Shadowfall g-1

by James Clemens

  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 been 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 figure
s 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, hard-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.”

  Tylar’s heart sank. No wonder Perryl’s command to stay this trial had been ignored. They had their own knight, newly arrived, to argue otherwise.

  “Let him be soothed,” the woman said from the bench. “The truth will be known.”

  Tylar was pulled back into the single red chair. His manacles were unlocked and he was roped in place.

  The red-robed mancer, his face cowled and shadowed as was custom, stepped before the bench. He bowed deeply, arms crossed and folded in his sleeves. As he straightened, he pulled a small silver bowl from one sleeve and a glass repostilary from the other. The latter vial glowed with an inner fire, a mixture of blood and other humours, an alchemic blend known only to the soothmancers.

  Kneeling, he placed the silver bowl on the floor, whispered prayers of thanks, and poured a few drops into the basin. He stoppered the repostilary, and it vanished up a sleeve. With his hands free, he dipped his fingers into the bowl, wetting each tip with the glowing crimson mixture.

  The mancer stood and crossed behind Tylar’s chair, his robes sweeping the floor.

  “Are you ready to put him to the word?” the mancer asked the court.

  “We are,” the trio at the bench responded.

  Tylar braced himself. He hated being soothed. It was a violation like no other.

  Wet fingers reached from behind and touched him at temple, forehead, and behind the corner of his jaw. The touch was fire, searing into him, seeming to reach into his skull. He gasped at the burn. The guild of soothmancers bowed to the gods bearing the aspect of fire. The unique blend of alchemies required the blood of such a god.

  As the Grace-fed fire burned through his will, winding to the center of his being, the mancer spoke. “Put him to the word. Let the truth be judged.”

  Near blind from the pain, he heard the first question. “Did you slay Meeryn?”

  “No!” he gasped out.

  There was a pause as the adjudicators turned their attention to the soothmancer. Tylar had no trust in such a one. He had been soothed before, questioned upon the murder of the cobbler’s family. His answer had been the same: denial. But the mancer had stated he was lying to the court. It had made no sense. Tylar knew the soothmancer to be a good and honest man. He had served the court of Tashijan for many decades. How could he make such a mistake?

  Only much later did Tylar understand. In his heart, he had indeed felt responsible for the death of the cobbler and his family. They had been slain by the Gray Traders to discredit him. So in a way, he had been the cause for their bloody deaths. The soothmancer at Tashijan must have sensed this deeper guilt in Tylar’s heart and answered honestly.

  Still, it was a mistake. Truth was more complicated than what was written in one’s heart. Justice could not always be found so easily there.

  But he felt no guilt for Meeryn’s death. “No!” he repeated to the court before the mancer could even respond.

  “How do you find?” the lead adjudicator asked.

  The soothmancer responded slowly, strained. “I… I am having difficulty reading this one’s heart. There is a well of darkness beyond anything I’ve ever soothed before, beyond anything I could burn through to the truth. The corruption inside this man has no bounds, no depths. He is more monster than man.”

  Tylar squirmed under the other’s fiery touch. “He lies! I am no worse nor better than any other man.”

  Fingers broke from his skin, releasing him. “I cannot read this one. His very touch sickens me. I fear he will corrupt the purity of Grace I bear.” The mancer fell away, legs trembling with true horror.

  Tylar stared at the accusing eyes. The soothmancer’s words doomed him, claiming him evil beyond measure. Only such a corrupt spirit could slay a god.

  He saw the judgment firm in the eyes of the adjudicators.

  “We must find how he killed Meeryn,” the Shadowknight said.

  “How?” the elder woman asked. “How without the guidance of a soothmancer?”

  “There are other ways to loosen a stubborn tongue.” Darjon ser Hightower shifted closer, his cloak billowing outward. “Older ways, cruder ways. He has slain our Meeryn, murdered our realm into a godless hinterland. Let him face the tests of truth from those same barbarous lands.”

  “What do you propose?”

  “Let me p
ut him to the torture, make him scream the truth.”

  Tylar closed his eyes. He had worn this healed body for such a short time, and it was already going to be taken from him, broken again.

  “So be it,” said the woman behind the bench.

  4

  BLOOD MOON

  Now it ended.

  On the seventh floor of the Conclave’s tower, Dart sat in a chair, hands folded in her lap. She tried not to stare at the row of girls seated in chairs along one side of the hall, and especially not at the dwindling number of girls that stood between her and the closed doors at the end of the hall. The sigil of the healers, an oak sprig, was carved into the door’s lintel.

  In preparation for the night’s ceremony, they were to be tested, and examined, judged whether or not they were pure enough to kneel before the gods’ Oracles.

  Dart already knew her fate.

  Tears threatened, a mix of terror, guilt, and sorrow.

  The door opened again, releasing another girl, a fourth-floorer, who fled along the rows of chairs like a frightened sparrow. But from the smile on her face, it was not fear, but delight that was the wind under her wings. On her forehead, she bore a smudged blue cross, a mix of oils and dyed unguents, marking her as pure by Healer Paltry. She could attend the ceremony this night, opening the way to being chosen as a handmaiden.

  Matron Grannice appeared in the open doorway. All the seated girls stood. Dart did the same, well aware of the ache in her loins, a dull bruise of the former pain.

  Matron Grannice waved for the next girl, seated nearest the door. “Come, Laurelle. We’ve a long day ahead of us.”

  Laurelle curtsied. On this day, she would be the first of the thirdfloorers to be tested. As was custom, the sixthfloorers were checked first, then the fifth and fourth, leaving the thirdfloorers for last. It would be the first time for Dart’s class to be presented before the Oracles, the blind servants of various gods, who arrived with the first full moon of summer to pick handmaidens and handmen for their gods.

  Draped in white silk, her feet slippered in snowy soft velvet, Laurelle crossed to the door. She was the embodiment of purity. While it was a rarity for a thirdfloorer to be picked, what Oracle, blind or not, could fail to see the perfection that was Laurelle mir Hothbrin?