?”

  “Master Willym were under my protection when he fell. I led the other guards here. I’ll not leave this post. No more of the blessed Hands will come to harm as long as there is strength in these bones.”

  He rested one hand on the hilt of his sheathed blade and opened the door with the other, bowing deeply. “Miladies, be welcome. Rest with good assurance. None will disturb the last of this sad night.”

  Laurelle took it all with easy aplomb. “Most gracious, Sergeant Kyllan.”

  Dart followed after her friend, nodding to the guardsman as she passed. Once the door was closed and secured behind them, Matron Shashyl waved her charges down the hall. Dart stared over a shoulder as she walked.

  Pupp had hung back on the stair, sniffing at the guard. He now simply trotted through the closed wooden door, prancing a bit and shaking his molten coat as if he had passed through mere water. He hurried to catch up with them.