Kathryn shared her evening dinner with Gerrod Rothkild. It was a somber meal of diced boar in potatoes and turnips, whetted with a poor vintage red wine. They partook their meal in Gerrod’s quarters in the master’s wing of Tashijan.
He kept his room as orderly as his own mind: a small hearth aglow with coals, plain and heavy woolen drapes over slit windows, and simple furnishings of greenwood and hammered copper. The only adornments were fanciful iron braziers in shapes of woodland creatures—eagle, skreewyrm, wolfkit, and tyger—at each corner of the room, cardinal points of a compass. Even these had their practical uses, simmering now with sweet myrrh to scent the air, though more often they burned rare alchemies to focus the mind and thoughts.
“And that was all Castellan Mirra could tell you?” Gerrod asked.
There was no need to answer. It was the fourth time that question had been asked. But Kathryn nodded anyway.
Gerrod stabbed a fork into a chunk of meat. As usual, he wore his bronze armor, shedding only his helmet, indicating a level of comfort and familiarity with his dining companion. Though no older than Kathryn, he was as bald as his helmet, his scalp tattooed with symbols of his fifteen masterfields. His skin was pale to the point of translucency, even his lips. Only his eyes remained a rich brown, a match to his bronze armor.
The soft whir of his armor’s mekanicals was loud in the silence as he brought the forkful to his lips. The armor sustained his frail form. After showing promise as a boy, he had been ripened with alchemies of air and fire to ready his mind for his studies, but he had been pushed too far. Mastering fifteen disciplines had cost him the strength of bone and muscle, leaving him dependent on the armor to move his limbs.
“I can’t bring this to the Council of Masters,” Gerrod said. “Not without proof. Especially with accusations involving Argent ser Fields.” This last was said with a sad shake of his head. “It seems unbelievable, unfathomable.”
“Castellan Mirra seemed certain of her claim.”
Gerrod’s brow furrowed into pale lines. “And the old castellan definitely is not a person prone to fits of fancy.”
“As it was, she was loath to inform us of even this. She wished to consult with those still loyal to Ser Henri before explaining more. I think she told Perryl and me only because of our ties to . . . to Tylar. She is convinced he is of some importance to the struggles here and abroad. Whether he is a willing player or not, she was not sure.”
Gerrod sighed, wheezing like his armor. “And you’ve taken me into your counsel, spreading the word. Do you think this is wise? I did not know Tylar.”
Kathryn reached forward to touch his bronze hand. “If I can’t trust you, then who within the walls of Tashijan can I trust?”
His metal glove cleaved open like a clam, exposing the skeletal fingers within. She did not flinch from touching them. A small smile formed on his lips. Like all Masters of Discipline, he had forsworn women, but that did not keep him from loving. Kathryn knew his feelings for her and hers for him.
Five years ago, after Tylar’s trial and banishment, something had broken inside Kathryn. She had retreated for a year into the monastic levels of Tashijan, to the underground lair of the masters with its libraries, illuminariums, and alchemy laboratories. There, she lost herself in study and meditation, burying herself under the keep as surely as in a grave.
And she would still be there if it hadn’t been for Gerrod. Newly arrived to Tashijan and blind to her past, his eyes had not looked upon her with accusation for her damning testimony against Tylar, nor did they glance away with sad sympathy for her loss.
Gerrod simply saw her.
Over the next months, he drew her out with his wit and plain wisdoms. You’re too much a flower to hide from the sun . . . leave such places to mold and mushrooms. He helped build back her strength, find her center once again. It was holding this same hand that she left the subterranean levels of the masters and returned to the Order of the Shadowknights above, where she resumed her place as a knight. Though they could never be together, they were forever more than friends.
And it was enough for both of them.
A knock at the door interrupted. Kathryn stood as Gerrod’s armor snapped back over his fingers. “Who is it?” Gerrod called out.
“It’s Perryl, Master Rothkild!”
Kathryn hurried to the door as Gerrod climbed to his feet with a whirring protest from his mekanicals. He snapped his hinged helmet back over his head.
She opened the door, and Perryl hurried in. Like most knights, he had shed his shadowcloak while within the main keep and wore plain black breeches, boots, and a gray shirt, buttoned formally. He had oiled and combed his straw hair straight back as was custom for a Ninthlander. Free of his knight’s wear, Kathryn was shocked by his boyish appearance. It was easy to forget how young he was, so new to the cloak.
“The count is almost finished,” he said in a rush of breath. “They expect to announce the new warden in the next quarter ring.”
“So soon?” Kathryn asked. It was still well from midnight, the expected time for such a pronouncement. All ballot stones had been cast with the ringing of the eighth bell. It should have taken until the middle of the night for all the stones to have been tallied.
“That’s why I hurried here. Word is that the vote was so overwhelming that the outcome was plain from the first spill of the stones.”
Kathryn wore a worried expression. There had been five main candidates for the seat of Tashijan, each represented by a different colored stone: red, green, blue, yellow, and white. During the secret ballot, Kathryn had chosen none of them, selecting instead a black stone, a vote against all the candidates.
“What stone leads?” Gerrod asked, though there could be only one answer.
“White,” Perryl confirmed. “Ser Fields’s color. Word whispering from the council hall is that the other colors were but a few daubs against a sea of white. No count will be necessary to declare the victor.”
“Then it’s over,” Kathryn whispered. She faced the others. “We should bring the news to Castellan Mirra. See what she has to say.”
As a group, they vacated Gerrod’s rooms and climbed out of the Masterlevels buried under the central keep of Tashijan. The floors above, the Citadel as it was called, were the domain of the Order of the Shadowknight. The Citadel and the Masterlevel composed the two halves of Tashijan, one above-ground, the other below. And the loftier the level in the Citadel, the more esteemed the residents. A castellan was second only to the warden. That meant a climb of twenty-two flights to reach Castellan Mirra’s hermitage.
They climbed in silence, lost to their own thoughts and worries. But they were not alone. Young squires and pages sprinted up and down the central staircase as it wound through the heart of the keep, voices sharp with excitement. A few knights marched the same steps, mostly heading down toward the Grand Court. Word of the early pronouncement had spread quickly.
Kathryn nodded to her brothers and sisters as they passed.
“Have you heard?” one called to her. “Argent’s color rides high. Looks like ol’ One Eye will be leading us from here!”
Kathryn attempted a smile, but it felt crooked on her face. Then the other knight was gone, vanishing around a turn of the stairs.
They climbed the rest of the way up to the proper level and crossed down the resident halls of those who ruled Tashijan. By morning, there would be new occupants in all of these rooms as Argent ser Fields picked those who would work beside him. A new warden meant an entire upheaval for those in power. Kathryn glanced to the doorway that led to Ser Henri’s private rooms, the Warden’s Eyrie, as it was called. Soon it, too, would have a new resident, an eagle replaced by a blood vulture.
Perryl reached Castellan Mirra’s door first and knocked. The sound was unnaturally loud in the stone hallway. They waited for a response, but there was none.
“Perhaps she’s already heard,” Gerrod said. “As castellan, she’ll have to make an appearance at the Gr
and Court when the pronouncement is made.”
“Or perhaps she’s asleep,” Perryl added. “Her hearing is not as keen these last years.”
“Try again,” Kathryn urged.
Gerrod shifted past Perryl and knocked an armored fist on the door. Though he didn’t pound hard, the strike of bronze on wood startled Kathryn with its clangor. Even the stone deaf could not fail to hear his hail.
A small, frightened voice finally sounded from beyond the door. “Who is it?”
Kathryn recognized the shaky tone. It was the scrap of a girl that served as maid to Castellan Mirra. She tried to remember her name and failed. “Child . . . it is Kathryn ser Vail.”
There was a long pause. “Castellan Mirra . . . she’s not in residence.”
Kathryn frowned at her two companions. Perhaps Gerrod was right . . . she’d gone already to the Grand Court.
The maid spoke again. “She’s been gone the long day, since the midday break.”
Kathryn’s lips hardened further, her eyes sparking toward the others. Surely the old castellan would return to her rooms to freshen herself before appearing before the court. The maid’s name snapped into her mind. “Penni, did she say when she would be back?”
“No, ser. I can’t say. I left to fetch some fresh water and hard coal, but when I returned the mistress had already left. I don’t know when to expect her back.”
Kathryn did not trust such strange tidings. Not on this day. “Penni, please let us in. I would rather not discuss this out in the hall.”
Another long pause stretched.
“Penni . . .” Kathryn’s tone grew more firm.
“I’m not supposed to allow anyone in when the mistress is away.”
“It’s important. You know we were speaking with Castellan Mirra only this morning. You know your mistress’s trust in me.”
“Still, I . . . I dare not disobey. The mistress does not like her word to be ignored.”
Kathryn sighed. She couldn’t argue with that. Few disobeyed the old castellan. Her tongue could sting sharper than a whip’s tip.
Perryl stepped closer. “Let me try,” he whispered, then turned to the door. “Penni, it’s Perryl. I’m with Ser Vail and Master Rothkild. You need not fear. On my word and honor, I will assert your honest and firm guardianship of her rooms. But it is of utmost importance that we attempt to find some clue to your mistress’s whereabouts.”
Kathryn glanced to Gerrod and rolled her eyes. Since when had Perryl developed such a sweet tongue? When last they were here, Kathryn had noticed how the maid had glanced from under heavy eyelashes at Perryl before being dismissed. He did strike a strong, willowy figure. Who said a knight’s strength lay only in his cloak?
The door swung slowly open. A small face framed in brown curls tucked under a lace cap peeked out at them. The cheeks reddened as her eyes glanced over them, settled on Perryl, then swept away again.
“Thank you, Penni,” Perryl said with a half bow. “You have done your mistress no disservice.”
She returned his bow and waved them inside.
The hermitage was uncomfortably warm after the unheated halls. The thick drapes had been drawn over the balcony windows, shuttering out the storm and making the room seem smaller. Tiny lamps dotted the room, wicked low to conserve the oil until the castellan’s return.
The wool rug muffled their footsteps. Nothing seemed out of the ordinary. The room simply awaited the return of its master.
“Your mistress left no message, no note?” Perryl pressed the maid, whose head remained bowed, hands clasped together at her bosom.
“No, ser.”
Gerrod had crossed to the room’s center and searched slowly, standing in one place. Only his eyes could be seen through his bronzed armor. “The castellan’s cane is still in its stand,” he noted aloud.
Kathryn glanced in the direction he indicated. A tall ebony walking stick, swirled in silver filigree, rested in a brass stand. Castellan Mirra’s legs were not as stout as once they were. She required either a supportive arm or a cane.
The maid stepped forward again, bowing slightly as she spoke. “That is her fancy stick, Master Rothkild. Her regular one is gone from the wardrobe.” She pointed an arm, not looking up.
Kathryn nodded. Castellan Mirra was not one given to show. She usually hobbled on a greenwood stick knobbed in bronze. Kathryn waved a hand, turning away. “That one is used only for ceremonial occasions.”
“Like the passing of wardenship to a new hand,” Perryl said. “Would she not have taken it to the Naming Ceremony?”
Gerrod mumbled inside his helmet, “Unless it was her way to insult the proceedings. A jibe against those who would succeed her.”
Kathryn crossed to the hearth, ruddy with coals. Mirra was supposed to have met with those loyal to Ser Henri and herself, those who had set themselves against the Fiery Cross. Had she met with them? Had they all decided to flee?
Kathryn felt an ache behind her eyes. She was not used to thinking in terms of such intrigues and machinations. She turned from the hearth, her eyes settling on the chair where Mirra had sat earlier. The ermine-edged cloak still lay over its back. Like Mirra herself, it was old, ragged at the edges, but still retained a certain beauty.
She crossed to finger the cloak. As it shifted, an edge unfolded, revealing a blackened and singed corner. She pulled the cloak up and brought the edge up into the light. “Look at this.”
Penni cried out. “Oh, dear! The corner must have been too near the hearth when I freshened the coals! Mistress Mirra will be furious with me!”
As Perryl attempted to calm the maid, Gerrod stepped to Kathryn’s side. His voice was a whisper. “There are ways of telling what sort of fire burned the robe. I can take it to one of the alchemists for study.” He stepped around, blocking the view of Perryl and the maid.
Kathryn slipped a dagger from her belt and cleanly cut away the burned swath. She passed it to Gerrod. It vanished into a compartment in his armor, one of many hiding places on his bronzed form.
Before anything else could be made of the matter, a loud ringing echoed up from below. Slow and ponderous. It was the Shield Gong of the Grand Court, calling all knights and masters of Tashijan to gather.
“The Council of Masters is done with their tallies,” Gerrod said. “It seems a new warden has been chosen.”
Perryl crossed to them. “What now?”
“We join the court,” Kathryn said. “As we must.”
“And Castellan Mirra?” Perryl eyed the empty chair.
Gerrod answered, ever practical, “If she’s still within these walls, she’ll have to respond to the summons.”
That is, if she’s still alive, Kathryn added silently.
Bodies pressed and jostled outside the western entrance to the Grand Court. An air of celebration rang through the crowd of knights, squires, and pages. After the gloom and uncertainty that pervaded the halls since the death of Ser Henri, the choosing of a new warden promised a return to order and the beginning of a new era for Tashijan.
Following the ceremony, ale would flow from the top of Stormwatch down to the subterranean bowels of the masters’ dens. Already, servants and maids festooned the passages with flower petals; incense burners smoked cheerily. But before the revelry could begin, there was one last observance to attend.
The Naming Ceremony.
Kathryn worked through the crowd toward the packed entrance. The banter and excited talk had faded to the steady drone of an overturned beehive. The doorway was framed in black onyx stone, surmounted by a massive crystal of dark quartz, representing the black diamond that marked the hilt of every Shadowknight’s sword.
She passed under the arch with Perryl in tow.
Once through, the way opened as the crowds dispersed to the gallery seats. The excited chatter in the outer hallways faded, both from reverence for the chamber and simply because the voices were lost in the vast spaces overhead.
In ancient times, the Grand Court was a n
atural amphitheater worn into the stone cliffs that towered over the Straits of Parting. It was said that human kings once held court here, before the coming of the gods. As such, the revered place was chosen for the site of Tashijan, hallowed ground where mind and might became one, the Shadowknights embodying the purity of muscle and reflex, the Council of Masters epitomizing all the learned studies and meditations. Over and around this ancient amphitheater, the Citadel of Tashijan had been constructed. The natural granite hollow had been carved into tiered benches with balustrades and stairs leading from one level to another.
Kathryn crossed to the stone railing that circled this level. She stared down toward the floor far below. An arc of eight seats, hewed from the granite itself, stood before a deep central pit, the Hearthstone. Flames licked upward out of this stone well, smoking with alchemies and lighting the seats in a ruddy glow. Various leaders of the Order and Discipline already sat in their seats, leaning toward one another in whispered conversations.
“She’s not here,” Perryl said.
Kathryn’s fingers tightened on the balustrade. Ser Henri’s old seat, the tallest, stood vacant, as did the one to its right, the castellan’s chair.
“What now?”
Kathryn imagined much of the whispering below centered on that empty chair. She searched the lower levels of the court, the tiers reserved for the masters. It did not take long to spot Gerrod down there. His bronze armor stood out among the robes. He was gazing up at Kathryn. He shook his head.
Around the nearer tiers, the various knights, pages, and squires took their seats. As in Tashijan itself, the upper levels were their domain.
“We should get as close as possible,” Perryl said. “Watch for any sign of the castellan.”
Kathryn nodded and led the way down into the thick of her fellow knights. She found two seats just above the masters’ tiers. She hurried to them.
Following their passage, Gerrod climbed upward and traded spaces to occupy a seat directly beneath them. He stood, his head at their toes. “I’ve listened upon the masters and knights. No one knows what keeps Castellan Mirra away. But they’ve agreed they can wait no longer.”