Shadowfall g-1

by James Clemens

  “Rivenscryr,” she whispered. It was not a fragment of thought, but a simple command.

  Tylar’s brow pinched at the strange word. Rivenscryr? He faced her, a question on his lips. “What-?”

  Then he saw the impossible before him. It took all breath from him.

  Meeryn lay as she had a moment before, but now all light faded from her-not just the glow of her Graces, but all that separated the living from the dead. Her eyes, still open, went empty and blind. Her lips remained parted with her last word, but no breath escaped them.

  Both as a Shadowknight and as a slave, he had come to know death.

  But here it was not possible.

  Gods do not die.

  A strident burst of horn startled him, driving him to his feet. He twisted around to find a dark shadow sweeping at him with the swiftness of a black gale. He fell back, fearing the beast had returned.

  But glowing eyes stared down at him; shape took form, a familiar one. The cloak billowed out, then settled to narrow shoulders.

  “Perryl,” Tylar said, relieved that his former squire had not been a part of the slaughter here. In the distance, the horn blared again. Shouts now could be heard. The castillion guards were closing in.

  The young knight took in the scene. “What have you done?” he asked in a rush.

  Tylar frowned at such a strange question. “What do you mean?”

  Tylar glanced down at himself. He was covered in blood-Meeryn’s blood. In the center of his chest, a perfect palm print had been burned through his shirt and linens. The skin beneath was as black as the scorched edges of his clothing. He touched the flesh. No blistering. Just a black stain.

  He was marked.

  Tylar lifted an arm. “You can’t think I-?”

  “I saw you earlier.”

  “And I you… so?”

  Perryl eyed him from head to toe. “Look at yourself.”

  “Why-?” Further words died as he finally understood. Perhaps he had been too numbed by the events. Or perhaps it was like a pair of well-broken boots, easy to forget once donned. Either way, he finally noted the straight hold of his back, the breadth of his shoulders, the strength in his arms and legs.

  “You’re healed.”

  Before he could react, castillion guards pounded into the square, bearing pikes and long swords. Cries arose as the bloody sight struck them. Many fell immediately to their knees; the stronger fanned out to shield the square and attend to the night’s victims.

  A full complement surrounded Meeryn, driving Tylar away at the point of a blade.

  “Do not say a word,” Perryl hissed in his ear, staying at his side.

  Tylar stared at the many drawn weapons and obeyed.

  A fresh cry erupted from the crowd around the fallen god. “She’s dead!” one man shouted.

  Another, bearing the oak sprig of a healer, stumbled free of the group. His face had drained of all color, his eyes bright with shock. “Her heart… her heart is gone… ripped away!”

  All around, guards stared hard at Tylar, many weeping, others swearing. He knew how he must look: the lone survivor, covered in Meeryn’s blood, her palm print burned into his chest as if she had attempted to thrust him away.

  And on top of it all, he was healed, cured, made new again.

  A cadre of castle guards approached with swords drawn, murder in their every step.

  Perryl stepped before Tylar, facing the men. “Under the edict of the Order, this man is arrested under my name.”

  Shouts met his words, angry.

  Perryl yelled to be heard. “He will not be harmed until the matter here is attended and the truth be known.”

  The guards stopped, hesitant. Swords remained drawn.

  Their captain took another step forward and spat in Tylar’s direction. He uttered one word, both curse and accusation: “Godslayer.”

  2

  DART AND PUPP

  She never liked cabbage.

  Half a world away from the Summering Isles, Dart stared at the plate covered in a soggy bog of boiled leaf. She fingered through the pile, searching for a bit of carrot and maybe, if she were lucky, a chunk of raven’s egg. She liked raven, believing the keen senses of the aerial hunter would flow into her if she ate enough eggs.

  As she bent to stare under an especially large leaf, something slapped the back of her head, bouncing her nose into her meal. She yipped in surprise.

  “Enough!” the matron of the Conclave screeched at her, sounding like one of the feathered residents of the rookery at the top of the tower. “Eat or I’ll boil you into the next batch!”

  Dart straightened, wiping cabbage drippings from her nose. “Yes, mum…”

  The other girls seated along the two tables of the third floor commons laughed behind their hands. Fingers pointed.

  Dart kept her face lowered. She was the youngest of the thirdfloorers, barely thirteen birth years, but she already stood a head taller than the eldest. In fact, Dart had been named after the dartweed, a hardy plant that sprouted stubbornly between the cobbles of the courtyard, growing fast enough for the eye to follow, shoving its yellow head up after the sunshine. Even her unruly thatch of straw-blond hair matched the weed’s hue. And like her namesake, she was considered a nuisance here, an eyesore, something to be trampled underfoot.

  The Conclave of Chrismferry was one of the most distinguished schools for training gentle boys and gentle girls in the art of proper service to a god’s household. The finest families from the Nine Lands fought, bribed, and prayed for one of their offspring to be granted admittance.

  Dart, on the other hand, came here by chance. She was not even from the blessed Nine Lands. The prior headmistress had discovered her among the hinterlands, where only rogue gods roamed, an unsettled and barbarous country. Dart, as a newborn, was to have been sacrificed to one of the rogue gods. But the headmistress, a willful and pious woman, had stolen her away, whisking her out of the hinterlands and into the Conclave. And though the woman died only three years later, Dart had been allowed to remain out of respect for the memory of the esteemed headmistress.

  Unfortunately none of that respect had rubbed off on Dart.

  “Finish your breaking fast!” the matron said, stalking away. “By the time I pass through here next, your plate had better be empty. That goes for all of you!”

  Murmurs of dutiful assent followed in the woman’s wide wake until she left the room.

  Dart pinched a leaf, studying its limp form with resignation. Sighing, she glanced under the table to where Pupp lay curled at her feet. “How about helping me with this?”

  Pupp stirred. He cocked his head in her direction.

  Dart frowned, knowing he couldn’t help. She popped the cold wet leaf into her mouth, attempting to chew without breathing. Every fiber in her being fought her valiant effort, but at last she succeeded and swallowed the slimy lump.

  With a renewed determination, she set upon her plate, working down through the mountainous pile of boiled fare. Almost finished, she stared at the remaining leaves, disappointed.

  Not even a sliver of raven’s egg.

  Movement drew her attention back across the table. Sissup and Jenine shifted and allowed Laurelle to push between them. The eldest of the thirdfloorers reached over and dumped her load of cabbage atop Dart’s plate.

  “What are you-?” Dart began to complain.

  Laurelle straightened. “Did anyone see me do that? I’m sure they didn’t.”

  Laughter followed from the other girls.

  With a flip of her long ebony hair, freshly washed and oiled by her family’s servitors in residence, Laurelle glanced back to Dart. “Eat up, Dartweed. Maybe you’ll fill out that boy’s body you’re wearing.” Laurelle leaned a hand on the table and stuck out her chest, posing like some harlot.

  More laughter met her antics.

  At fourteen, Laurelle was already rounding into a woman. Boys in the school dogged her footsteps, pining for a nod from her, a wink. All the girls w
orshipped her, too. Laurelle was from a well-to-do family out of Welden Springs. She had her own servitors and showered small presents of honeycakes and cloth dolls to those in her favor. But of even more significance, rumors abounded that Laurelle would surely be hand-picked at the next full moon’s gathering, only eight nights away.

  It was an honor they all craved: to be chosen as a handmaiden to one of the hundred gods of Myrillia. The best the remainder could hope for was to be assigned in some small measure to the court of a god, to bask from afar in such Grace. Yet worst of all, many would simply be sent back to their families, humiliated and rejected. This was the worry they all shared.

  And even more so for Dart-she had no family and no other home. All that she possessed, her only family, lay curled at her feet.

  Still, the Conclave of Chrismferry lay in the very shadow of the elder god’s castillion and, of all the Conclaves, this school produced the most handmaidens and handmen. The teachers stressed this fact daily, imposing hard rules and firm teachings. The matrons and masters were proud of their school, the foundation stone of which had been blessed four thousand years ago by Chrism himself.

  Laurelle straightened with another flip of her flowing black hair. Dart smelled the sweet-water oil in it. She truly felt like a weed before a flower.

  Suddenly Laurelle yelped. She danced from the table.

  “What’s wrong?” Sissup asked. Jenine was already on her feet.

  Laurelle shifted up the hem of her skirt, revealing an ankle in white stockings. A bloom of red spread out across the white lace. “Something scratched me!”

  Sissup fell to her knees, searching under the table. “Maybe a nail?”

  “Or a sliver!” Jenine said. “These cruel benches are as old as the stones.”

  Dart knew better. Though no one could see Pupp, she motioned her secret friend closer to her. She ducked lower, pretending to search for what injured Laurelle. “Bad dog,” she whispered.

  Pupp lowered his head, wincing, glancing back toward the bloody ankle. He gained his clawed feet and shoved between Dart’s legs, passing ghostly through the flesh of her thighs as he sought a place to hide under her skirt. The only sign of his passage was a slight chill on her skin. His face appeared from her hemline, poking through the fabric as if it were air. His head cocked up toward her, eyes mournful with shame.

  She felt bad scolding him. He was simply too ugly to be mad at for long. His features were dreadful, all hard planes of beaten copper, with iron spikes in a mane around his face. His eyes were faceted jewels above a muzzle filled with sharpened blades; his tongue was a lap of flame. The rest of his body, squat and bulky, was a mix of armor and chain mail, with four thick limbs ending in steel claws. All of it glowed ruddily and seemed to flow and melt in swirls, subtly reforming her friend at every moment. Pupp was like a sculpture fresh from the forge, still molten from the flame’s touch.

  She reached down to reassure him, but as always her hand passed through Pupp. He wasn’t real. Still bent over, she glanced to Laurelle’s bloody ankle. Dart knew Pupp scratched her. At odd times in the past, he had done such things, affected the real world. Dart didn’t understand how this could happen. In fact she had no idea what Pupp was. Only that he was her friend, her companion for as far back as she could remember. She had long given up trying to convince others of his existence. Only she saw him, and no one could touch him.

  “It looks like a deep scratch,” Margarite said, coming to the aid of her best friend. Though Margarite’s family was from the opposite end of the Nine Lands, she could have been Laurelle’s twin with her sleek fall of black hair, snowy skin, and full lips. She even dressed in the same finery of blue velvet and white stockings. “We should fetch Healer Paltry.”

  Though Laurelle’s cheeks were flushed and her eyes moist with tears, she waved such a thought away, struggling for a dismissive demeanor. “I’m not a piddling firstfloorer.” She bent and ripped her stocking, which earned a shocked cry from Sissup, who was not from such a rich family. Laurelle used the snatch of lace to bind her wound, which had almost stopped bleeding already.

  It truly was not a deep scratch. Pupp had barely nicked her.

  Laurelle inspected her handiwork, then nodded and stood.

  A smatter of applause rewarded her effort. “She’s so brave,” Jenine murmured to Dart as Laurelle left with Margarite in tow. The nigglish prank on Dart had been all but forgotten.

  Almost…

  Matron Grannice appeared at the doorway, ringing a small bell. “To your classes now, gentle lasses! No dawdling. Don’t keep the mistresses and masters waiting.” She worked down the two rows, adding her usual litany of warnings. “Sharyn, make sure you keep your ankles covered when climbing the stairs. Bella, if you stain your petticoat with ink again, I’ll make a washerwoman out of you. And Hessy…”

  The scolding continued, trailed by a chant of, “Yes, mum,” as the girls fled the commons, heading to the morning teachings.

  Dart held her breath, staring at her laden plate.

  Matron Grannice stopped behind her. Though Dart kept her back turned, she sensed the sour look. “Why are you always such a stubborn and willful child?”

  From under lowered brows, Dart glanced to the door and saw Laurelle standing there, staring back. At her side, Margarite waggled fingers toward Dart, smiling at her predicament.

  “Answer me,” Grannice barked.

  Dart met Laurelle’s eyes and mumbled, “I don’t know, mum.”

  “And why do you always speak as if you’re carrying a cheekful of nuts?”

  “Sorry, mum.” Dart watched Laurelle nod back to her. Satisfied that the prank would not be laid at her feet, Laurelle left with Margarite, but not before Dart noted a glimpse of something deeper in the other girl’s eyes. It was not satisfaction, nor shame. It made no sense, but Dart could not dismiss what she had seen. Always off to the side, Dart had learned to read the subtleties in another’s features: the narrowing of an eye, a pursed lip, a flush of color on a cheek. But what she saw in Laurelle still made no sense.

  Why would Laurelle envy me?

  Matron Grannice interrupted her reverie. “It seems there is only one way to straighten this arrogant bent. And that is to learn from those even more willful than you.”

  “Mum?”

  “It’s off to the rookery with you! Perhaps a morning of scooping droppings, scrubbing floors, and spreading hay will temper your demeanor, young lass.”

  “But classes?” Dart sat up straighter. “We’re to practice for the moon’s ceremony.”

  Grannice let out an exasperated sigh. “You can practice with the ravens.” Dart’s ear was grabbed and she was hauled to her feet. “You know where the pails and brooms and brushes are. Now off with you.”

  Dart hurried from the room with a rush of her skirts. She saw the last few of the other girls heading down the stairs, giggling and laughing, clutching books to their bosoms. They were fifth- and sixthfloorers heading down to the courtyard and classes in the neighboring towers. She watched them disappear, then faced the spiraling stair that led upward.

  “To me, Pupp,” she mumbled and began the long climb toward the rookery in the roost atop the tower. Her companion clambered past her, trotting a few steps ahead. The flow of his molten body seemed agitated. Pupp was clearly excited by the adventure.

  They climbed the fourth and fifth floors, then past the levels that quartered the mistresses and matrons and healing wards, then up past levels vacant and dusty. At last, she reached a door at the top of the tower.

  Beyond it lay the rookery.

  Pupp nosed the solid squallwood door, then passed through it as if it were mere smoke. The only material that ever seemed to thwart Pupp was stone.

  Continuing after her friend, Dart tugged the latch and hauled the way open for herself. She had to lean out with her slight body to fight the door’s weight and ancient hinges. The door squealed open, setting the ravens inside to flapping on their hundred perches and nests. Screec
hed complaints echoed across the cavernous stone chamber.

  She ducked through and pulled the door behind her, leaving it cracked open to allow the outer hall’s torchlight to filter in. The only other illumination came from the twenty guano-stained windows high up the walls. The remainder of the room was cloaked in gloom. Large eyes reflected the meager light, stared down at her. The birds did not like their slumber disturbed.

  When not aloft, carrying messages, the residents here kept busy at night, keeping the Conclave grounds clear of mice, rats, and voles. The birds were also a source of eggs and meat for the kitchens.

  Crinkling her nose at the stinging smell of the place, she crossed to a small cupboard inset against one wall. She would stink like the rookery all day. Inside the cupboard were buckets, brushes, and brooms in their usual places.

  She tied her skirt around her knees and set to sweeping the old hay and dried droppings. It was mindless work.

  As she swept, Pupp chased after the broom’s straw bristles, biting playfully, his razored jaws passing harmlessly through the bristles. Still, his determined efforts drew a smile from her.

  “Stupid dog…” she mumbled with a grin.

  With the floor finally swept, Dart still had to give the planks a good scrubbing on her hands and knees, then break one of the stacked bales of hay and spread fresh straw as she had done so often before.

  Wiping her brow, she crossed to the corner pump and cranked the plunge handle. It was hard work drawing water up from the midtower cistern. As she labored, something warm and wet slapped against her cheek. Scowling, she wiped it away.

  Raven shite.

  She glanced up toward the rafters. “Thank you for your blessing, Lord Raven.” With a shake of her head, she set to the pump again, hauling its handle up and down. Sweat trickled down her back. The day was warming out of morning toward midday.

  She could only imagine her fellow thirdfloorers practicing their curtsies and bows for the ceremony, learning the proper responses, and reciting the Litany of Nine Graces. She sang out as she pumped, naming each Grace as she pulled and its property as she pushed.