Shadowfall g-1

by James Clemens

  Kathryn nodded to her brothers and sisters as they passed.

  “Have you heard?” one called to her. “Argent’s color rides high. Looks like ol’ One Eye will be leading us from here!”

  Kathryn attempted a smile, but it felt crooked on her face. Then the other knight was gone, vanishing around a turn of the stairs.

  They climbed the rest of the way up to the proper level and crossed down the resident halls of those who ruled Tashijan. By morning, there would be new occupants in all of these rooms as Argent ser Fields picked those who would work beside him. A new warden meant an entire upheaval for those in power. Kathryn glanced to the doorway that led to Ser Henri’s private rooms, the Warden’s Eyrie, as it was called. Soon it, too, would have a new resident, an eagle replaced by a blood vulture.

  Perryl reached Castellan Mirra’s door first and knocked. The sound was unnaturally loud in the stone hallway. They waited for a response, but there was none.

  “Perhaps she’s already heard,” Gerrod said. “As castellan, she’ll have to make an appearance at the Grand Court when the pronouncement is made.”

  “Or perhaps she’s asleep,” Perryl added. “Her hearing is not as keen these last years.”

  “Try again,” Kathryn urged.

  Gerrod shifted past Perryl and knocked an armored fist on the door. Though he didn’t pound hard, the strike of bronze on wood startled Kathryn with its clangor. Even the stone deaf could not fail to hear his hail.

  A small, frightened voice finally sounded from beyond the door. “Who is it?”

  Kathryn recognized the shaky tone. It was the scrap of a girl that served as maid to Castellan Mirra. She tried to remember her name and failed. “Child… it is Kathryn ser Vail.”

  There was a long pause. “Castellan Mirra… she’s not in residence.”

  Kathryn frowned at her two companions. Perhaps Gerrod was right.. she’d gone already to the Grand Court.

  The maid spoke again. “She’s been gone the long day, since the midday break.”

  Kathryn’s lips hardened further, her eyes sparking toward the others. Surely the old castellan would return to her rooms to freshen herself before appearing before the court. The maid’s name snapped into her mind. “Penni, did she say when she would be back?”

  “No, ser. I can’t say. I left to fetch some fresh water and hard coal, but when I returned the mistress had already left. I don’t know when to expect her back.”

  Kathryn did not trust such strange tidings. Not on this day. “Penni, please let us in. I would rather not discuss this out in the hall.”

  Another long pause stretched.

  “Penni…” Kathryn’s tone grew more firm.

  “I’m not supposed to allow anyone in when the mistress is away.”

  “It’s important. You know we were speaking with Castellan Mirra only this morning. You know your mistress’s trust in me.”

  “Still, I… I dare not disobey. The mistress does not like her word to be ignored.”

  Kathryn sighed. She couldn’t argue with that. Few disobeyed the old castellan. Her tongue could sting sharper than a whip’s tip.

  Perryl stepped closer. “Let me try,” he whispered, then turned to the door. “Penni, it’s Perryl. I’m with Ser Vail and Master Rothkild. You need not fear. On my word and honor, I will assert your honest and firm guardianship of her rooms. But it is of utmost importance that we attempt to find some clue to your mistress’s whereabouts.”

  Kathryn glanced to Gerrod and rolled her eyes. Since when had Perryl developed such a sweet tongue? When last they were here, Kathryn had noticed how the maid had glanced from under heavy eyelashes at Perryl before being dismissed. He did strike a strong, willowy figure. Who said a knight’s strength lay only in his cloak?

  The door swung slowly open. A small face framed in brown curls tucked under a lace cap peeked out at them. The cheeks reddened as her eyes glanced over them, settled on Perryl, then swept away again.

  “Thank you, Penni,” Perryl said with a half bow. “You have done your mistress no disservice.”

  She returned his bow and waved them inside.

  The hermitage was uncomfortably warm after the unheated halls. The thick drapes had been drawn over the balcony windows, shuttering out the storm and making the room seem smaller. Tiny lamps dotted the room, wicked low to conserve the oil until the castellan’s return.

  The wool rug muffled their footsteps. Nothing seemed out of the ordinary. The room simply awaited the return of its master.

  “Your mistress left no message, no note?” Perryl pressed the maid, whose head remained bowed, hands clasped together at her bosom.

  “No, ser.”

  Gerrod had crossed to the room’s center and searched slowly, standing in one place. Only his eyes could be seen through his bronzed armor. “The castellan’s cane is still in its stand,” he noted aloud.

  Kathryn glanced in the direction he indicated. A tall ebony walking stick, swirled in silver filigree, rested in a brass stand. Castellan Mirra’s legs were not as stout as once they were. She required either a supportive arm or a cane.

  The maid stepped forward again, bowing slightly as she spoke. “That is her fancy stick, Master Rothkild. Her regular one is gone from the wardrobe.” She pointed an arm, not looking up.

  Kathryn nodded. Castellan Mirra was not one given to show. She usually hobbled on a greenwood stick knobbed in bronze. Kathryn waved a hand, turning away. “That one is used only for ceremonial occasions.”

  “Like the passing of wardenship to a new hand,” Perryl said. “Would she not have taken it to the Naming Ceremony?”

  Gerrod mumbled inside his helmet, “Unless it was her way to insult the proceedings. A jibe against those who would succeed her.”

  Kathryn crossed to the hearth, ruddy with coals. Mirra was supposed to have met with those loyal to Ser Henri and herself, those who had set themselves against the Fiery Cross. Had she met with them? Had they all decided to flee?

  Kathryn felt an ache behind her eyes. She was not used to thinking in terms of such intrigues and machinations. She turned from the hearth, her eyes settling on the chair where Mirra had sat earlier. The ermine-edged cloak still lay over its back. Like Mirra herself, it was old, ragged at the edges, but still retained a certain beauty.

  She crossed to finger the cloak. As it shifted, an edge unfolded, revealing a blackened and singed corner. She pulled the cloak up and brought the edge up into the light. “Look at this.”

  Penni cried out. “Oh, dear! The corner must have been too near the hearth when I freshened the coals! Mistress Mirra will be furious with me!”

  As Perryl attempted to calm the maid, Gerrod stepped to Kathryn’s side. His voice was a whisper. “There are ways of telling what sort of fire burned the robe. I can take it to one of the alchemists for study.” He stepped around, blocking the view of Perryl and the maid.

  Kathryn slipped a dagger from her belt and cleanly cut away the burned swath. She passed it to Gerrod. It vanished into a compartment in his armor, one of many hiding places on his bronzed form.

  Before anything else could be made of the matter, a loud ringing echoed up from below. Slow and ponderous. It was the Shield Gong of the Grand Court, calling all knights and masters of Tashijan to gather.

  “The Council of Masters is done with their tallies,” Gerrod said. “It seems a new warden has been chosen.”

  Perryl crossed to them. “What now?”

  “We join the court,” Kathryn said. “As we must.”

  “And Castellan Mirra?” Perryl eyed the empty chair.

  Gerrod answered, ever practical, “If she’s still within these walls, she’ll have to respond to the summons.”

  That is, if she’s still alive, Kathryn added silently.

  Bodies pressed and jostled outside the western entrance to the Grand Court. An air of celebration rang through the crowd of knights, squires, and pages. After the gloom and uncertainty that pervaded the halls since the death of Se
r Henri, the choosing of a new warden promised a return to order and the beginning of a new era for Tashijan.

  Following the ceremony, ale would flow from the top of Stormwatch down to the subterranean bowels of the masters’ dens. Already, servants and maids festooned the passages with flower petals; incense burners smoked cheerily. But before the revelry could begin, there was one last observance to attend.

  The Naming Ceremony.

  Kathryn worked through the crowd toward the packed entrance. The banter and excited talk had faded to the steady drone of an overturned beehive. The doorway was framed in black onyx stone, surmounted by a massive crystal of dark quartz, representing the black diamond that marked the hilt of every Shadowknight’s sword.

  She passed under the arch with Perryl in tow.

  Once through, the way opened as the crowds dispersed to the gallery seats. The excited chatter in the outer hallways faded, both from reverence for the chamber and simply because the voices were lost in the vast spaces overhead.

  In ancient times, the Grand Court was a natural amphitheater worn into the stone cliffs that towered over the Straits of Parting. It was said that human kings once held court here, before the coming of the gods. As such, the revered place was chosen for the site of Tashijan, hallowed ground where mind and might became one, the Shadowknights embodying the purity of muscle and reflex, the Council of Masters epitomizing all the learned studies and meditations. Over and around this ancient amphitheater, the Citadel of Tashijan had been constructed. The natural granite hollow had been carved into tiered benches with balustrades and stairs leading from one level to another.

  Kathryn crossed to the stone railing that circled this level. She stared down toward the floor far below. An arc of eight seats, hewed from the granite itself, stood before a deep central pit, the Hearthstone. Flames licked upward out of this stone well, smoking with alchemies and lighting the seats in a ruddy glow. Various leaders of the Order and Discipline already sat in their seats, leaning toward one another in whispered conversations.

  “She’s not here,” Perryl said.

  Kathryn’s fingers tightened on the balustrade. Ser Henri’s old seat, the tallest, stood vacant, as did the one to its right, the castellan’s chair.

  “What now?”

  Kathryn imagined much of the whispering below centered on that empty chair. She searched the lower levels of the court, the tiers reserved for the masters. It did not take long to spot Gerrod down there. His bronze armor stood out among the robes. He was gazing up at Kathryn. He shook his head.

  Around the nearer tiers, the various knights, pages, and squires took their seats. As in Tashijan itself, the upper levels were their domain.

  “We should get as close as possible,” Perryl said. “Watch for any sign of the castellan.”

  Kathryn nodded and led the way down into the thick of her fellow knights. She found two seats just above the masters’ tiers. She hurried to them.

  Following their passage, Gerrod climbed upward and traded spaces to occupy a seat directly beneath them. He stood, his head at their toes. “I’ve listened upon the masters and knights. No one knows what keeps Castellan Mirra away. But they’ve agreed they can wait no longer.”

  Kathryn glanced behind. Most of the crowd had shuffled in and seats were packed up to the edge of the domed roof. A majority of knights, like Kathryn herself, wore their shadowcloaks, casting vast swaths of darkness over the tiers.

  Gerrod continued. “There is no law requiring the castellan to be present at the ceremonies. Most seem settled that she has taken ill. They plan on proceeding as soon as-”

  His words were cut off as the deafening reverberation of the Shield Gong echoed off the roof and across the open space, silencing all in a breath. Its voice also traveled along a series of echo tunnels behind the gong, to be heard throughout all of Tashijan, above and below.

  “So it begins,” Gerrod mumbled as he took his seat.

  Kathryn sat straighter, tense.

  The head of the Council of Masters stood from his seat to the left of Ser Henri’s old chair. Master Hesharian was as wide as he was wise, his girth swelling the brown robe of his standing. Firelight shone upon his bald pate, tattooed like Gerrod’s own. He bore eleven disciplines, second only to Gerrod in number.

  His voice boomed across the hall, carried upon the natural acoustics of the amphitheater and accentuated by the Graces smoking from the Hearthstone pit. “We are gathered here where ancient kings once stood to carry on the traditions of Tashijan, to raise high one of our own to lead us.”

  Murmurs of excitement met his words.

  “We stand upon the cusp between the old and the new, the past and the future. As throughout time, stones have been cast and counted.” He nodded to the circle of seats on the lowest level, the Council of Masters, who had tallied the ballots. “And a new warden will rise this night!”

  Clapping met his words. Calls for a name were raised as was tradition and spread throughout the galleries. Master Hesharian simply stood, bathed in the cheering and chanting. Finally he raised an arm, and the swell died down.

  “A name you ask for! A name you will hear!” He raised his other arm high. “Stand and greet your new warden.”

  As one, the crowd gained their feet. Kathryn did so reluctantly.

  Master Hesharian searched the tiers, though clearly he had to know where the victor sat. He pointed an arm. “There stands the one cast in stone by your own hands! Warden Argent ser Fields! ”

  Cheers erupted before the announcement was past Hesharian’s lips. Argent’s name was shouted and chanted. And a few among the crowd, those already into their cups, called out, “One Eye! One Eye! One Eye

  …”

  Flogged by the pounding enthusiasm of his brethren, Argent ser Fields climbed down out of the knights’ tiers and past the masters’ levels to finally reach the floor, greeted by hand and a kiss upon each cheek by Master Hesharian. He was led to the center chair. He acknowledged the warm reception humbly and with a generous smile.

  Argent ser Fields was two decades older than Kathryn, but he could pass for her younger brother. His deep auburn hair, worn long to the shoulder, bore not a hint of gray. And age had done nothing to his strength or skill. For as long as Kathryn had been at Tashijan, he had not been bested at swords or daggers. But that was only half the man. His face was hard, but more often than not, softened by good humor. He was known to be generous with his well wishes, yet justly firm in rebuke when affronted. As such, he had earned the respect of all, master and knight alike.

  The only blemish to his striking figure was the patch worn over his left eye, a small plate of bone taken from the skull of a raving hinter-king, the same fiend who had blinded him during tortures meant to loosen the knight’s tongue. The flaming poker had taken the sight from his eye, but it never weakened his will. Freeing himself, he eventually slew the king and opened the way for victory during the Bramblebrier Campaign.

  Kathryn stared at him, wondering if this same hero could truly be the head of the Fiery Cross, Ser Henri’s murderer. She began to wonder if Castellan Mirra was mistaken. Just this morning, Kathryn herself had been planning to cast a white stone in his favor.

  Argent ser Fields raised a hand to quiet the crowd, but they were slow to respond. He kept his arm raised, patient, still smiling. Finally the crowd broke to his will, and quiet spread over the hall.

  Argent stood straighter, lowering his arm. His smile faded to a more serious and austere countenance. “I accept this mantle with a heavy heart. For it is tragedy that brought me to stand before you, opened this seat that I must take. But take it I will!”

  Clapping met his words, but he waved for silence.

  “Troubled times face Tashijan, the Nine Lands, and all of Myrillia. Strange and dire tidings rise both from our neighbors and from afar. Rumors of skirmishes and raids along the fringes of the hinterlands. A surge in the practice of Dark Graces. And now one of the Hundred slain in the south.”

  Ar
gent shook his head. “We stand at a moment in history like no other. And Tashijan must be the beacon that rallies all. We must be at our strongest, at our most united. We will be the light to lead the way! The flame in the darkness!”

  More clapping and cheers met his words. It was what they all wanted to hear, an end of the uncertainty, a firm path to follow.

  Still, for Kathryn, those same words trailed an icy path through her: a light to lead the way… the flame in the darkness. The imagery was too strong to be mere chance. Were they hints of his ties to the Fiery Cross?

  She noted Gerrod glancing back at her. The same worries had not escaped him.

  Argent continued, booming over the clapping, “Tashijan will be a new beacon to the future! We cannot, will not fail!”

  The crowd stamped boots and pulled swords. Argent’s name was shouted to the roof. He settled back to the seat, hands on the granite armrests. He waited for the crowd to tire itself.

  Gerrod twisted toward her. She leaned in closer. “He has won them surely,” Gerrod said. “Both heart and mind. Even if what Castellan Mirra stated is true, there may be nothing we can do about it. It may be too late.”

  Kathryn refused to accept that. She stared down at the man sitting in Ser Henri’s seat. Around her, the crowd slowly settled.

  Argent remained seated, but he spoke again. “It seems there is an order of duty required of all new wardens. The naming of a new castellan to serve on my right side.”

  There was a stirring of surprise through the Council of Masters. Such an important decision was usually made a few days after the Naming Ceremony.

  Argent stood again. “We dare not delay. As the chair to my right is currently unoccupied, we should fill it this night, so we can be united from this day forward.”

  Kathryn fought a sneer, struggling for a dispassionate expression. She searched the ring of masters. It was tradition for one of the Council to be picked. She wondered which had plied Argent enough to gain this coveted seat. Even Master Hesharian stirred his bulk uneasily. Though he already occupied the seat to Argent’s left, the right held more power.