Still, the pirate stared him up and down. Krevan kept silent about what he found, but a crease between his brow deepened.
“How much farther?” Tylar asked.
Krevan frowned and grumbled. “I should check the map.”
Tylar didn’t like the worried tone to the pirate’s voice. Calla joined them, shrugging off a pack. The maps were unrolled.
Stepping clear, Tylar searched up between the canopy’s leaves. Clouds were blowing into view. But so far, the full face of the lesser moon shone down. It was called a Hunter’s Moon when full like this, casting enough glow to see but not enough to give away a hunter’s blind.
How far had they come? Not even half a league, he imagined.
Krevan whispered with Calla.
“Already lost?” Rogger asked as he stalked up.
“No,” Krevan answered and nodded to the pinnacle of granite. “This is the right place. This is where Bennifren said to meet.”
“Have they moved on?” Tylar asked.
The answer came from above their heads. A rope sailed down the side of the nearby pinnacle. A shape quickly slid along it, dropping from some hidden perch. The figure was cloaked in hunter’s green and black boots.
Krevan drew his blade. Tylar slipped Rivenscryr free, not taking any chances with the malignant Grace of this land.
Alighting without even a crackle of twig or dry leaf, the newcomer strode toward them, tall, back straight, unperturbed by their raised blades. The hood was shaken back, revealing dark hair, skin the color of bitternut and cream. Familiar eyes studied them.
“Eylan…” Dart said, also recognizing the woman.
The woman failed to respond, but Dart was correct. She was a match to Eylan, from boot to crown. Even her movements were the same: the way she leaned on a hip as she stopped, how her eyes took in a situation in a single sweep to the right, then back again more slowly and warily to the left.
Only then did Tylar realize his mistake. The woman didn’t recognize them—and it couldn’t be Eylan. They had all seen her die.
Was she a twin?
“My name is Meylan,” she said, confirming his thought. “You will come with me.”
Though they’d never met, Tylar felt a strange affection for the woman, as if she were his own sister. But with it came a twinge of guilt. Did she know of her sister’s death? She would have to be told.
But not now…
Meylan turned as if there was no brooking any defiance. Her words were reinforced by the appearance of more figures, similarly attired, hoods up. They appeared from behind the boles of trees and lowered themselves out of branches.
Lorr stepped to Tylar’s side. “They use Grace to hide their scent and even their breath.”
They did indeed move silently. He had yet to hear a single footfall or snap of a broken branch. He counted a full score of them, all women.
Meylan touched the rocky side of the pinnacle, and flames burst from its tip, flickering sharply above. Rounding the outcropping, Tylar found a break in the foliage. Ahead, the lands continued to drop away. Atop another pinnacle a good league away, flames burst.
Signal fires.
Meylan had passed on word of their arrival.
Krevan paced Tylar. “I should have guessed Bennifren would not have simply told me the location of his hinterland camp. Secrets run through his veins, more than blood.”
Rogger came up on his other side. “Wise to remember that. The Wyr make pacts that are unbreakable, sealed with a word. But all else is suspect.”
They followed Meylan, but Rogger was not done. He nudged Tylar and pointed back. “Watch as they pass under the firelight.”
Brows pinching, Tylar glanced at the women that trailed the group. They made no move to threaten them. But he spotted daggers on their belts, and he did not doubt more blades were hidden on their bodies. He was not sure what Rogger intended him to see.
Then one of them stepped past the pinnacle. Shafts of firelight flickered and danced shadows from above. The woman’s face was momentarily illuminated in its ruddy glow.
Tylar stumbled. She looked indistinguishable from Meylan—as much as Meylan looked like Eylan. Another woodswoman slipped through the same light, revealing again the same face. Then another.
“Just so you know who you are dealing with,” Rogger said.
Tylar held back a shudder as he looked across the score of women. The warmth he had felt toward Meylan went cold. For centuries, perhaps millennia, the Wyr had sought to breed godhood into human flesh. Their practices were as arcane as they were heartless. No manner of manipulation of the flesh was beyond them, resulting in abomination, mutilation, deformity.
But this?
It seemed so much worse. Beauty and horror. Maybe it was that this abomination wore the face of a woman he had come to know, to appreciate, even to value as a friend.
Affection and guilt shifted to anger.
Tylar stared as the women spread through the forest.
He would remember Rogger’s warning. He was also mindful of what the thief had said about the unbreakable pacts with the Wyr. Tylar had his own oath to honor, a debt that perhaps he could no longer delay in settling. The Wyr had collected his other humours—but he owed them one more.
His seed.
Tylar knew that before he was allowed to head deeper into the hinterland, Bennifren would demand that he satisfy their old deal. Tylar also knew he needed the Wyr-lord’s cooperation. To gain it, there would be little room to maneuver.
Ahead, Meylan glanced back, perhaps sensing his reluctance.
He stared back at her, a woman wearing the face of a friend.
He read no friendship here.
Only a reminder of what was owed…and the danger of its corruption.
Dart stayed close to the giant as they entered the camp.
She had heard tales of the Wyr for as far back as she could remember, tales meant to scare one to hurry to bed, to finish one’s chores, to keep one’s word. The one common element of these stories was that bad children ended up in the Wyr’s clutches, dragged away and never seen again. But as she grew older, the tales grew both more truthful and more frightening. The Wyr were a cadre of Dark Alchemists, buried within their subterranean forges, concocting all manner of Grace in their pursuit of godhood. The ends to which they’d go to achieve this were both monstrous and pitiless.
Dart followed the others into the camp, staying close to the giant.
The Wyr had made their home on the bank of what appeared to be a wide lake but was in truth a flooded forest. Here was where all the trickling creeks eventually ended, becoming a slow shallow river several leagues wide, flowing westward toward the distant sea. Twisted trees corkscrewed out of the flood, raised up on tangles of roots, as if trying to crawl out of the black water. Great slabs of rock tilted out, too, strangely barren, along with more pinnacles.
The closest of these spires rose near the bank, shadowing a collection of ramshackle tents. Its pinnacle bore a crown of fire. The beacon had led them here, escorted by Meylan’s band. Its flames lit the camp below with a foreboding glow, all fire and shadow.
Faces watched their approach: spying from behind flaps of tents, lifting up from some labor, wafting smoke from their eyes. Dart, in turn, studied them, expecting beastly countenances. Instead, most of these folk looked as normal as their group—and when compared to Lorr and Malthumalbaen, maybe even more normal.
A few forms, though, were plainly tainted. A bare-breasted woman hauled wet clothes from the creek. She had arms and legs as thick around as the giant’s but was hardly taller than Dart. When she turned, her eyes were shadowed by heavy brows that sloped steeply back. They watched dully as the group passed.
Then there was a boy, far younger than Dart, who approached their party with the simple doe-eyed curiosity of all youth, shyly but still drawn. From his eyes, it was plain he was full of questions, but they would never come.
He had no mouth—only a gaping hole at the base of h
is throat.
She had to look away. But he must have noted the horror in her face, for he turned away, too, in shame. That more than anything disturbed her. She had her own secrets, but they were hidden well, hidden deep. Not like the boy’s.
As they neared the water, another woman approached, ducking out of the largest of the tents. She was wide-hipped and full of breast. She straightened and shuffled toward them. Her head tilted slackly to one side, a trickle of drool hanging from her lower lip. She carried an infant in her arms, cradled to those ample breasts. From the swaddling, a bald crown of head shone pink as the child suckled.
Pupp, who had been hanging close, moved to her ankles, flaring brighter as his hackles raised.
The woman stepped before them and pulled the babe from her breast. She lifted it, as if offering the child to them. It appeared to be an ordinary babe. Milk dribbled from plump lips. Rosy cheeks shone, well fed and hale.
But then those eyes opened and destroyed the illusion.
An ancient wickedness shone forth, born of too sharp an intelligence. There was a leering quality to the glint.
Dart bit back a gasp.
“Wyrd Bennifren,” Tylar said formally.
The babe wiped milky spittle from his lips with a pudgy arm. “You look like rotted shite, Tylar.” The voice was reedy and thin—childlike but far from childish. It made the hairs on Dart’s body quiver with revulsion. “Crook-backed and hobbling. Not much of a godslayer now.”
“Either way, here I am. We’ve come to offer terms for the knowledge you possess.”
“You bring the skull, then?” the child asked hungrily.
From the side, Krevan answered, “A piece of it. All that is left. The rest was destroyed in fires up in Saysh Mal.”
“That was not our agreement, Raven ser Kay.”
“Our agreement, by your sworn word as the free leader of the Wyrdling clans, was to bring you all that remains of Keorn, son of Chrism. So we have done. You must honor your bargain.”
The babe sneered, a frightening expression on such a small face, like a sewer rat given human countenance. “Then let us be done with the matter.” He turned to study Tylar up and down. “It seems this is a night to settle many debts. Follow me.” Guided by some silent signal, the slack-jawed woman heaved around like a foundering ship and headed off along the flooded bank. Babe and woman rounded a cluster of rocks to reveal a fire blazing amid a circle of standing stones.
Dart glanced to them. Dancing firelight revealed cryptic marks inscribed into the stones’ faces. She recognized them from historical texts back at school. It was the old human written language, all straight lines, little warmth, guttural in appearance.
Wyrd Bennifren led them to logs rolled close to the fire. Flagons of ale and fresh water waited, along with carved bowls piled high with spiced dry meats, hard cheeses, and strange berries as crimson as blood. It was a bountiful fare for such a dreadful gathering in a dark, flooded wood.
Still, bellies did not judge.
Once they were settled in, Krevan spoke around a mouthful of rabbit. “You swore to know more about the rogue god Keorn. Secrets of interest to us, to the girl.” He nodded to Dart. “The Black Flaggers waged significant resources to discover Keorn’s fate and to bring you a piece of that god. It is time for you to make full payment.”
“The Wyr honor their bonded word,” Bennifren said. He was nestled in the dull woman’s lap. One hand pawed her teat, half absently, half lasciviously. “But I also know that you’ve already gleaned much about Keorn on your journey out and back. Still, there are more secrets known only to us. Secrets whispered in the ear of the raving, thought never to be repeated.”
“Spoken to whom?” Tylar asked.
“This one’s mother, for one,” Bennifren said, his gaze drifting to Dart. “It can be lonely when you’re the only sighted man in a world full of the blind. That was Keorn. He bore some special Grace that kept him at the edge of raving but never beyond.”
Tylar shared a silent glance with Rogger. Both were careful not to look at Brant. Better the Wyr didn’t know about his stone.
“But even a god has needs,” Bennifren said. He tugged hard on the woman’s nipple, earning a yip of surprise that quickly subsided back to dullness again. “Like when he bedded that godling’s mother. He told her many things, secret things that he thought she would forget when the ravings took hold again. But when his seed took root, he protected her, sheltered her with his steadying Grace. During that time, balanced on that fine edge of madness, she whispered his secrets. And we were there, listening, drawn by the rare birth.”
Dart shivered despite the fire’s warmth. He was speaking about her birth.
“What sort of secrets?” Tylar asked.
Bennifren grinned with malicious delight. “Secrets about a father and son at odds.”
“Chrism and his son?”
Bennifren nodded to Tylar. “I’ve heard what the daemon claimed when you confronted him in Chrismferrry last year. How it was Chrism himself who forged Rivenscryr in their old world, wielded it during a great war there, and in doing so, accidentally split his world, sundered land and people, casting them adrift to settle here as flesh, naethryn, and aethryn.”
“So he claimed.”
“And it was just that…a claim. While all was true about the Sundering, what was not true was that Chrism forged your sweet sword.”
Tylar’s hand drifted to the gold hilt.
“Chrism had a lust for power, and he candled those desires in the reflections of sword blades. He constructed a private smithy where he designed and forged weapons of great edge and balance.” Bennifren pointed a pink finger at the other blade on Tylar’s belt. “Who do you think designed the shape and form of your knightly swords?”
Rogger nodded. “He’s right there. It was Chrism. According to ancient texts. He offered that first sword to the last human king, the one who founded the shadowknights, as thanks and a bond between them. All other swords were patterned after that first.”
“So you see,” Bennifren said, “a heart’s desire is not so easy to shed. Even after he was sundered, Chrism’s desire was too large to split away entirely. His fascination with swords. Perhaps that’s why his aspect of Grace, once settled, revealed a heart of loam. A love not so much of root and leaf as of iron and ore.”
Tylar stared at the two swords on his hip. “So Chrism had nothing to do with Rivenscryr’s actual forging?”
“Exactly. He only wielded the sword—or perhaps it wielded him, in the end. It was a weapon too powerful, beyond his understanding.”
“Then who forged it?” Krevan asked, clearly perturbed.
Bennifren’s ancient eyes looked upon Dart slyly. But she already knew the truth. The way her blood ignited the sword, her blasted heritage—there could only be one answer.
“It was my father,” Dart said.
All eyes turned for confirmation to the small Wyr-lord. He seemed to enjoy their shock. “Like father, like son. It seemed the passion for the blade was passed to the son. But it was not the power of the sword that fascinated Keorn as much as it was the artistry of the honed blade. His passion lay in seeking the perfect sword. That he got from his mother, for a son is only half his father. His mother inspired him equally, gifting him with a questioning mind, a love for knowledge, and an appreciation for hidden secrets. At her knee, he was taught arcane rites, and in turn, he forged powerful insights and secrets into the steel of the sword, creating a formidable weapon like no other.”
“And Chrism stole it,” Tylar said.
“How could he not? His lust overcame his caution. He used it during the war and sundered everything in his ignorance.”
Bennifren then smiled, showing his toothless gums. “And therein lies a good lesson. You must be careful how far you reach. Better to be large here.” He tapped his head. “And have shorter arms. Keeps one wiser where one reaches.”
Krevan sighed, his face tight with irritation. “So the rogue forged the
Godsword. What does any of this—?”
Bennifren raised his tiny arm, silencing the pirate. “Patience is also a virtue of the wise.” He turned to the others. “For you see, Keorn wanted no part of his father’s war, and he certainly did not want his perfect creation wielded in it. So the last secret Keorn imparted to the mother of his child, his most heartfelt private shame, was that he had damaged his own sword. He built a flaw into it. He made it imperfect.”
Dart felt a sickening lurch in her stomach.
Bennifren’s sibilant voice made the final truth so much more horrible. “It was this flaw as much as Chrism’s wielding that led to the end of their world. This was Keorn’s final secret to his ravening mate, a secret he never intended be known. As much as Chrism, Keorn was to blame for the Sundering that destroyed their world.”
A stunned silence followed.
“Like father, like son,” Rogger finally mumbled.
Tylar stared down at his belted swords—Rivenscryr and his knightly blade. He looked ready to throw both aside, their two histories entwined by curse and tragedy.
“So I’d be careful how you wield that sword,” Bennifren warned. “That flaw still remains.”
“But what was it?” Krevan asked. “What did Keorn do?”
Tiny shoulders shrugged. “I don’t think the how weighed on the god’s mind as much as the end result. He never whispered that secret across a pillow. But plainly his guilt ate like a worm in the belly. We believe that is why he protected the growing child, kept the mother from raving long enough to give birth to his daughter, someone whose blood could forge the sword anew.”
“But why go through the effort if the blade was flawed?” Tylar asked.
“Because of what we found later, when we were hunting Keorn through the hinterlands,” Bennifren said. “The god lost us, but we found his trail again.”
Dart remembered the first crumb of that trail. How could she forget? She could still feel the cold of her garret as Krevan wrote the name of her father on the wall in Littick sigils, a name found at the bottom of a piece of hide tacked to an elder’s wall in a hinter-village.