Shadowfall g-1

by James Clemens

  Penni glanced back to Kathryn, who nodded, then returned her attention to the armored figure. “Yes, Master Rothkild.”

  Gerrod motioned for Kathryn to collect the cloak. As she stepped around the corner to reach the wardrobe, she heard his question.

  “Penni, you’ve been interviewed about Castellan Mirra’s disappearance, is that not so?”

  A silent pause answered him. When Penni spoke next, fear lay thick on her tongue. “Aye. I was put to the chair before the redrobers.”

  Soothmancers, Kathryn knew. They were all put to the question. She herself was no exception, having been one of the last to speak with Mirra before she vanished. Kathryn opened the wardrobe, gathered up the ragged ermine cloak, and returned to the room.

  Gerrod raised an arm at her appearance, his hand out for the wrap. Kathryn passed it to him.

  “Can you tell me, has anyone else handled Mirra’s cloak? Especially in the last quarter moon before your old mistress disappeared.”

  Penni scrunched up her face.

  Perryl crossed to her, relieved her of the pile of linen wash, and took a seat beside her. He folded his arms atop the pile. “No need to be scared, Penni,” he said with a warm smile.

  “You’ve done nothing wrong. But we need to know the answer.”

  Penni kept her gaze to the floor. A bit of color flushed her cheeks, and she turned ever so slightly from Perryl, as if he were the sun, too bright to face. “Then I tell you no. Mistress Mirra’s furs were aired out upon the balconies at the end of summer. Otherwise, they are kept in her wardrobe.” She glanced to Kathryn. “Like now.”

  “So no one touched them that you know of.”

  “No, Master Rothkild.”

  During this exchange, Gerrod searched the cloak, one way, then the other. He turned and pointed to an inner pocket. A dab of reddish brown was plain to see along the inner edge as he rolled it back. More blood. The pocket was otherwise empty.

  Penni watched his every move, her eyes plainly drawn by the soft wheeze of his mekanicals. Being a good maid, she recognized the stain. She covered her mouth with a tiny hand, making a small sound of distress. “I must soak that in lemon-press. Mistress Mirra will be most upset with me. I thought I had cleaned it more thoroughly.”

  Gerrod met Kathryn’s gaze and motioned to the girl with his eyes.

  Kathryn dropped to a knee beside her. “Do you know how it became soiled?”

  Penni chewed her lower lip. When next she spoke, it was a whisper meant only for Kathryn’s ears. “Mistress Mirra did not want me to speak of it.”

  “But now the old castellan is gone, possibly to harm,” Kathryn urged, leaning closer. “If you know something, you must not hide it.”

  Penni glanced up at Kathryn, then Gerrod, then back to the rug at her toes. She kept her words hushed. “A man came one night, well after final bells, muddied and unkempt, carrying a rucksack, led by one of the livery stablemen. Mistress Mirra gave the stableman a gold march to keep him quiet. I was sent from the room, too, but not before I saw the stranger remove a rolled length of oilcloth from his rucksack.”

  The maid stopped and wrung her hands together at her waist as if kneading dough, clearly consternated.

  “And the blood?” Gerrod said softly, his words echoing a bit inside his helmet.

  Penni glanced up to Kathryn. “I didn’t mean to watch. I feared for Mistress Mirra’s safety with this stranger, arriving in such an unseemly manner. So I stayed, the door cracked open a finger.”

  “It’s all right, Penni. What happened?”

  “They whispered together for some time. The man unwrapped the oilcloth to reveal nothing but a bloody swatch of linen. It looked fresh, wet in the hearth light.”

  “Either fresh,” Gerrod mumbled, “or the cloth was charmed to keep it so.”

  “What then?” Kathryn said to Penni.

  “A knock on the door. Hard. Angry. Scared me white. Mistress Mirra hides the bloody snatch in her own pocket. The man rolls the cloth and stuffs it away. The mistress opens the door. It is Ser Henri, right mad and full of flush. I know better than to listen any more. So I sneaks the door closed and hide away.”

  “And you heard nothing else?” Gerrod asked as her words ended.

  “No, Master Rothkild.”

  Gerrod glanced to Kathryn.

  Perryl shifted in the chair next to the scared maid. “Penni, do you know anything about this stranger? A name? Where he might have come from?”

  “I’d never seen him before. But though he was muddied and sorely kempt, he seemed a high man of some means. He spoke well and his manners were not low.”

  “How did he appear?” Kathryn asked.

  “He was fair of face… not as fair as…” Her gaze fluttered toward Perryl. A blush rose on her cheek. “His hair was long to the shoulder, black. I don’t remember his eyes.”

  “Any scars? Any marks to distinguish him?” Perryl asked.

  Penni thought for a long moment. “No… but I heard him speak to the stableman. To ready a fresh horse, a beast blessed in air, a windmare with enough leg to reach Chrismferry in a day.”

  Kathryn shared a look with Gerrod. Normally, on horse-back, it would take three days to reach the outskirts of Chrismferry. There was clearly urgency here to employ the speed of a windmare.

  “That’s all I know,” Penni finished, almost shaking now.

  Kathryn touched her shoulder, causing her to start. “Penni, you’ve done very well. Why don’t you collect the linens and see to the washing.”

  She curtsied, relieved. Perryl passed her the pile, earning a bright blush. She fled out the servants’ door.

  Perryl waited until the way closed. “So the man was heading to Chrismferry.”

  “Or back to Chrismferry,” Gerrod countered.

  Kathryn noted Gerrod drawing in on himself, leaning back, folding his arms across his chest. A troubled posture. He stared down at the ermine cloak on his lap.

  “What do you make of all this?” Perryl asked.

  Gerrod shook his head. It was all the answer they would get out of him for now.

  Out in the courtyard, the Sun Tower chimed the sixth bell. Kathryn hadn’t realized how much time had passed. The sun was halfway down the sky. “I have a meeting I must attend,” she mumbled to the others as the bells ceased.

  Gerrod glanced her way.

  “As I mentioned from the first,” Kathryn answered, “Tylar is coming here. Warden Fields has gathered folk in the field room to oversee the preparations to receive him. I’m to meet with my supposed guardian.”

  “A guardian?” Perryl asked. “Do you truly think that’s necessary? I still can’t believe Tylar would harm you.”

  Gerrod stirred, standing with a creak. “I don’t trust our good warden is only concerned about his castellan’s security.”

  Perryl frowned.

  Kathryn understood. “Warden Fields strings a tight net around Tashijan. And I’m to be the bait in the snare. Who I meet will be both guardian and hunter.”

  Perryl’s eyes widened, showing too much white. “Who’s been chosen?”

  Now it was Kathryn’s turn to frown. “That I don’t know.”

  “There is much all of us don’t know.” Gerrod lifted Mirra’s ermine cloak. “I’ll see what I can discern from this, but it would be prudent to see if the stableman who guided our dark stranger up here could be prompted to divulge what was sealed by gold and a promise.”

  “I can check the stables,” Perryl offered. “It hasn’t been too long since I was squired down there.”

  Kathryn nodded as he made for the door. “Be discreet.”

  Gerrod remained behind and fixed her with a stolid stare, his eyes bright through the slit in his helmet. His words softened. “And you be careful. Bait is seldom considered of any value after one sets the hook.”

  Kathryn met his gaze. “By sword and cloak, I’ll be careful,” she promised.

  Gerrod studied her a moment longer, then turned away. “I sugges
t you keep both near at hand.”

  Kathryn kept her pace hurried but respectful as she descended the twenty flights of stairs. With each nod to passing knight or courtier, she felt the press of the diamond seal fixed under her chin, the emblem of the castellan. It was not the true seal, but mere paste and artifice. The real diamond ornament had vanished with Mirra. Kathryn felt the same about her role here at Tashijan, more paste and artifice than true authority or command.

  She rounded the last flight of the central stair and proceeded to the tall doors of the Citadel’s field room. For ages lost to the past, the chamber was used as a place of strategy, planning, and preparation. Over the millennia, the fate of countless hinter-kings and untold armies had been decided behind those doors. Great battles were mapped, wars waged in ink and blood, treaties signed or broken. All of Myrillia had been forged behind those doors.

  A pair of Shadowknights, cloaked and hooded, posted the threshold, standing in shallow alcoves. Their forms seemed to flow into the gloom of their niches. The darkness fed their forms, readying them to respond to any threat with the speed borne of Grace. Only the glow of their eyes could be seen above the black of their masklin wraps.

  “Castellan Vail,” the closest knight acknowledged with a sweep of cloak. “The warden awaits your presence.”

  The other guard opened the door with a surge of darkness.

  “Thank you,” Kathryn mumbled. Both were too young, she thought, fresh to their third stripe, too ostentatious with their show of shadowplay, wasting Grace in theatrics.

  She stepped into the field room.

  The scent of oiled woods and brittle parchment greeted her first-then a familiar booming voice.

  “The castellan finally graces us with her presence,” Master Hesharian said. The rotund leader of the Council of Masters stood with four others around a central table.

  Despite the chamber’s significance, the field room was cramped and tight. The rear windows, overlooking the tourney grounds, had been shuttered for this meeting, ensuring privacy and forbidding the sun. To either side, the Stacks-giant wooden shelves that stored illuminated maps of all the Nine Lands, even rough sketches of sections of hinterland- lined the walls, buttressed by ladders. The only other significant feature to the room was the massive wyrmwood table. Its patina had blackened from the passing centuries, its surface scarred and pitted.

  Kathryn crossed toward the waiting group. “I apologize for my late arrival. Matters of some importance detained me.”

  Hesharian raised one brow. “More important than the security of Tashijan?” The large man still resented her assignment as castellan, a post normally held by one of the Council of Masters.

  Kathryn ignored his gibe. She nodded to Hesharian’s fellow council members. Master Osk climbed down one of the Stacks’ ladders, burdened with a large map roll. He was as thin as Master Hesharian was vast, a lesser moon before a greater. As always, he kept his eyes pinched as if fearful of being struck. He nodded back at her and turned to the table, exposing the line of tattoos circling the back of his shaved skull.

  “A moment, Castellan Vail,” Argent said formally. He accepted the thick parchment from Master Osk, set it on the table, and shoved the roll loose down the table’s length. A schematic of Tashijan revealed itself.

  Intrigued, Kathryn stepped to the table.

  “It’s been a long time,” Keeper Ryngold greeted her on the right side with a genuine smile. He was the only person present whose head was not adorned by tattooed sigils or stripes of knighthood. Still, he was well respected by all, head of the entire house staff and laborers. If matters of security were to be addressed, he would orchestrate the underfolk of the Citadel.

  On her left, she received no greeting and expected none. A knight of few words, Symon ser Jaklar needed no shadowcloak to cast a pall of gloom around him. He strode under thunderclouds even on the brightest days. His hair, shaved to a coarse black stubble, matched his eyes. Formerly squire to Argent, he had continued his duty as knight under the leadership of his former teacher.

  Kathryn studied the ancient map of the halls, levels, rooms, and courts of Tashijan. Spread out on the table, the vast Citadel seemed a city unto itself with byways and alleys, crowded places and lonely ones, all centered round the central Stormwatch Tower that stretched as high as the masters’ catacombs delved low. How would they stop one man from breeching the vast domain unseen? It was a daunting challenge, but one the new warden seemed ready to handle, having served in dozens of sieges from both sides of a wall.

  Argent placed his palms flat on the parchment. “As I was saying, I know the godslayer is on his way here. Perhaps he’s already in the First Land. But over the centuries, Tashijan has grown lazy with its fortifications, weakened its foundations. We can’t keep the godslayer out.”

  “Then what can we do?” Master Hesharian asked.

  “We can be smarter. What walls can’t stop, strategy can.” Argent straightened, sweeping his gaze around the room. “We must guide the godslayer to where we want him to go. The best trap is one the victim walks into willingly.”

  Hesharian frowned. “And how do you propose to accomplish this?”

  “By controlling what he most desires.” Argent’s sweeping gaze settled upon Kathryn.

  All eyes turned in her direction.

  Argent addressed her directly. “Castellan Vail, I’d like you to meet the man set as your personal guard in the days to come.” He lifted his arm. A signal.

  A scrape of boots sounded behind her and to the left. She turned as a tall man stepped from between a set of the Stacks. She had walked right past him without even noticing his presence. But it was not Grace that hid him. He wore no shadowcloak. Instead, the man was outfitted in furred breeches, knee-high brown boots, and a mud-brown half cloak with hood. All looked well worn and scuffed.

  A wyld tracker.

  But it was not the clothes that identified the man. Wyld trackers were blessed at birth with alchemies of air and loam, making them preternaturally keen to scent trails and changes in winds. This blessing was plainly apparent from the prominent protrusion of nose and jaw. Half muzzled, as it was called, a beastly appearance, made more so by the lack of white to their eyes, leaving them a solid amber.

  Argent spoke at the head of the table. “Tracker Lorr has served at my side since before the Bramblebrier Campaign. There is no finer hunter in all of Myrillia.”

  He offered a half bow toward the warden, arms crossed. Despite the play at civility here, Kathryn sensed a feral edge to the man. His face bore testimony to past battles, rippled with scars, eyes hard as fieldstones. His lanky brown hair, worn past the shoulder, was shot through with gray. But he showed no signs that age had touched him further. His belts, at waist and crisscrossed over his chest, were decorated with sheathed blades of every shape.

  “I’ve informed Tracker Lorr of his duties,” Argent said. “He will not leave your side or your door until the godslayer is subdued.”

  Kathryn rounded on the warden. “And when does his duty commence?”

  “At this very moment. I thought it best you both become acquainted with your new routines as soon as possible.” His gaze turned to the tracker. “Lorr, are you ready to introduce Castellan Vail to your.. ah, what do you call them… very colorful as I recall? Ah yes, your right and left hands.”

  With another half bow, the tracker turned toward the door.

  Kathryn hesitated. Was she being dismissed from the meeting already? A hard stare from Argent answered her. Clearly he meant to keep her in the dark on further details. Did he distrust her, think she would betray their secrets to Tylar?

  With black clouds about her shoulders, she swung away and followed the tracker. He opened the door and continued through, not bothering to see if she kept pace with him. Perhaps it wasn’t necessary, armed as he was with his Grace-sharpened senses.

  Out in the hall, the two young knights stirred as the pair stormed out. Kathryn imagined the tracker was no more keen to be re
legated to mere guard than she was to be kept under guard. He continued down the hall, turned down a side passage, and crossed to a barred room.

  Turning to her, he spoke for the first time. His voice was surprisingly soft coming from such a gruff exterior. “Best take care a moment. They’re easily spooked.”

  He lifted the bar and pulled the door open, blocking the opening with his body.

  Kathryn felt something large stir beyond the door. A shift of boulders.

  The tracker growled deep in the back of his throat. He kept his post for another long breath. The door bumped as something heaved against it. Lorr reached a hand inside. “There’s a good laddie,” he mumbled in his soft voice. “You, too, you big kank.”

  He straightened and opened the door wider, revealing a sight to horrify even the stoutest heart.

  Two massive beasts filled the doorway, standing shoulder height, heads as large as shields. A pair of bullhounds. Meaty, thick necked, ropes of drool hanging from slavering lips. Where such humour dripped, stone etched with a poisonous hiss. Out in the field, the drool was used to wear heavy bone while gnawing. The beasts, native to the most remote areas of the hinterlands, were known to bring down giant sarrians and battle the massive myrlions.

  “Barrin and Hern,” the tracker said as introduction.

  Kathryn could not tell them apart. Both were maned in black, a tad short of shaggy, and striped in thin bands of copper. She backed away as the pair of bullhounds slunk into the hall: snuffling, breaths steaming, crouched low on bellies, stumped tails sticking straight up.

  Creatures of black nightmare.

  Lorr stood between them. “We’ll keep you safe, Castellan… even from a godslayer.”

  13

  THE DELL

  “Welcome home.”

  Tylar scowled at the thief. Rogger crouched in the reeds with Delia. Dawn broke to the east, a cheery rose that did nothing to warm the chill from their bones. All three of them were soaked to the skin, muck-deep in mud and boggy silt. Clouds of gnats and bloodsuckers buzzed and whined about the trio. A few surly marsh frogs, as large as platters, croaked their passage from atop a half-sunken log. A king-wader strode past, its head and speared beak taller than a man, spying above the reeds, regal and aloof.