Shadowfall g-1

by James Clemens

  A pair of young Shadowknights stood post on either side of the door. One swept forward and opened the way.

  Kathryn eyed the young men, picturing another, the knight slaughtered and bled. A pang of sorrow and anger fired through her. She strode into the field room.

  It looked the same as when last she was there, except the far windows overlooking the tourney grounds were unshuttered, open on the twilit skies. Torches hung at each corner, well away from the racked rolls of maps and documents.

  The same men stood around the scarred wyrmwood table. Keeper Ryngold of the house staff, the black-stubbled knight Symon ser Jaklar, whose sneer seemed a permanent stamp, and of course, at the table’s head, Argent ser Fields.

  The warden straightened from the map of Tashijan pinned to the table’s surface. Small silver tokens marked the placement of men throughout the Citadel. His one eye took in the latecomers, settling on Kathryn.

  “Castellan Vail,” he said with good cheer. “I feared you would not receive the summons in time. My man Lowl has been scouring the Citadel attempting to find you. It seemed strange that someone accompanied by two hulking bullhounds could be so hard to find.”

  “Tashijan is large,” she answered, waving to the map. “Plenty of places to hide.”

  Keeper Ryngold chuckled, a strange sound among so many dour and black-cloaked figures. His purple surcoat and the silver baldric of his station stood out brightly. “Such is the problem we face now,” he said. “How to guard a place with so many secret corners?”

  Symon ser Jaklar’s sneer deepened.

  Warden Fields merely sighed. “But we do have new allies.” He stepped aside to reveal a figure limned against the twilight skies, half lost in the darkness, easy to miss. A Shadowknight. He turned to face them, his masklin lying around his neck, exposing his face, as was custom in this room.

  Kathryn flinched at the man’s appearance, his bone-white features, snowy hair, eyes a silvery red.

  “May I present Darjon ser Hightower,” Argent introduced. “Formerly of the Summering Isles, now here to lend his service and counsel to the capture of Tylar de Noche.”

  Kathryn waited for the introductions to finish. Hesharian nodded to the stranger, his arms folded into the long sleeves of his robe. Kathryn used the time to study the newcomer. His expression remained stern and unwelcoming. He seemed disinterested in the proceedings. Something about the man’s eyes disturbed her-not the odd color, but something deeper, a coldness that went beyond an absence of warmth.

  But more important, what held her transfixed was the absence of stripes on his face. Yet he wore a Shadowcloak and his eyes clearly shone with Grace.

  This did not escape the notice of Master Hesharian. “Why are you unmarked, Ser Hightower?”

  “It is a long story,” the knight said. The only emotion was a crinkling of a brow, irritation.

  “He is indeed a sworn and accepted knight,” Argent insisted. “It was a mishap at birth, a blessing went awry, that left his skin unable to bear any pigment, natural or otherwise.”

  Darjon gave Argent a baleful look.

  “But enough of these introductions. We have plans to settle now that we know the godslayer has made landfall here.”

  “In Foulsham Dell?” Kathryn asked.

  “So word has come from one of our knights in the Dell. There is some confusion. Tylar de Noche apparently attacked Lord Balger, actually absconding with the god’s hand, so the story is told. Balger attempted to apprehend Tylar in the swamps but with no success. The search continues there, but we must not assume the godslayer is still among the swamps. His appearance at our borders confirms his goal. To come here.” Argent’s eyes fell upon Kathryn. “To come for you.”

  Kathryn felt another pair of eyes fix to her. Darjon’s attention felt like a wash of icy waters.

  “But we will be prepared,” Argent affirmed. “We have knights coming in from surrounding realms to aid in the capture of the godslayer. Our numbers have swelled to two thousand.”

  Kathryn now understood why the hallways seemed so crowded of late. It was becoming such that one couldn’t turn a corner without bumping into another knight.

  “Before we get down to details here…” Argent turned his attention to the last member of this council who had yet to be addressed. “Gerrod Rothkild, it has come to my attention that you will be leaving us, to proceed to Chrismferry on a research trip, is this not so?”

  Kathryn forced herself not to react. She and Gerrod had decided only earlier in the day to search for clues in Chrismferry. How had Argent known? Kathryn noted Master Hesharian seeming to take particular attention in the dirt under one of his nails. Gerrod also glanced to the head of the Council of Masters. Plainly he must have informed the council to get permission to leave, and word had reached Argent through his fat puppet.

  Gerrod bowed his head. “I am indeed heading to Chrismferry at dawn. I wish to consult the ancient library of Nirraborath and to obtain a few alchemic items.”

  “Good… very good. I was wondering if you’d be willing to do a favor for the Citadel. Master Hesharian has assured me you’d be most cooperative.”

  “If it is in my capacity to comply, I certainly will.”

  “I have a parcel that I wish carried by a most trusted hand to Chrism’s castillion. It may be delivered to the keeper of the house there. Keeper Ryngold has already dispatched a raven to announce your coming. I hope that wasn’t presumptuous.”

  “Not at all. There is an alchemy shop I wish to visit in the shadow of the castillion.”

  “Thank you. Visit Keeper Ryngold’s chambers before retiring to obtain and secure the parcel.” Argent’s attention swung away, as good as a dismissal. His gaze again fell upon Kathryn. Argent smiled but the warmth did not reach his one eye. “Am I to understand that you need a courier to dispatch a message to Chrismferry? Mayhap Master Rothkild could deliver that also?”

  Kathryn stood very still, attempting to keep from letting any sign of shock showing. No one knew about the letter except Gerrod, herself

  … and Lorr. She pictured the tracker. Moments before she had professed her trust in the man. Was it misplaced? But she had only told Lorr about the letter and her wish to visit Perryl when she was ready to leave her chambers. The tracker had not been out of her sight after that.

  So how had Argent found out?

  She cleared her throat. “That is most kind, Warden Fields, but Master Rothkild and I have already discussed the matter in private.”

  Then again, did she have any privacy? Argent clearly was enjoying this moment. Was that all the purpose of the show here? To illustrate to Kathryn how much a stranglehold Argent had on her comings and goings, on her most intimate moments and plans? He must have spies everywhere.

  She refused to let him rattle her. “This matter is best handled by a Shadowknight.”

  Argent nodded and waved away the question. “So be it. You are the castellan of Tashijan.”

  Master Hesharian wore a thick smirk at these words.

  Argent began to turn away, then swung back toward Kathryn. “If that’s the case, mayhap you’d best deliver your letter without further waste. We can handle matters from here on our own. It’s all a tedious matter of shuffling knights anyway.”

  Again she was being dismissed, shut out of the proceedings here. She did not protest this time. She had only to picture the young knight, naked and bloody, to want to flee as fast as she could from the warden’s presence.

  They spent another few moments bowing out, but soon Gerrod and Kathryn were free of the field room. She found Lorr already awaiting her with Barrin and Hern. The pair of bullhounds sat on their haunches. Stubbed tails wagged at the sight of her.

  Lorr straightened with a curry brush. He had been combing down Barrin. “That was nigh quick. Hardly worth the long climb.”

  Kathryn frowned at him. Argent had only been pulling her string, making sure his puppet would still respond.

  “Are you off to your chambers?”
Lorr asked, nodding down the hall.

  “It is late,” Gerrod said. “I could deliver the letter to Ser Corriscan.”

  “No, I’d prefer to see Perryl myself.” Kathryn was in no spirit to be ensconced in her hermitage. The day had been too bloody, too disturbing. She wanted nothing better than to go to the stable, saddle the fastest horse, and ride until she could forget all this. But she’d settle for a bit more walking. Besides, she needed to explain all to Perryl, to see if he knew of any strange disappearances among his young knights. It was a place to begin her own investigations. “I’ll accompany you as far as his floor, then,” Gerrod offered.

  Kathryn smiled her grateful thanks.

  They continued back to the stairs, Barrin and Lorr in the lead again. Kathryn felt an odd comfort in the presence of the two hulking bullhounds.

  They walked in silence for a long stretch.

  Gerrod finally spoke, whispering to keep their words private. “You know what that was all about, don’t you?”

  Kathryn nodded. “He’s flexing his muscles.”

  A nod. “Our warden grows bolder, more assured of his position and security. And rightly so, I’m afraid. Tashijan bows at his feet.”

  “Not all of Tashijan,” Kathryn said fiercely. “There’s us… and whoever might have led us to that bloody chamber. You mentioned before that a shadowcloak hid more than just a knight’s face. I think there are more folk on our side than is plain to see.”

  “You may be right, but to fight for Tashijan, it can’t all be done in shadows.”

  Kathryn knew the truth of his words. Eventually swords would have to be raised and sides chosen.

  At last they reached the landing to Perryl’s floor. It was one of the lowest of the Citadel’s boarding levels, for the knights new to their cloak. Gerrod said his good-byes as he continued down to the subterranean levels of the masters.

  Once Gerrod was out of sight, Kathryn and Lorr exited the stair and followed through the warren of narrow passages and low doors.

  Kathryn remembered her first years in these halls. It had been a happier time, free of subterfuge and heartache.

  She heard laughter from some of the rooms and the rattle of bone cups. The characteristic sour stench of stale ale persisted, soaked into the very stones of this hall. Somewhere farther down the hall a brief scuffle of swords, knights challenging one another, testing, competing.

  She wended her way through the maze of corridors to reach Perryl’s cell. “Over there,” she said, pointing out the proper door. She glanced to make sure she had the letter and that the name upon it was not smudged. Satisfied, she crossed to the door and knocked upon it.

  Barrin and Hern took up posts on either side, all but filling the hallway. Lorr kept behind her.

  There was no answer. Maybe he was gone, off with friends.

  She knocked harder.

  A scuffle of noise sounded beyond the door. Someone was home.

  “Perryl…” she called through the planks of the door.

  Silence answered her.

  “Perryl, it’s Kathryn.”

  A moment of silence, then a muffled response. “Come inside… but be quick about it.”

  Kathryn tried the door. It was unlatched. She shoved it open. A small hearth crackled to one side of the greeting room. Beyond an archway, the bedchamber lay dark.

  A cloaked Shadowknight stood by the hearth, facing the flames. “Close the door. Latch it.”

  She obeyed, though she knew instantly the figure was not Perryl. The shoulders were too broad, the figure sturdier of frame. Even cloaked from head to foot, Kathryn knew the stranger was far older than the young man she had come to see.

  “Where’s Perryl?” she asked.

  “Gone… disappeared… no one knows where… but there was blood on his bed.”

  Kathryn pictured the slain knight in the Fiery Cross. Fear gripped her. If Argent knew of her letter, did he know whom she planned to send?

  “Wh… who are you?”

  The Shadowknight turned, his face hidden by a wrap of masklin, his stripes plain to see. “Don’t you know me?”

  Kathryn stared into his eyes. The room spun, her knees weakened. Time slipped from the past to the present.

  “Tylar…”

  FOURTH

  GODSWORD

  Lo, the skies darkened with heavy clouds and ’round the last sun, the great fell driven, riven, sundered

  Lo, the ground shook with a mighty roar and within the last mountains, the great fell driven, riven, sundered

  Lo, the oceans boiled with black blood and under the last seas, the great fell driven, riven, sundered

  Lo, the fires went cold and died to ash and in the glow of the last flames, the great fell driven, riven, sundered

  — Canticle of the Godsword, ann. 103

  17

  SHADOWPLAY

  “Again?” Laurelle asked, seated by the hearth to her room. She bent over a lace stocking, darning it with silk on a silver needle. “Is your room too cold at night? If we keep bedding together, folks will begin to speak out of turn.”

  Laurelle’s words were softened by a smile.

  Dart felt a blush rise to her cheeks. Still, she did not retract her plea to share Laurelle’s room. Dart feared sleeping alone since waking two mornings ago, knowing someone had been in her bedchamber. Even now she imagined Yaellin de Mar leaning over her sleeping form, the streak of silver in his black hair aglow in the dark. She hid a shudder.

  Laurelle must have sensed her fear. She sighed. “What is this all about?”

  Dart glanced to Pupp. He lay in front of Laurelle. His fiery eyes watched with fascination as she knit a hole closed in her hosiery. Firelight danced behind him, but he cast no shadow. Dart tired of all her secrets, so many now she felt near the point of bursting.

  She could stand it no longer. The secrets so filled every space inside her that she found herself unable to eat. Sleep came fitful, even while sharing Laurelle’s bed. She felt worn so very, very thin.

  Laurelle stared at her with genuine concern. She set down her darning and reached over to take Dart’s hand. “You’re trembling.” She scooted over, drawing Dart closer. “What is troubling you so?”

  Dart shook her head-not so much in refusal as in confusion.

  Laurelle leaned until her nose was almost touching Dart’s. “You can speak to me.” Fingers squeezed. “Whatever you tell me can stay between just the two of us.”

  Dart felt something loosen deep inside her, shuddering free. A sob rose to her lips and burbled out before she could swallow it back.

  Laurelle pulled her into an embrace. “Dart, what’s happened?”

  She shook her head, then mumbled in Laurelle’s ear, “Something horrible…”

  Laurelle sat back. “Tell me. What one can’t bear alone, two may carry more easily. Share.”

  Dart stared at her friend. For all her life, she had lived with secrets. She watched Pupp crawl around them, tail tucked, low to the ground, sensing her turmoil but unable to comfort. For so long, she had found security in silence, keeping her true self hidden away. What would it be like to end all that? To live her life openly? She didn’t know what distressed her more: to speak or not to speak.

  Laurelle waited for her to decide, holding her hands.

  Dart knew she had no choice. The secrets inside her had become a great ocean of dread, and Laurelle was a moon, drawing a tide. Dart felt the shift inside her. She couldn’t let it all pour forth. To be that empty and exposed was too frightening, too shameful. She could not speak of what happened in the rookery; that was too deep, the darkest part of her inner ocean. But on the surface roiled her most immediate fear.

  Yaellin de Mar.

  Laurelle seemed to sense the flow before Dart even began speaking. She settled herself as a swordsman might set his footing before an attack. She nodded to Dart, ready.

  “It all started in the Eldergarden,” Dart began slowly. Her words came out haltingly, then grew in pace as she re
lated the murder of Jacinta and the Hand that held the blade.

  “Yaellin de Mar?” Laurelle’s eyes had grown wide. A trace of disbelief shone there.

  Dart stared back at her friend. She had found strength with the telling of the story. She allowed it to shine forth. With her conviction, the glint of disbelief slowly faded from Laurelle’s eyes.

  “Why hasn’t he spoken of it?” Laurelle asked. “I’ve heard no whisper of such strange events.”

  “I don’t know. Maybe all were sworn to secrecy.”

  “And this woman… this Jacinta, have you inquired who she might be?”

  “I dared not ask. If Yaellin found that it was I who was spying upon them in the gardens…”

  Laurelle reached out and took her hands again. “And you’ve kept this corked up inside you all along.” Her eyes shone with a mix of awe and respect. “You’ve more steel in your blood than I.”

  “I… I had no choice.”

  “You could’ve told me earlier.” A twinge of hurt entered Laurelle’s voice.

  “I didn’t want to involve you. If there was danger, I wouldn’t have you come to harm.”

  Laurelle squeezed her hand. “We’re sisters now. Serving here together. What you face, I will face, too. Together.”

  Dart so wanted to believe her. Hope swelled through her.

  “Is all this why you wish to sleep here?” Laurelle asked. “Are you scared of Yaellin?”

  “Something else happened,” Dart said. She told of her waking two mornings ago and finding a brazier still hot, smelling of strange alchemies.

  Laurelle covered her mouth with one hand. “Someone was in your room.”

  “I think it was Yaellin.”

  “Why? Surely he doesn’t know it was you in the gardens. You’ve spoken to no one about it.”

  “It was the dinner, after our first harvests from Lord Chrism. You told the story of Healer Paltry and the exploding illuminaria. For some reason, this drew Yaellin’s attention to me. He kept watching me.”