Shadowfall

  Where were the guards posted to this doorway and stair? After the assassination of Master Willym, the High Wing was under constant guard. But none were at this door.

  Dart continued onward, ready for living shadow to rush out and nab her. How had Yaellin obtained a shadowcloak? And how did he work its Grace to hide in the shadows? She had been taught that such blessed cloth would respond only to a knight.

  She prayed the meager light cast by Pupp’s molten body would be enough to expose a hidden assassin like Yaellin. Because that certainly must be his purpose. Surely the blade could not kill Lord Chrism, but Mistress Naff had no defense against its curse.

  Then again, what was Yaellin doing in Chrism’s rooms? Had he gone to harm the god? And what were Lord Chrism and Mistress Naff doing in her room? They had been searching for her, expressing concern for her safety. Did they already know of her nighttime intruder? Or maybe they were the ones who had come in the middle of the night, casting some blessing of protection upon her that she mistook for dark alchemies.

  Her mind whirled with various scenarios.

  They wound down and around the stairwell, then struck another hallway heading toward the southern half of the castillion. Where were they going? Occasionally a snippet of voice would carry back to them. Lord Chrism or Mistress Naff. But the words were unintelligible at this distance. So the two continued their pursuit.

  Finally, another stair—an even darker stair—led downward again. It was narrow and dusty with disuse. Dart considered retreating back to the High Wing, but after coming so far, she had no choice but to continue.

  The stair wound deeper and deeper.

  “We must be well below the streets now,” Laurelle whispered. “I’ve never been down this far.”

  Neither had Dart. Even the subterranean Graced Cache that stored Lord Chrism’s repostilaries was not buried this deep. The air smelled dank, of river water and muck. And a chill had grown around them. Even the stairs had become cruder, hewn roughly from the rock, the edges crumbling.

  Laurelle slipped on a stair and clutched Dart’s shoulder to keep from falling. She gained her footing with care, but a slight limp marked her step.

  “Are you all right?” Dart whispered.

  “Bent my ankle a bit. But I can walk.”

  “Are you sure? Maybe we should turn back.” A part of Dart hoped Laurelle would need to return. Determination could be sustained only so long. Fear had worn it thin.

  “No,” Laurelle said, her voice struggling for firmness and failing. “We’ve come this far. And besides, right now, down is easier than up with my ankle.”

  Dart nodded and slowly crept down the narrowing stairs. They had to proceed one after the other now. Laurelle kept behind.

  “It’s dark as pitch now,” Laurelle said. “I can see no glow of the other’s lamp.”

  Dart peered ahead. Laurelle was right. She had not noticed that the distant light had faded away.

  A full flight ahead of them, Pupp continued downward, a ruddy ember rolling down the stairs. Rounding another turn in the stairs, firelight revealed the end of the staircase.

  “There’s a door ahead,” Dart said.

  “Where? How can you see?”

  “I . . . I have good night sight,” she lied and guided her friend. “It’s this way.”

  Taking Laurelle by the hand, she crossed down the last stairs and approached the door. It was made of stone. Markings etched the door’s surface. Ancient Littick from the look of the writing. And wound throughout, an intricate relief of a flowering wyldrose, the symbol of Chrism and Chrismferry.

  Dart placed her hand on the door and felt a tingle under her palm. The door had been warded with Grace, sealed against intrusion. But now it stood ajar—surely left that way by the assassin who followed Lord Chrism. Yaellin must have broken the ward and kept the way open for a fast retreat. There was just enough room to slip through without moving the door. Dart feared the scrape of stone might alert Yaellin.

  “This way,” she urged the blind Laurelle. She waved Pupp ahead of her. His ruddy form illuminated a tunnel beyond the door.

  The passage was high and narrow, appearing almost to be a natural fissure in the rock. Dart entered first, followed by Laurelle. Bits of silvery quartz caught every trace of light and glistened like tiny stars.

  Again the echoed murmur of a pair of voices reached them.

  “Oh, I can see a bit of glow again,” Laurelle said, her feet growing steadier, less hesitant. “Where are they all going?”

  Dart had no idea. They continued down the passage for a long stretch, chasing after the lamplight. Surely their destination could not be too much farther. In Pupp’s glow, Dart noted flashes of white in the walls. She peered closer at one, then pulled back.

  Bones . . .

  A tiny rib cage and skull of an ancient fish. More and more appeared around them, a veritable school of dead fishes . . . and some larger creatures among them, with pointed toothy jaws. Dart had seen fossilites before, but their presence now boded ill. It was as if they were treading through some haunted sea, frozen in time, populated by skeletal denizens.

  At last, the tunnel seemed to climb. Roots began to appear, knotted and thick, frilled by tiny hairs. More and more draped from the high roof or kneed out from the walls. Rock vanished under the mass of vinelike rootlets and thick taproots, forming a leafless forest around them, festooned with hanging falls of moss.

  From haunted sea to haunted forest . . .

  “We must be under the Eldergarden,” Dart whispered. She pictured the massive myrrwood tree that graced the oldest section of the gardens. From its spreading limbs, roots dropped to the rich soil and grew into secondary trunks. New limbs then stretched farther, dropping more trunks, until one tree became a forest, filling most of the gardens.

  Dart stared around her. She sensed they were under the spread of the myrrwood, with its dark bowers and sweet glens. The path had begun to angle upward, slowly wending back toward the surface. As she walked, she considered the warded door and the direction of the tunnel. She finally understood what path they must be walking, where it was taking them.

  Into the heart of the myrrwood.

  The tunnel must be Chrism’s secret passage, leading to his private sanctuary, a region of the myrrwood reserved for the god alone.

  Dart’s feet slowed as they continued through the subterranean grove of roots and vines. It was not just fear of where she trespassed that heightened her caution. The growing tangle offered too many hiding places, too many cubbies in which assassins might conceal themselves. Furthering Dart’s unease, the hairy rootlets that fringed all the surfaces waved in strange dances, contrary to the breeze that had begun to whisper down the tunnel. When she brushed against them, they clung and snagged, tugging hems and hair, as if trying to pull them away.

  Even Pupp seemed uneasy, sniffing the air, pausing there, dropping back closer to them. He kept to the center of the tangled pathway. Dart slowed in turn, needing Pupp’s glow to light her way.

  “What’s wrong?” Laurelle asked, noting her caution.

  Dart shook her head.

  As Pupp edged around a bend in the tunnel, he brushed too closely against a hanging corkscrew of a root—or maybe it had reached for him. Either way, Pupp suddenly jerked away, darting forward, ripping away tiny root hairs . . . and yanking part of the root down.

  It took half a heartbeat for Dart to realize the root had touched Pupp.

  His body flared brighter, eyes flashing with fire. In the brightness, she saw the reason why. An oily wetness seeped from the torn root. It dripped to the floor and glowed against the dark stone. The crimson color could not be mistaken.

  Blood . . . blood imbued with Grace.

  Before she could react, Laurelle stepped around the bend. A small cry sounded. Dart glanced back. Laurelle’s eyes were huge, shining in Pupp’s radiance. Horror paled her features. Laurelle stumbled back, catching herself up among the roots. Tendrils snagged into her robe, nightcloth
es, hair. One long feathery root wrapped full around her stretched neck.

  A scream strangled from her, coming out as a mewl.

  Dart rushed to her, tearing, ripping, clawing at the clinging roots. She tugged Laurelle free, both of them tumbling to the center of the tunnel. Pupp hurried toward them, eyes shining with fury and concern.

  Laurelle scrambled and fought to free herself from Dart’s tangled limbs. Dart searched around for what so terrified her friend. Had she seen Yaellin? Was he coming for them?

  But the passage, well lit by Pupp, was empty.

  “A daemon . . .” Laurelle cried, still sounding strangled. She gained her feet and backed away, one arm out toward Dart, trying to draw her, too.

  On the ground, Dart finally noted the source of her terror. Laurelle’s gaze was fixed upon Pupp. She could see him. The blood from the root must have splattered over him.

  “There’s nothing to fear,” Dart said hurriedly and reached out for Pupp. Her fingertips found substance again. He pushed his muzzle happily into her palm, needing reassurance. His bright glow faded with his relief. “He’s my friend.”

  Laurelle remained standing, but ready to bolt. “What . . . how . . . ?”

  Dart stared up, pleading with her eyes. “He’s Pupp.”

  Laurelle’s brow pinched in confusion, then drew even tighter. “Pupp . . . I remember . . . Margarite told me . . . laughed . . . some imaginary friend of yours . . . You used to speak of it when you were a firstfloorer.”

  “Not imaginary,” Dart said.

  Laurelle stared from girl to daemon. She slowly lowered herself to her knees. The horror faded from her face and something bordering on curiosity replaced it. “What is he?”

  Dart glanced to Pupp, who sat on his haunches, glowering at the arch of roots. She remembered bits and pieces of her dream a few nights back. She had been a babe. Pupp had been suckling at her navel. “I don’t know,” she said softly. “He’s always been with me. A shadow no one could see or touch.”

  “He’s fading,” Laurelle said.

  “Is he?” Dart still felt his bronze shell, smooth, as warm as a mug of steaming bitternut. Then her fingers fell through him again.

  “He’s gone.” Laurelle searched the passage, blind to Pupp, who continued to sit on his haunches.

  Dart waved her fingers through his body. “No, he’s still here.”

  “Truly? Then what made him plain to the eye just now?”

  Dart pointed to the glowing ichor on the floor, still dripping from the torn root. “Blood . . . blood rich in Grace,” she answered, then added quietly, “. . . or my own blood.”

  “We must show him to Lord Chrism,” Laurelle said, renewing her resolve to continue. “Perhaps Pupp has something to do with Yaellin’s interest in you.”

  “I don’t see how. No one but me has ever seen Pupp.”

  “Lord Chrism will sort it all out.” Laurelle nodded forward. “I think the others have stopped. The light has stopped moving away.”

  They continued together. Dart sidestepped the bleeding root and waved Pupp away from the pool below it. He seemed happy to oblige, though he did sniff at it. Could he smell the Grace?

  As Dart continued, she eyed the knots of roots with raw suspicion. Blood roots. If these were indeed the roots of the myrrwood tree, why did they bleed? She recalled the history lesson given by Jasper Cheek, the magister of the grounds and towers. His words repeated in her head. She could still hear the pride in his voice. Lord Chrism was the first god to marry himself to the land and share his Grace with all. His own hand laid the first seed, watered with his own blessed blood.

  Dart shivered. Was that why the roots bled even now?

  She kept well away from the tangled root briers. The tiny hairs continued their ominous waving, seeking purchase.

  “Do you smell that?” Laurelle asked.

  Dart noted a sweetness to the air, a blend of honey and loam. She drew in a deeper breath.

  “That’s myrr,” Laurelle said. “I have some sweetwater scented with it, a gift from my mother.”

  Dart felt a slightly warmer breeze wafting to them, the exhalation of spring, warming away the damp, winter chill of the passage. They were drawn toward it. Their pace increased. The lamplight grew brighter, plainly having stopped not far ahead.

  They hiked the last few bends in the passage.

  A short stair appeared, leading up, lit well.

  They cautiously approached. There were only ten steps.

  At the top, the lamp appeared in view, hanging on a peg and shining upon another stone door. This was carved like the first: twining rose vines amid a smattering of Littick letters. Warded, too, Dart noted. And like the other, it was ajar.

  A murmur of voices could be heard now. More than two. A gathering.

  Laurelle glanced to Dart, then back to the door. Together they both cautiously mounted the stairs and crept to the door. There was enough room for both to peek out. Pupp simply walked through the door and out into the open glade beyond.

  From the doorway, Dart spotted the limbs and trunks of the ancient myrrwood, lit from below by small fires dotting the edges of a glade. Trunks were so thick that it would take a dozen men linking arms to measure around them. Heavy limbs climbed so high even moonlight failed to shine through. The glade appeared more like a giant raftered court than a forest glen.

  Voices could be heard, talking in low tones, but clearly urgent.

  The speakers were not in plain view.

  Laurelle urged Dart out with a nudge. They slipped out the open door and hurried to a patch of bushes at the edge of the glade. They ducked down. The bushes were unknown to Dart but appeared more thorny than leafy. They could peer through them with ease.

  Beyond, lit by the fires, a strange group of people gathered in the center near a raised mound surmounted by a pair of twin stone pillars. The stone columns were plainly ancient, hoary with lichen, half-wrapped in brown vines.

  Lord Chrism climbed the mound, arms raised. He was bare-chested now. Both wrists had been cut and bled down the length of his arms.

  The others gathered at the foot of the mound, a score of men and women. She recognized not only Mistress Naff, but also Jasper Cheek, and several guardsmen who served the High Wing.

  Chrism faced the others, standing between the two pillars. When he spoke, it was in his softly assured, sad tones. “Here is where I first settled the land.” He pointed to the mound at his feet, blood dripping to the soil. “I allowed myself to be tied here, strung between these two pillars. I had my body cut at the throat, at the wrist, and the groin. That is how a god settles a land, tying place to blood and flesh.”

  A murmur passed through the crowd.

  “No longer.” Chrism stepped back and spat at his feet. “I have broken free of my place, severing my connection, freeing the land and returning it to my people.”

  Dart tensed at these words. Laurelle and Dart shared a frightened glance. Was what Lord Chrism claiming true? Had he unsettled himself from the very land he had blessed? Dart remembered Jacinta’s last words before falling upon the cursed blade, expressing a similar sentiment: Myrillia will be free.

  Chrism continued. “As I was the first to bring peace to Myrillia, so now I will bring it true freedom. You are my chosen. Together we are the Cabal. Others across Myrillia already join our ranks. Let us once again, as we do with each new moon, swear our allegiance. Raise your cups. Be blessed and draw strength from my Grace.”

  All around the mound, the gathered men and women lifted their cups and drank. Dart noted the glow about the cups, the same as seeped from Chrism’s wrists.

  Blood . . . they were drinking his blood.

  “No,” Laurelle moaned under her breath.

  Blood drinking was an abomination, used in black rites. A god’s Grace was too strong. It took only a touch to the skin, a single drop, to pass on a blessing. To consume blood risked the loss of both will and body. It enslaved and deformed.

  Chrism raised his a
rms out to his minions. A glow spread over the god’s form, starting at the wrist and spreading outward. He was calling down a blessing.

  “Be free.”

  The men and women gasped and let out small screams. They fell to the soil, on their sides, backs, facedown. They writhed and racked. Dart could hear bones breaking. Cries turned to howls. Across the glade, men became beasts, rising up on misshapen legs. Women crouched and hissed, faces stretched into bestial visages. All eyes, now aglow with wicked Grace, stared toward Chrism.

  “As your flesh has changed, so will the world.”

  There was only one figure untouched by the transformation.

  Mistress Naff climbed the hill to join Chrism. She slipped an arm around his naked waist and pulled him down into a kiss. It was a savage, bloody kiss, less passion than violence. As they parted, a dark smoky tendril connected their lips, a black umbilicus. It pulsed and roiled, seeming to almost take form, but not quite.

  From that mass of darkness, fiery eyes opened and stared toward their hiding place. A keening wail filled the glade, sounding like the scream of slaughtered rabbits.

  Laurelle pushed back into the wood. A misstep snapped a branch.

  The noise was as loud as a clap.

  Eyes . . . all eyes swung in their direction: beast, god, daemon.

  Dart stood up, knowing they were found. She turned and fled with Laurelle. But in three steps, shadows swept down from the branches above, falling about them like water. She was blind, choked, panicked.

  From the heart of the darkness, words reached Dart. “If you wish to live, move swiftly.”

  Dart knew the speaker.

  Yaellin de Mar.

  18

  PAST AND PRESENT

  TYLAR KEPT HIS BACK TO THE FIRE, BUT HE FELT NONE OF its heat. He stared at Kathryn. Her auburn hair had been plaited into a single braid. Her form was clothed in black. A shadowcloak lay swept behind one shoulder and draped to her ankles. He stared, unblinking. She hadn’t changed. How could that be? Even now her blue eyes carried the same mix of doubt and confusion as when last he had seen her, seated before Tashijan’s court.