“No, Tabitha.” He seemed to force the words out. His hand caressed her hair, then her ear. “Maybe with my wife, but I would not take one now.” He closed his eyes, as if to hide some inner turmoil.
“If you were not the Swordmaster, would you love me?”
He smiled, a wry, sad smile. He kissed her cheek. His breath was warm.
“I love you, even as the Swordmaster,” he whispered. “I shall always love you, but because of my position, I dare not act on that love. I dare not.”
Desire raged through her. She knew what she wanted, she knew what he wanted, he just wouldn’t allow the passion to rule him. He had been inside his armour for too long. She knew how she could push him over the edge. She would not lose the man she loved to a misguided sense of duty. Loving her would not compromise his duty to the King, she would never let that happen. She held him close again, close enough that he was looking over her head and could not see how she summoned the motes behind his back.
She whispered the words of the Seduction, so quietly he couldn’t possibly hear. She had seen the pattern used by Gabrielle, when she had snared Ashley in the Dovecote. She had not forgotten one curve of it. The Dark essence touched his back, the motes were absorbed by his body.
Garyll stiffened in her arms. She stood on tip-toe, and kissed his cheek. Strangely enough, he grabbed at his own throat, where his bandaged hand was held high in the sling. Now was no time for him to be thinking of his wounds. She would take his mind from all of that. She reached for the back of his head, ran her fingers through his hair.
“Tabitha, what are you doing?” His voice was husky, his eyes never left her face. He did not pull away.
“Daring to act on love. You deserve to be loved.”
She pulled his head down to her, and kissed him on the mouth. His lips were full and warm. In that moment, the spell she had cast exploded into a raging tempest of lust within her as well. She felt his tongue on hers. She knew Garyll felt the ecstasy of it himself, for his back arched, and he lifted her clear of the floor with his arm suddenly around her waist, holding her close. The power of attraction overwhelmed them both.
Suddenly, there was another presence in the room, an almost-familiar voice, a faint touch against her intuition that begged to be answered, and yet urged her to kiss Garyll harder. She tried to clear her thoughts by drawing on the Ring, but it was a half-hearted attempt. She wanted to ignore the warning, to abandon herself to the tight web of hunger which gripped Garyll to her, but something, somewhere, was wrong.
The whisper of the Darkmaster had returned in her stone.
Her dress fell from her shoulders, exposing her breasts. Her breath came in short gasps, her heart beat in a wild tumble.
It should not be like this.
She had cast a spell on Garyll, and it was devastating. The Darkmaster was calling to her, whispering at the edge of hearing.
Garyll lifted her on his knee against the wall. His tongue explored her throat, his hand searched her breasts. His touch was fierce, insanely erotic. There was something in his eyes, a hunger within that would never be sated, not by her body alone.
The Dark would tear their love to shreds.
“Stop. Stop!” she cried. “This is wrong.”
Garyll threw her onto the couch. He unbuckled his breast-plate in a frenzy, and cast it aside. His chest heaved inside his padded tunic. She was defenceless against his strength, he was defenceless against her spell. His free hand found her naked breasts again.
She knew then, with certainty, what had been done. The Ring showed her the truth, she only had to look. She had been seduced, herself; tricked into using the Dark. There was Dark in her blood, and dark in her mind. The Darkmaster was whispering a mantra, one she had to only say once, to consummate the spell of the Devotion.
“This is the way the Shadowcasters would do it,” she cried.
Garyll froze. The fire crackled in the hearth, the light flickered.
“This is the way the Dark would do it,” she repeated, in a whisper.
Garyll’s face fell. He stumbled backward. The full shock hit Tabitha with all the force of a charging bull. She choked upon her first cry, and fled the rooms of the Swordmaster of Eyri, drawing her dress up as she ran. She heard Garyll fall to his knees behind her.
She was through the doors and beyond before the flood of tears caught her. Panic swept her through the worn stone corridors of the Swordhouse. No matter how fast she ran, she could not escape the burden of the Darkstone, or the way it struck against her heart with every step.
* * *
Garyll’s room filled with silence. He remained on his knees. He wanted to jump up, to scream and tear something apart, break furniture with his fists. But it was more of a torture to remain still, to allow himself no vent to the rage within. And so he sat.
He rose, at last, to close the door. When he reached for the latch, his hand shook. It was a peculiar affliction. He closed the door softly.
The deep coals were red in the hearth, but Felltang had cooled to its former silver. He thrust the blade deep into the fire, and sat on his haunches. The heat only warmed the surface of his skin. He doubted he would be warmed even if he threw himself into the coals. His darkness was absolute. He had proved that beyond doubt, upon the pure innocence of Tabitha Serannon. A more final step into damnation he could not imagine. He had ravaged his own love.
He worked the knot of his sling free, and threw the fabric into the hearth in his place. It flared to flame, and burned away. The ligaments in his elbow protested at bearing the weight of his arm, but that was a minor call when compared to the return of blood to his lowered left hand. The ruined fingers each had a unique scream.
Garyll kept his hand low, at his side.
He wrenched the bandage clear, exposing the horror of shattered digits, the reminder of the tortures he had passed, and the consequences of defying the Darkmaster. He had hoped, once, that the twisted flesh could be healed, that he could be restored. He knew at last that there could be no forgiveness, no healing, for what he had become.
Where before, the path ahead had been clouded by his hope, it was now clear. He would guarantee Tabitha’s safety during the invasion by following the terms of his pact to the letter, and then, when he was beside the Darkmaster on his new throne, he would end first Cabal’s life, and then his own. It was the only way to be sure Tabitha Serannon would be left alone.
There was never going to be a repeat of the crime committed in his chambers, before the witness of Felltang.
The blade was hot enough—he drew it from the fire. He set his left hand on the edge of the hearth. The sword shrieked with its unique note, and cut clean into the stone. His past was severed, and with it, the hope of any future. The stump of his wrist was cauterised on the blade. A vile smoke issued briefly from the end, and left an unwholesome smell in the air. Felltang was streaked with black. Garyll endured the spasms with clenched teeth.
He allowed himself no time to contemplate what burned in the coals. He retrieved the work of the armourer, where it was placed beside the hearth. Four curved blades were worked like claws into the end of a long steel gauntlet. It gripped tightly to his arm, and he rammed the blades into the stone to force his stump all the way to the stop inside. He tied the leather binding as tight as he could. The armourer had made good work of the savage blades—they were thick and strong. And sharp.
Garyll grunted in satisfaction. There was one purpose to any weapon, one purpose alone—to bring death to one’s foes. He could only hope to get close enough by becoming a trusted servant. The Darkmaster would taste his clawed hand in the end.
42. BURDENS AND BARDSONG
“None so torn, as lovers, apart.”—Zarost
Tabitha woke on a wet pillow.
Tap. Tap-tap, it came again, like a fingernail knocking on glass. It was an insistent, small sound. Her curtains were drawn, but the pale dawn light crept around the edges.
Then the weight of the world fell upon her. The
memory of the night before was thick with the taint of the Dark. Tabitha found the Ring, drew in the clarity which had saved her from ruin. She had been a Shadowcaster, for a while.
Garyll! Oh, Garyll, what have I done?
She donned her simple grey robe with shaking hands. She approached the window, and pulled the curtains wide. A sudden explosion of feathers against the glass left her gasping for breath. A glossy bird beat its wings, then fell to perch on the windowsill once more. She covered her face with her hands as her heartbeat resumed.
A Morrigán. The Master calls.
The Dark was insistent, ever-present.
“Go away!” she cried at the harbinger. “Go away! Just leave me alone!”
The bird flapped out over the street, but circled, and returned to its perch. Nausea crept into her stomach. The Master was watching her. The Dark would soon be in Stormhaven.
Eyri’s hope rested on the shoulders of one man, and she had burdened him with a terrible thing. She had stopped him with unfair words. She had accused him of acting like a Shadowcaster, when it had been she who had cast the spell of Seduction. The dishonesty demanded to be set aright.
The Morrigán cocked its head, tapped its beak on the window.
She had to be honest with Garyll, let him know what hung at her neck, and what she had done to him. She had to know if there was a chance that he could ever forgive her. She had to know if the passionate words he had spoken were true, or forced from his lips by the seductive grip of the Dark she had inflicted upon him.
The longer you left a lie, the more damage it did. She had learned that much, as Truthsayer.
She closed the curtains.
He had said that he loved her. She hoped that was still true.
Tabitha made her way down into the street, and set off for the Swordhouse. The Morrigán swooped low over her, but had to find a perch again, for the one who received a messenger commanded its delivery. She did not intend to offer the raven so much as a glance. Yet she was aware of it, lurching from rooftop to road to rooftop, calling out its croaking frustrations.
She was directed to the practice hall of the Sword, but when she reached it, a Captain blocked her access.
“He’s not likely to want visitors this morning, Miss Serannon.”
She couldn’t stop her lip from trembling. Rejection. She should have expected it. She bit down on her rising tears, and hoped against hope. She had to know.
“I just need a word with him, sir. A minute is all.”
The Captain measured her with a foreboding gaze. She hoped that her tears weren’t showing.
“All right,” he finally said, “it might be what he needs. But if he refuses, you’ll leave at once.”
The Captain ushered her into the practice hall of the Swordhouse. The clang of steel and the harsh grunts of men in mock-battle filled the hall, though only a few combatants sparred. Most of the men were crowded at the far end of the hall, where a weaving swordsman was stripped to the waist.
His lean body was covered in sweat, and not a little blood. He worked his great blade with furious power against a many-armed mannequin, a contraption which rotated with every blow struck against it, causing it to swing its deadly-looking weapons at its assailant. The swordsman wore a savage gauntlet with blades on his left hand, which he used as often as the sword, though not as swiftly. He ducked to avoid a flail, revealing his face for an instant. Garyll. His body was so much thinner than she had expected; lean, wiry. He had been scraped to the bone by his time in Ravenscroft.
“What is he doing?” Tabitha whispered.
The Captain’s voice was gruff. “That is the Dumbfist. It’s made of stonewood. Nobody stands against it for more than a few minutes. No one has ever caused it damage.”
She followed the Sword’s gaze. Chips of stonewood exploded from the mannequin. Already its head seemed to have been crushed, and a severed mechanical arm lay amongst the circle of dust and debris beneath Garyll’s boots.
“He’s been at it for over an hour, my Lady. I’ve never seen anything like it. We have tried to calm his rage, but –” He looked away. “We’re afraid to, my lady. He has the battle fury upon him. We need his reason in this war, not madness! He is our Swordmaster.”
“I—I should go,” she stammered. Her reasons for wanting to see Garyll seemed suddenly foolish, in the face of his power. He would not forgive her. His rage infused the hall.
“No, it may break his fugue. Sit here.” He indicated a plain wooden bench against the wall.
Dread filled her as the knot of men parted to allow the Captain through. He leant in toward the sphere of destruction which whirled around the Swordmaster. Garyll continued in an unbroken rhythm, though the Captain must have spoken to him. Tabitha watched in mute shock, feeling the renewed rage tear through the hall. Chips of stone flew from the Dumbfist. A severed part crashed to the floor. The Dumbfist whirled.
The Captain bent in toward Garyll once more, and Tabitha could see his lips move, though the words were lost in the harsh ring of steel. All other movement ceased, the men stood with weapons laid aside as the tension gathered and focused on Garyll.
The Dumbfist became a blur. The raw strength of the blows which Garyll delivered boomed through the hall. Within seconds, the Dumbfist had lost all of its remaining limbs. It spun naked and crippled before the onslaught. Garyll’s blade shrieked, and he roared. The Dumbfist exploded as the final terrifying blow struck home.
Tabitha trembled. It felt as if she had been assaulted directly by the deathblow. The hardened veterans and strong recruits in the hall looked just as stunned.
At last Garyll turned on his knee. He was bleeding from many cuts, and his chest heaved. At his throat, a studded collar was buckled tight over multiple wounds, flesh torn as if a cat had raked his neck. The world disappeared around Tabitha, there was only Garyll’s face, and the deep pools of his eyes in which malignant creatures swam. He looked away, and stood, his back straight. The men retreated from his path. He strode toward the exit, then he was gone.
Someone whistled as they let out their breath.
The prospect of meeting his rage head-on was terrifying, but the Ring warmed on her finger when she considered Glavenor, and she knew that she couldn’t abandon the path to truth. Her legs wouldn’t support her weight though, and she sat down abruptly upon standing.
Take it as rejection, girl. He doesn’t want a woman like you.
She would not believe it. She had to find him. At least to apologise, if nothing else. This time her legs retained a semblance of stability.
She worked her way through the dispersing men. She had almost reached the exit when an iron grip stopped her in her tracks. Captain Steed, the veteran of First Light, wore a look of concerned determination.
“No, Miss Serannon, I’ll not be letting you go after him. He is a dangerous man today, more so than ever before.”
Her will was set. She was going to the Swordmaster. She took a gamble.
“Captain Steed, how delightful to see you. Don’t I get a greeting any more?” She curtsied, smiled her broadest smile, and offered him her right hand, because he had not released the left. If he was half the gentleman she knew him to be, he would kiss her fingers.
Captain Steed looked mildly abashed, or amused. He raised her hand to his lips. When they touched the Ring, his eyes rolled back in their sockets. He sank to the floor like a felled ox.
She gave a little theatrical scream, to bring the men running. They soon huddled around the unconscious Captain. A Sword bent to check his pulse, and nodded.
“His heart is strong, and he’s breathing. The blight must have struck his mind. What happened?”
“I was—just talking to him, then he fell. He was Captain in my village. I’ve seen this happen to him before. He just needs some water.” She backed away from the knot of men. “I’ll get some.”
She ran for the exit, hoping there was indeed water in that direction. No one called out after her, so she supposed her ruse
would hold.
She drew on the Ring to refine her sight, and used the skill she had learned of in the Dovecote. She became aware of the faint traces of feet which had passed through the corridor, the ghostly footprints of recent traffic. If she kept her attention vague, the most fresh of those prints stood out. Big prints with an angry stride. Garyll’s tread led her through the corridors of the Swordhouse to a staircase.
She slowed in the ascent, taking care not to scrape her boots against stone. She emerged to the battlement, where the palisade curved away along the eastern walls of Stormhaven. It was bitterly cold, yet no wind blew.
A lone figure stood with his back to her, his upper torso naked, his trousers sweat-stained. Garyll spoke before she had reached him, even though she had made no sound.
“Get as far away from me as you can.”
The distance in his voice drove the tears into her eyes before she could resist them. The precipice loomed before her.
“Garyll, I am sorry, I didn’t mean—”
“Last night proved how different we are. I am not the kind of man you need. I am the worst man for you to love.”
She laid a hand on his shoulder. He brushed it away gently, and yet an ache passed through her fingers and up her arm.
“Garyll! Look at me. Tell me that your words were true. I know I did wrong, but was it true that you love me?” She managed to push her way between his body and the outer rampart, forcing him to face her.
Only then did she realise that there was fresh blood running from a wound in his neck, where his skin was torn in scrapes around the studded collar. The savage gauntlet which had made those marks was terrifying, up close, not because of the curved blades, but because there didn’t seem to be any place within it for Garyll’s left hand.
“You did no wrong,” he said, in an empty voice. “It was I who ravaged a Lightgifter last night. I am no man for you, for anyone.”
“Garyll, I am not ravaged. I am sorry for what I did. I still love you.”
He turned aside as if struck across the face.
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