“He’s burning blood,” Gerrod commented.
Kathryn saw he was right. From the top of the flippercraft gouts of smoke choked into the skies from the exhaust flue, furthering the craft’s image of a flying whale. “Why does he hazard the storm? Why waste humour on such a risky landing?”
“His need must be urgent,” Gerrod answered gruffly. “And such urgency seldom heralds fair tidings.”
Kathryn suspected the same. Could the news be anything but foul, especially as of late? The sudden death of Ser Henri, the warden of Tashijan, had left a hole in the Order. And like a drain plug pulled from a tub, the warden’s vacancy had created a maelstrom of opposing factions seeking to fill it, whirling and churning the once calm waters.
And now worse tidings still: the slaying of a god. An impossible death. And tied to such a tragedy, a name from her past, a name that both stirred her and quickened a pain long since buried.
Tylar . . .
She shuddered and concentrated on the skies, pulling her cloak tighter about her shoulders.
Overhead, the ship foundered in the crosswinds that swept around the tower. Its bulk rocked and teetered, lowering toward the waiting mooring cradle, paddles flapping frantically. The stern planks glowed from the overworked aeroskimmers. Kathryn could imagine the mekanism’s brass pipes and mica-glass tubes shining as bright as the sun, channeling and pumping raw humour through its belly, an alchemy of blood from one of the air gods. She watched the tortuous twist of inky smoke from the stern flue.
“It’s madness,” she whispered.
Steel fingers touched her hand. “There must be a reason—” Suddenly those same fingers clamped on her wrist and tugged. “Down!”
Overhead, the ship dropped like a stone. It heeled over on one side, paddles sweeping toward the tower top. The line handlers and dockmen dove and scattered.
Kathryn and Gerrod flattened to the ground.
The flippercraft righted with a scream of wind and crack of wood as one paddle struck a parapet and shattered into splinters. The ship tilted nose first, plunging for a sure crash into the granite mooring cradle.
Then miraculously it bucked up at the last moment, and the ship’s keel slammed roughly but securely into the cradle. The jarring impact popped a few rib planks and a tracery of fractures skittered across the glass eye of the wooden whale.
Immediately the mooring crews were back on their legs, yelling into the winds, tossing ropes and tethers about the grounded flippercraft. A few cheers of appreciation rose from the workers.
Kathryn rolled back to her feet smoothly and quickly, sharing no such appreciation. “Nothing is worth such a risk of vessel and folk.”
The rear hatch of the flippercraft winched open. A single figure leaped out before the hatch even thudded against the stone. He was a swirl of darkness, a shred of shadow cast into the wind.
“I believe that would be young Perryl,” Gerrod said at Kathryn’s side.
Perryl hurried toward them. His eyes were sparks of fury, his manner full of wildness. He reached them as the first mooring line was secure—and didn’t stop.
He offered only one word as he passed: “Below.”
Caught in his wake, Kathryn’s rebuke for his reckless haste died in her throat. She and Gerrod Rothkild followed at his heels. Perryl strode to the tower door and fought the storm winds to open the way. He calmed enough to wave them through first.
Kathryn ducked past the threshold to the stairs beyond. As Gerrod followed, a spat of hail burst out of the sky, pelting stone and wood with balls of ice the size of goose eggs. Yells and shouts echoed. Perryl caught a blow to his cheek, ripping his masklin loose.
He slammed the door and turned to them. His face was deathly pale. “Tylar’s escaped . . . fled . . .”
The silence that followed was punctuated by a barrage of hail against the wooden door, sounding like the strikes of a hundred mailed fists.
Kathryn attempted to digest this information. She unpinned her masklin and shook back her cloak’s hood. She had failed to braid her hair into its usual fiery tail and finger-combed it away from her pale face. Never a beauty, she was still considered fair of feature, though nowadays a certain hard edge frosted her blue eyes. She stared stolidly at Perryl, demanding elaboration.
“A raven reached the flippercraft while I was en route,” Perryl continued. His eyes would not meet Kathryn’s, and his tongue stammered. “Against my orders, the fools attempted to execute Tylar, but he somehow called forth a daemon. Several guards were killed as he fled.”
“A daemon?” Kathryn asked.
“That is all I know. But the message was sealed with the mark of the Order. Darjon ser Hightower. The only Shadowknight to survive the slaughter.” Perryl finally met Kathryn’s eyes. “I didn’t know there were any of Meeryn’s Shadowknights still alive after the attack upon her. Our brother leads a force in pursuit. Word suggests the Black Flaggers abetted Tylar’s escape to the sea.”
Kathryn turned. “Pirates and daemons . . .” As she stood on the steps, time slipped backward. She had watched the man she once loved hauled in chains onto a slave barge, headed across the Deep, a knight no longer, face bared to all, an oath breaker and a murderer. Tylar’s eyes had searched for her on the river docks, but she had remained hidden in the shadows of an alley, ashamed that her own words had doomed him. But she could not lie to the court, not even if soothmancers hadn’t been present. He had to know this. Then he was dragged onto the barge, gone from sight—but not from her heart, never her heart.
“I thought him innocent,” Perryl said from the top of the stairs.
Kathryn started down the stairs. As did I once . . . long ago . . . She cleared her throat. “Castellan Mirra must be informed of all that transpired. She awaits your attendance.” They began the long hike down to the main keep of Tashijan. Ser Henri’s old castellan had assumed the duty of governing the Citadel until this evening’s winnowing, when a new warden would be chosen by a casting of ballot stones.
Gerrod Rothkild kept pace with her down the stairs. His voice was soft, meant for only her ears. “Save judgment for now. Not all is as plain as it first appears, little Kat.”
“Then again, some is,” Kathryn answered. She had to bite back a sharper retort. She knew Gerrod sought only to comfort her. But even Gerrod, with all his mastered disciplines, could not fathom the emotion that welled through her with Perryl’s damning testimony.
It was not despair that filled her—only relief.
Though ashamed, she could not deny it. Tylar was clearly guilty, a godslayer of one of the Blessed Hundred. If he could kill a god now, then oath breaking and murder were not beyond him in the past.
Tears rose. Tylar had to be guilty. Her past words had banished him, broken him. Over these past years, the only way she had survived her betrayal was to place all her faith in the justice of the Order and the Grace of her cloak.
Tylar had to be guilty.
Still, she remembered the touch of his hand on her cheek, the brush of lips on her throat, the whispered words in the dark, dreams and hopes for a future . . . together. A hand found her belly, rested a moment, then fell away, cold. There was one last betrayal even Tylar had never learned.
By all the Graces, he had to be guilty.
Castellan Mirra’s private hermitage lay in the north wing, overlooking the Old Garden and shaded by the twisted branches of the lone wyrmwood, a tree as old as Tashijan itself.
Kathryn found herself staring out the window, watching a tiny tick squirrel hopping from limb to limb among the dark, sodden leaves, searching for any nut yet unfallen. But already the spring buds hung from stems, heavy yet still folded. All the nuts had long since fallen. Still, Kathryn appreciated the creature’s dogged determination.
Especially in the rain.
The storm that had swept Perryl here had broken into a steady downpour, falling like a veil across the view.
Off to the side, Perryl continued relating the events and tragedies that ha
d befallen the Summering Isles. Gerrod Rothkild had already left to gather the Council of Masters.
Two steps away, the castellan sat with her back to the window by the room’s hearth, wrapped in an old furred cloak edged in ragged ermine. Her feet rested almost in the hearth’s flames. Some said she was as old as the wyrmwood tree outside her window. But the passing of winters had not dulled her sharp intellect. She stared into the flames, nodding. Occasionally one finger would rise from her armrest with a rare question, asked in a firm, unwavering voice.
The crooked finger lifted again. “Boy, tell me about this Darjon ser Hightower, the one who sent the raven messenger.”
Perryl, clearly irked by the condescending manner of Mirra, glanced to Kathryn, drawing her attention.
Kathryn’s frown deepened, warning him to simply answer her question. One did not cross Castellan Mirra, especially when she was in such a harsh mood. She had almost refused to see them. The death of Ser Henri had struck the old castellan hard. She had retreated to her hermitage, leaving Tashijan to rule itself until the night’s ballot stones were cast and a new warden was chosen.
Perryl continued. “Ser Hightower is well respected, Your Graced. He was second in command at the Summer Mount.”
“Yet he wasn’t at Meeryn’s side when she was murdered.”
“No. Duty had called him to another isle on that dreadful night.”
Mirra nodded, studying the dance of flames in the hearth. “And now he seeks vengeance.”
“He leads a contingent of castillion guards aboard a fleet of corsairs. They scour the southern seas for Tylar’s track. They believe he’s escaped into the Deep.”
Kathryn spoke softly. “If he’s reached the open ocean, then there is no telling where he might head. All the Nine Lands will be open to hide him.”
“But he will be welcome among none of them,” Perryl said. “Word has spread among the Hundred. All the god-realms know of his crime.”
“He could always flee to one of the hinterlands,” Kathryn contended. “He could hide forever in one of those godless lands.”
“Perhaps,” Mirra said. “But even within the hinterlands, there are gods.”
“Mere rogues,” Kathryn answered. “Vile creatures, maddened and raving.”
Mirra stared into the hearth. “Such were our own Hundred . . . before they settled the various realms so many millennia ago.”
Kathryn cocked an eyebrow. What is the castellan implying? There seems some hidden meaning hinted here.
Silence settled around the room.
“Tylar must be found,” the old castellan finally stated, as if she had decided something to herself.
“He will be,” Perryl said. “Already Ser Hightower is closing a net over the southern seas.”
“A net that will surely drown our godslayer,” Mirra said. “That must not happen. He must be protected.”
“Why?” Perryl asked, as surprised as Kathryn.
“Tylar is not guilty,” Mirra said with rasping authority.
Kathryn stepped closer, unable to hide her shock. “I don’t understand. He fled his accusers, he called forth a daemon . . . pirates shield him. Are these the actions of an innocent man?”
Mirra shifted in her seat. Her eyes locked on Kathryn’s. “They are the actions of a man accustomed to betrayal and false accusations.”
Kathryn went cold inside. “What are you saying?”
Mirra settled back to her chair. It was a long time before she spoke, and when she did her tongue was slow with regret. “There are words I fear to share . . . but I see no other course. I am too old for this burden alone. It broke Ser Henri, and he was stronger than I.”
Kathryn crossed gazes with Perryl, but neither spoke, allowing Mirra the space to reveal what troubled her.
The old castellan fixed each of them with her sharp gaze, weighing their resolve. Her eyes settled on Kathryn, softening slightly. “Do you still love him?”
“Who?”
“Your former betrothed.”
Kathryn’s brows pinched. “Tylar . . . I . . . no, of course not. That was buried long ago.”
Mirra turned away and whispered to the flames, “What’s buried is not always lost . . .” She stared into the fire for several breaths before speaking again. “What I tell you next is no kindness. In many ways, it is a cruelty that shames me, and worse still, shames the memory of Ser Henri.”
“Nothing can make me think ill of Ser Henri,” Kathryn said. In many ways, the old warden had been the father she never knew. She had been born to and abandoned by a sell-wench on the streets of Kirkalvan.
Mirra seemed deaf to her. “Shame no longer matters. Time runs too short for pride. I tell you these words now on the eve of the winnowing, on the last day I will wear the emblem of the castellan.” Mirra fingered the diamond seal pinned under her chin. “By midnight, a new warden will be chosen and, as you well know, the outcome is almost certain.”
Though Perryl looked confused, Kathryn understood. As of the past two days, the faction supporting Argent ser Fields had become firmly entrenched in the lead, pinning down a majority through old ties, pacts, and bonds. He was a fit leader and a strong spokesman, having served on many and varied boards. Even Kathryn had chosen to cast her ballot stone in his direction.
“What does any of this have to do with Tylar?”
Mirra’s eyes took on a faraway glaze that was both tired and angry. “Half a decade ago, your betrothed had been a minor piece in a larger game, tossed aside after he was no longer of use. And while Tylar was not entirely blameless for his actions, neither was he guilty of the bloody crimes for which he was accused. He set in motion—blindly though it might have been—a series of events that almost brought down Ser Henri. To preserve the Order of Tashijan, to protect it from darker forces, Tylar had to be sacrificed.”
Kathryn’s legs went weak with her words. As thunder echoed through the castle walls, she found herself leaning on a table for support. “Then the murder of the cobbler’s family . . . ?”
Mirra shook her head. “Their blood does not stain his hands.”
Kathryn felt the room’s walls close in. Darkness oiled the corners of her vision. Innocent . . he was innocent . . .
Mirra sighed. “Now, I don’t understand Tylar’s role in this new gambit. Was it mere chance, a twist of fate, or are there darker currents at play? In any case, it proves even a broken pawn can arise again and shake the board, rattle the play of the game.”
Kathryn shook her head, trying to clear her mind. “What game are you talking about?” Anger flared, hardening her tone. “Tell me!”
Mirra remained unmoved, a stone against Kathryn’s fury. “Even I don’t know all the plots and contrivances. I doubt even Ser Henri knew, and he was the wisest of us all. But he believed the struggle waged behind the walls of Tashijan was only an echo of a larger war brewing outside.”
“Then start here first,” Kathryn said.
“For the past decade, Ser Henri has fought to weed out a secretive faction within the Order. A faction that calls itself the Fiery Cross.”
Kathryn glanced to Perryl, then back to Mirra. Rumors of such a group had been bantered about for as long as Kathryn could remember: secret rites performed in the dead of night, hidden passages and chambers built into the walls, rogue members of the Order practicing the Dark Graces. But it was considered more myth than reality.
Mirra nodded. “They exist and have grown stronger and more open. Their goal: to turn the Order into more than servants to the gods and arbiters of peace. They seek to mold the Shadowknights into a warrior force, mercenaries for hire, assassins for those with enough coin.”
“But that goes against all our oaths,” Perryl said sternly.
“Oaths can be changed,” Mirra answered simply and added cryptically, “as they have been in the distant past.”
Kathryn found her legs and moved to the hearth’s edge, needing the warmth. “And Tylar became embroiled in this struggle?”
&nb
sp; “He was caught between the Order and the Cross, blind to the forces around him, and crushed. The murder of the cobbler’s family was laid at his feet, and in order to prove his innocence, Ser Henri would have had to expose agents loyal to him who had infiltrated the Cross, risking even more deaths. So Tylar was sentenced to banishment and slavery. All Ser Henri could do was beseech the overseer of the trial to keep your betrothed from the gallows, sparing his death.”
Kathryn laid a palm on her belly. Not all had been so generously spared . . . She lowered her hand, swallowing down the rage that burned through her. “Then who murdered the cobbler family?”
Mirra’s voice dropped to a whisper. “The same person who murdered Ser Henri.”
Perryl fell back. “It cannot be . . .”
Ser Henri’s death was the cause of much speculation and rumor. His body had been found on the tower stair, his face locked in pain and horror, each finger burned and blackened to the knuckle. But murder? Ser Henri dabbled in alchemies, often dealing with volatile mixtures. An experiment gone awry was the Council of Masters’ judgment on the death, though they still left the inquiry open.
Kathryn bit back her shock, fingers clenching. “Is what you say true?”
The castellan continued her vigil upon the flames. Tears shone in her eyes. “The murder cannot be proven, but I know the truth nonetheless.”
“Who was behind it?” she asked.
Mirra pulled her ermine cloak tighter around her thin form. “It was the head of the Fiery Cross . . . either upon his order or by his own hand. I’m sure of it.”
“And does this monster have a name?”
Again the barely perceptible nod. “Ser Henri had his suspicions, nothing that could be proven.”
Kathryn refused to accept defeat so easily. “Who was it?”
The old castellan’s next words were frail with despair. “The next warden of Tashijan . . . Argent ser Fields.”