It seemed too pleasant a day for such dark conversations. It should be night with rain falling. She sighed and turned to her friend. Gerrod’s bronzed armor sparked in the patches of sunlight, as if on fire.
“What have you discovered?” Kathryn asked.
Gerrod turned from the balcony and strode back into her rooms. Such words were best spoken in private, away from the open courtyard. Voices could carry oddly, echoing from the yard’s walls.
Kathryn followed him inside, closing the balcony doors.
Gerrod reached to his neck and retracted his helmet with a whir of mekanicals. His pale features seemed even paler. He ran a hand over his shaved scalp. The tattoos of his mastered disciplines stood out starkly, looking more like wounds than ink. “What I’ve found is most odd.”
Kathryn crossed and poured them each a tiny glass of rose wine. “Tell me all.”
“I was able to loosen the stableman’s tongue, the one who took the stranger’s horse,” Gerrod said, accepting a glass. “Though the groomsman proved stubborn. But what was sealed with gold finally broke under more.”
“What did he tell you?”
“Unfortunately not as much as I’d wished.” His frown deepened, along with the furrow across his brow. “He knew nothing of what the man carried or what his purpose was in coming so late on so road-worn a horse. But he did know that the man had traveled from Chrismferry.”
“And as I recall,” Kathryn said, “he returned there again after meeting with Castellan Mirra.”
Gerrod nodded. “The stableman also managed to note a detail about the man. At the man’s collar, he wore a stitching of oak and twig.”
Kathryn’s eyes widened. “A healer?”
“So it would appear.”
“By why would a healer bring something so foul to the castellan and in such a guarded manner?”
“That I can’t answer.” Gerrod stared at her with those penetrating green eyes, shining with sharp intelligence. “But my gold did buy one additional bit of information.” A bit of wry amusement glinted.
“What?”
“A name.”
Kathryn lowered her wineglass to the table. “The stableman caught his name?”
“Not exactly. The healer left his ride behind, taking a fresh horse for the long trip back.”
“He took one of our windmares,” Kathryn said, remembering the man’s urgency. He had needed speed to return to Chrismferry, borrowing an air-graced horse.
“And he rode in on the same,” Gerrod commented. “One by the name of Swifttail. This detail, of course, the stableman happened to note. He might miss a man’s name, but such a blessed bit of horseflesh would not escape his eye.”
“And how does this help us?”
Gerrod stepped to the table and picked at a piece of hard cheese left from her midday meal. He raised a brow inquiringly, asking permission.
“It seems what you bought in gold I must pay in cheese,” Kathryn said.
He cut a chunk and gingerly used his armored fingers to nibble at its edge. He washed it down with his wine, sighing contentedly, then continued. “It is lucky that Swifttail’s heritage was well-known to our stableman. His knowledge of all the First Land’s horseflesh is quite extensive. He spent most of a morning reciting Swifttail’s lineage.”
“And where does this lineage lead us?”
“To a stable as distinguished as our own. A private stable.”
“In Chrismferry.”
“Indeed . . . at the Conclave of Chrismferry to be exact.”
“The school?” The Conclave was the oldest and most illustrious of Myrillia’s institutes of training for young handmaidens and -men. Many of the Council of Masters had once taught there or still consulted.
“And the Conclave has only one healer in residence,” Gerrod said. “A fellow by the name of Paltry. I did some investigation and found he matched young Penni’s description of Castellan Mirra’s night visitor: black haired, fair of features.”
Kathryn narrowed one eye. “Healer Paltry. Why does that name sound familiar?”
“He also serves as the private physik to the High Wing of Chrism. You may remember hearing how the man saved several of his Hands from the pox scourge that struck the city two years ago.”
Kathryn nodded. “Of course. And now you think it was this healer who brought the bloodied swath to Castellan Mirra.”
“I am confident he is the one.”
“But why? To what end?”
“That’s something that will require further investigation in Chrismferry.”
“I can send a cadre of knights—”
“And alert all of Tashijan, including Warden Fields.” The name was spoken with a thick scowl. Fields had been instituting changes throughout the Citadel, not all well received. He had trimmed control of the Council of Masters, giving Master Hesharian powers to dictate without a quorum from the rest of the council. Power was concentrating into fewer and fewer hands, and all of those under the thumb of Argent ser Fields.
“What do you propose then?” Kathryn asked.
“There is an early-morning flippercraft headed to Chrismferry. I hope to be aboard it. I’ll make an excuse of needing to consult the libraries in the city. Once there, I can make some discreet inquiries, see if I can trace the source and reason for this strange visitation by Healer Paltry.”
Kathryn shook her head. “I don’t want you to go alone. You’ll need an escort.”
“I can fend for myself. And I am armored.” He tapped a fist on his thigh with a clank.
“No.” A firm tone entered her voice. “I want a sword at your side and someone who knows how to use it. You’ll take Perryl with you. To lessen suspicion, I can send him as courier to the court at Chrismferry. As castellan, I have some authority.”
“At least for the moment,” Gerrod countered dourly.
She sighed and glanced to the door, sensing the tracker and beast at her threshold. “He keeps me on a short enough tether as it is. And once Tylar is captured”—her voice caught in her throat—“or killed, my use to the warden will end.”
“I’m not so sure,” Gerrod said more softly. “He eyes you most salaciously at times. I think his plans for you don’t end with Tylar’s capture.”
Kathryn remembered Argent’s talk in his chambers, a hint at some possible union between them. For the good of Tashijan . . . and in turn for all of Myrillia. Such had been his rhetoric these past days as new laws were posted to doors and common rooms, justifying the concentration of power. And she was no exception.
“Perhaps Perryl should stay at your side,” Gerrod said.
Kathryn rested her hand on the diamond pommel of her sword. “I have a blade . . . and know how to use it.”
Gerrod reached and took her hand from her sword. “Still, beware. Trust no one, not even your fellow knights. Shadowcloaks are good at hiding one’s heart as well as form.”
She reached and hugged him. “You should take the same advice in Chrismferry. It seems something foul is at work there . . . something that struck at the heart of Tashijan.”
“Not just Tashijan,” Gerrod mumbled and broke the embrace. He raised his helmet. “Perhaps its reach extended as far as the Summering Isles.”
Kathryn studied the bronze figure. “The slaying of Meeryn? You think it’s all tied together?”
“A master’s first lesson is to be suspicious of a chain of circumstance. Something stirs beneath all this. It hides behind many faces, but wears only one.”
Kathryn felt the chill of certainty in his words.
“Hopefully I’ll learn more from Healer Paltry.” Gerrod bowed his head. “Step carefully, Kathryn.”
“And you do the same.”
The bullhound growled, crouched at a cross passage ahead.
Kathryn stopped at an arm raised by Tracker Lorr. “Barrin smells something,” the wyldman said. “Stay here.”
Kathryn felt no fear. One bullhound or the other was always scenting something. It made for c
rossing from one end of Tashijan to the other a major undertaking, full of sudden stops and hissed warnings. But she had wanted to hand the courier message to Perryl herself. She carried it in the inner pocket of her shadowcloak, sealed with wax, imprinted with the castellan’s mark. She had spent the afternoon composing the letter, addressing it to the one person she most trusted in Chrismferry. He would be able to assist Perryl and Gerrod in their inquiries.
Kathryn glanced to the bit of sky shining through a high window. The sun was close to setting already. At this rate, by the time she got the letter into Perryl’s hands, he would miss the dawn flippercraft.
Behind her, the hulking mass of the other bullhound filled half the corridor. Hern kept watch on their trail. How they could smell anything beyond the rangy reek of their own pelts and fetid breath was a mystery.
Lorr moved to Barrin’s side. The tracker’s amber eyes narrowed. His loose hair was secured behind his ears with a strap of leather. He had a pair of blades out, one in each hand. Kathryn had seen him impale a rat at a hundred paces, a tidbit of fresh meat for his companions. He scouted the crossing of passages.
Kathryn leaned against a wall. There was no use protesting such caution. Tracker Lorr had been given his duty by Warden Fields. He would brook no other authority.
He waved her forward. “Clear.” Lorr sniffed the air. Bred to be a tracker in the ancient forests of Idlewyld, he had been blessed with Grace, his senses of smell heightened by air, his skill at woodlore gifted by loam. He cocked his head high, his profile clearly showing the slight protuberance of the lower half of his face as he scented the air.
“There’s an old trail of blood through here,” he said. “I would’ve missed it if not for Barrin here. Someone was killed nearby. Murder, I’d say, from the tang of fear in the air.”
Kathryn moved to his side. “How old is the trail?”
“No older than the turn of one moon.” He glanced back at her.
Kathryn studied the crossroad of corridors. Her first worry was for Castellan Mirra. “Are you certain?”
“Blood is blood,” he said and waved Barrin down the hall.
“Can you follow the trail?”
Lorr shrugged. “Certainly, until the blood runs out. Barrin and Hern may be able to follow it even farther. But what of this letter you wanted delivered? The trail is old. It can wait the night.”
Kathryn shook her head, sensing a need for urgency. “No, we must pursue it.” She nodded for him to follow.
He balked for a moment, clearly wondering if it was wise to lead his charge along such a path. But his eyes drifted to the trail with beastly longing. Blood was in the air. There was a track to follow.
Finally he huffed at Barrin and pointed. The bullhound continued down the new passage, nose close to the stones. This passage led into parts of Tashijan that had seen little use in ages.
Warden Fields had been correct in his assessment of the current state of affairs, here and across Myrillia. The number of knights and those who sought to serve the gods had been slowly eroding over the past four centuries. So slow was the attrition, it was hard to note, like water wearing a path through stone.
They continued into the lonely passages. Rooms were boarded up, even some windows. Dust grew thicker as they wound down a twisting narrow stairway. Older footsteps disturbed the grime, coming and going.
Lorr would stop and finger some of the steps. “Fresher,” he said. “Other trackers have been this way.”
“So the blood trail has already been followed,” Kathryn said, disappointment hardening her words. She pictured the scores of men and women, trackers and knights, even ilk-beasts, who had searched for Castellan Mirra. None had met with success. If this path had already been followed . . .
Lorr straightened. “There are no sharper noses than those of a bullhound. Where others have given up, we may push farther.” A hint of excitement rushed his words. “We move on.”
As they searched, Kathryn remembered stories told of Chrismferry. The colossal, ancient city was so broad of scope and breadth that vast areas had fallen into disrepair and returned to wildlands within the heart of the city. Most of the city folk seldom traveled past their own four city blocks. The rest was foreign lands.
The same was true here, Kathryn realized. Tashijan was the size of a small city, half above ground, half below, but much had fallen away and was forgotten. Knights and masters stuck to the corridors they knew. Few ventured into those hidden corners. Warden Fields had warned about the impossibility of defending against Tylar’s attempt to enter Tashijan. It had too many forgotten battlements, entries, and secret halls. Kathryn saw the proof of that here.
Lorr was finally forced to light a torch as the corridors grew too dark . . . though Kathryn suspected the light was mostly for her benefit. The wyldman’s eyes glowed with a trace of Grace.
“The blood trail grows too thin for me to follow,” Lorr said, halting at a spot where the corridor branched in three directions. He knelt and studied the stone. “Someone used a blessing of air to breeze away the dust, hiding their footsteps.”
“So we can go no farther?”
“We have bullhounds,” said Lorr.
Barrin had already wandered ahead and sniffed at the three passages. He grumbled at the one on the left. A rope of drool dripped from one corner of his lip and sizzled on the stone, etching it. Hern, behind them, simply stood on guard, tongue lolling, waiting on his master.
“This way,” Lorr said, stepping toward the left passage. “Careful of the drool.”
Kathryn followed behind Lorr. The corridors here were low and narrow. Barrin filled the entire passage ahead, Hern behind. Kathryn felt an intense pang of unease. No one knew she was down here . . . and bullhounds had the capability for consuming all, even the bones, of their prey.
Was that how Castellan Mirra had vanished? Into the gullet of such monsters? Kathryn’s steps began to slow. Her hand drifted to the pommel of her sword. Had she walked willingly to her own doom?
They continued for another quarter bell, moving in line, slipping from one passage to the next, climbing crumbled stairs.
A hiss from Lorr drew her attention. He pointed ahead. Barrin had entered a cavernous room. Lorr followed next. He waved for Kathryn to stay at the entrance.
With torch in hand, Lorr moved into the room. The firelight danced shadows on the high-raftered room. It looked like a small gathering hall. Tiered benches circled the walls, though one section had collapsed down upon itself.
Barrin hunched over a mound in the room’s center.
Kathryn held a fist to her throat as Lorr’s approaching torch revealed a sprawled body, naked, white as bone, arms out wide, legs together. The head was blocked by Barrin’s shaggy shoulder. Lorr circled the body, eyes on the form.
Kathryn could wait no longer. Castellan Mirra . . .
She hurried into the room. Hern shambled after her, always her shadow.
She rushed to the body on the floor. She quickly saw her mistake. The bared loins revealed the slaughtered figure was a man, not a woman, not Castellan Mirra.
Kathryn stumbled to a stop, aghast.
The man’s throat had been cut, his chest cleaved open. A trough, hacked crudely from the stone floor, circled his body. His wrists, also slashed, hung over the trough to either side.
Lorr lowered his torch.
Blood, crusted and dried, caked the trough.
“They bled him like a pig,” Lorr said, spitting to the side.
Barrin hung back. The great beast mewled softly, almost fearfully. What could scare such a monster? What did its sharpened senses discern that theirs did not?
Kathryn crossed around and knelt by the man’s head. Three stripes darkened his features, from the outside corner of the eye to each temple. A knight. She did not recognize the young man, but he must be new to his third stripe. It appeared freshly tattooed, which meant he had just been gifted with the full Grace of a Shadowknight, his blood freshly blessed, ripe and potent.
Such knights were often quickly placed among the Hundred, to bend a knee and serve one of the gods. His disappearance could be easily hidden.
She stood up. Hern made a gruff snort off to the side.
Lorr and Kathryn moved together to one side of the room.
A well opened in the floor there, an old hearth, similar to the Hearthstone in Tashijan’s Grand Court. Only this hole did not dance brightly with flame.
Lorr leaned his torch over the pit. It was filled with broken branches, cracked and charred. Kathryn blinked as a flicker of torchlight revealed a leering skull, blackened by soot, one cheekbone crushed, peering out among the branches.
She instantly saw her mistake.
It was not branches that filled the pit, but . . .
“Bones,” Lorr said, almost a moan.
Kathryn swung away, her stomach churning. Whatever fire had been lit in this pit had been fueled with flesh. She stared at the prostrate, slaughtered young man. Knights. The pit was full of the bones of murdered knights.
“A lair of Dark Grace,” Lorr said with a fierce growl. “Here in Tashijan. We must tell the warden.”
Kathryn eyed the dead knight. His arms had been forced wide, legs together, forming a cross, encircled by a ring of blood, once surely aglow with fresh Grace.
A ring of fire.
Horror iced her heart.
The symbolism of the body’s position and ring was plain. A similar insignia was worn on many a knight’s arm following the ascension of Argent ser Fields. It was the new warden’s badge.
The Fiery Cross.
Kathryn hurried with Lorr back into the inhabited sections of Tashijan. Both were glad to escape such a foul place. Barrin still led the way; Hern followed.
“I won’t keep my tongue,” Lorr continued his tirade, stalking down the halls. “I’ve hunted with Ser Fields since his earliest campaign. I will not listen to your suspicions.”
Kathryn kept pace with the man. “That dark work back there was done by someone in the Fiery Cross. You know I’m right. I can see it in your eyes. Maybe Argent . . . Warden Fields was not involved.” She had to force out those last words. She had no doubt of Argent’s complicity. “But someone in the Fiery Cross . . . his group . . . led that rite. And it wasn’t the first.”