Beyond the doors lay the Grand Court of Tashijan, the giant amphitheater that served as the major gathering place for both knight and master.
Kathryn shook her head. “How does this help us? There’s no exit to the Masterlevels through here.”
Lorr ignored her and tried the door. He tugged without success. “Locked . . .”
“All the doors into the court will be,” Kathryn said. “The last they were opened was for Argent’s naming ceremony.”
Lorr tried the door again, finally kicking it in frustration.
The doors were made of stout oak, banded in iron, strong enough to blunt even an ax blade. The bronze lock required a key from Keeper Ryngold.
Rogger moved from Tylar’s side. “Allow me.” He slipped a slender pick knife and a bent fork from an inner pocket. Using his tools, he tinkered with the lock’s inner workings.
At the entrance to the hallway, a group of knights and house staff had stopped to watch. Kathryn nodded to them, arms crossed. As castellan, few would question her actions directly. At the door, Rogger’s labors were hidden behind the bulk of the bullhounds. The thief finally proved his skill. A tumble sounded from the doors. Rogger stood and pulled the latch. The wide doors easily swung open.
As the few knights at the other end of the hall moved on, one tarried a bit longer, eyes narrowed. Surely everyone had been alerted to watch for anything suspicious . . . and their activities, along with the presence of the bullhounds, were certainly out of the ordinary.
Word would spread.
Lorr grabbed one of the oil lamps from its hanger in the outside hall and swung it toward the door. “Inside . . . hurry.”
Tylar and the others pushed into the dark amphitheater.
The dome of the roof stretched far overhead, beyond the reach of the lone lamp. Closer at hand, rings of tiered seating spread outward and climbed forty levels, disappearing into the gloom.
Lorr led the way down the few stairs to the main floor. His two bullhounds spread to either side, moving low to the ground, suspicious of the giant open space.
Tylar gaped upward. He remembered gatherings here in the past: the raucous crowd of knights, the laughter, the arguments. The empty hall now seemed haunted, and with the darkness closed around them, somehow smaller. But more than anything, Tylar felt how little he belonged here now. It wasn’t just the stripping of his knighthood. What had once filled him with pride and a sense of purpose, now seemed pale and false. He had seen too much to ever wear the cloak as easily as he once had.
Kathryn glanced at him. Did she sense that about him? Did more than time and pain separate them? On the way up the stairs, Kathryn had briefly told him about her fears concerning the Fiery Cross, about Argent’s connection, about some bloody sacrifice she had stumbled upon, pointing toward the Cross’s involvement in some dark rites. Did her cloak still rest well on her shoulders?
Ahead, a dim glow shone from the floor, the only other source of light. Tylar knew what it marked. The Hearthstone. The heart and hearth of Tashijan. The flames of the fire pit had lit ceremonies dating back to before the coming of the gods, to the barbarous times of human kings. Grace kept its fires always glowing. It was quiet now, waiting to be stoked again.
Reaching the central dais, they circled around the Hearthstone. Kathryn eyed it with a sickly look on her face. Clearly she was remembering another pit, full of knights’ bones, charred and broken. Tylar also felt a twinge of unease. Was Perryl already among those bones?
Lorr led them past the arch of seats on the dais and continued to the back wall.
“Where are we going?” Krevan asked, irritated at the tracker’s reticence to explain.
The tracker reached the wall and held up his lamp. It shone off a plate of bronze that stood the height of a man.
The Shield Gong.
It was struck to summon all of Tashijan to the court. Its voice traveled throughout Tashijan.
Tylar finally understood Lorr’s purpose.
Of course . . .
The gong covered the opening to a funneling tunnel. This narrow passage was not meant for the tread of knight nor master. Its maze of corkscrewing channels echoed the gong’s ringing throughout Tashijan . . . from the tower tops to the subterranean warrens of the masters.
Lorr grabbed an edge of the bronze gong and pulled it back, exposing the unguarded tunnel.
Rogger nodded with respect. “A passage that isn’t a passage,” he said, repeating Lorr’s earlier cryptic message. “How did you think of this?”
“Before undertaking Castellan Vail’s guardianship,” Lorr said, “I studied the maps of Tashijan. The first thing a tracker learns is the lay of the land, whether forest, mountain, or castle.”
Without further ceremony, they all pushed into the tunnel. Krevan and Lorr shoved the gong back with their shoulders, raising it enough for the bullhounds to enter. They dared not leave the hounds behind. If anyone should come to investigate, the presence of the bullhounds would expose them.
Taking care, Krevan and Lorr lowered the gong back in place. It would not serve them to have the gong sound now, awaking all of Tashijan.
Lorr squeezed ahead with the lamp. The low ceiling kept them all crouched. He led the way. The echo tunnel twisted and turned, branching and forking. They had to trust Lorr’s sense of direction and memory, but wyld trackers were well known for their ability to keep to a trail.
No one spoke, and they all walked as softly as possible, fearful that their tread or voice would echo outward.
Lorr continued his determined pace. Finally he took a left fork and followed its spiraling path. Light appeared ahead, and they soon found themselves at a grate. By now the tunnel had squeezed to the point that they were half-crawling. The bullhounds slunk on their bellies.
“This should be the third descended level of the masters,” Lorr said.
Tylar helped the tracker lift the grate free and set it aside. They all gladly stumbled out into the regular hallway.
“I know where I am,” Kathryn said, sounding surprised. “Master Gerrod’s quarters are down another level. It’s not far.”
Kathryn now led the way, moving swiftly. The halls were thankfully all but empty. The masters were sticking to their quarters. With a godslayer afoot, the guarding of Tashijan had been left to the knights. Still, a few maids and the occasional baldpated master did widen their eyes at their passage. Kathryn nodded in a perfunctory manner.
At last, they reached a door. Kathryn knocked.
A small peek window opened in the door. All Tylar saw was a flash of bronze.
“Kathryn?” a muffled voice said.
“Gerrod, open the door.”
The small window closed and a bar was thrown back. The door swung open.
Tylar stared at the squat, bronze figure. It took half a breath to hear the whir of the mekanicals. An articulated suit. All he could see of the man inside were a pair of moist eyes that surveyed the party with Kathryn, then settled to Tylar.
“I think you all should come inside,” the master said, stepping aside.
Kathryn took comfort from the familiar surroundings and the stolid companionship of her friend. The room’s braziers—sculpted into eagle, skreewyrm, wolfkit, and tyger—all burned brightly. Myrr and winterroot scented the air.
Gerrod offered her his chair by the fire, but she refused, still too agitated to sit.
Lorr kept watch with the bullhounds outside. Tylar and his four companions stood warily.
Gerrod paced the length of his room. “The Godsword,” he said after hearing Tylar’s story. “It is indeed named Rivenscryr, but only in the most ancient of Littick texts. If Meeryn used this word, then she meant you to know the truth behind the sword. Its oldest stories and legends.”
“What do you mean?”
Gerrod sighed—or maybe it was just his mekanicals—as he faced Tylar. “Most stories say that Rivenscryr was destroyed when the home of the gods was sundered. This is not true.”
Tylar fr
owned. “It still exists.”
“In a form, yes. It had not been so much destroyed as exhausted after the Sundering.”
“Go on,” Tylar said. “Explain yourself.”
“There is much I don’t know. A great war occurred among the gods. Someone forged Rivenscryr as a weapon. But it was too potent. Something went wrong. It shattered all, friend and foe alike. Even their world.”
“The Sundering,” the handmaiden mumbled.
“Yes, but Rivenscryr survived and was carried here with the gods as they fell to Myrillia. Echoes of themselves were cast high and low. The gods lost parts of themselves. All that was dark went down to the naether, while all that was light went up to the aether, forming the naethryn and aethryn.”
“And what were we left with here in Myrillia?” Rogger asked.
“Gods made flesh, as gray as any man.”
“And the Godsword?” Kathryn asked.
“Rivenscryr fell with the gods to Myrillia, but it was spent, empty, exhausted. Nothing more than a dire talisman of the war that ended all, destroyed all. It left no victors, only the defeated.”
“But if it fell here,” Tylar asked, “how come no one’s ever seen it? What does it look like?”
Gerrod stared into the hearth. “There is only one text that mentions its appearance. It was written by Pryde Manthion, the last of the ancient kings of Myrillia. The hide parchment is vaulted in the Bylantheum in the Ninth Land. It is written in the dead language of that country. Only a small handful of scholars can still read it. Titled Shadowfall, it recounts the coming of the gods to Myrillia. In the text, Pryde Manthion tells of a god who came to ground, bearing a great sword. ‘Of light and shadow,’ he describes it. ‘Borne by a figure of blood and bone.’ ”
Gerrod grew silent.
Kathryn had learned to read the subtleties of expression in a man of bronze. Gerrod’s head hung, his chin resting on his collarbone. One arm was half-raised toward the flames, not to warm them, but in a warding gesture. Gerrod was reluctant to speak.
Kathryn stepped beside him. She kept her voice low, meant for his ears only. “Gerrod, if you know more, please speak it. A dark time is upon all of Myrillia. Now is not the time for more secrets.”
His arm lowered, relenting. “Manthion tried to steal the sword at this weak moment, but his fingers passed clean through. When he described the blade as light and shadow, it was not poetic. That was all the blade appeared to be to his hand. But as his fingers brushed this strange blade, he heard the screaming of a shattered world. It unmanned him. He fled in terror.”
“And you think this sword is Rivenscryr?” Tylar asked. “Why is this tale any more substantive than the other thousand legends about the Godsword?”
Gerrod kept his face to the hearth. “Because in the ancient tongue of the Ninth Land, light and shadow are ryvan and screer.”
“Rivenscryr,” Kathryn said.
Gerrod nodded. “Pryde Manthion may be the only mortal man ever to truly see the sword. He named it, not the gods.”
Silence spread throughout the room. Kathryn still sensed something that Gerrod was afraid to speak. But before she could press him, Tylar moved closer.
“What became of the sword? Did this ancient tome say?”
A slow shake of the head answered Tylar.
“What else?” Kathryn asked, laying a hand on Gerrod’s shoulder. He shuddered under her touch. “You know something else.”
“Know is a strong word among scholars. It is fraught with hubris. The best to describe what I will say next is suspect.” Gerrod took another few breaths. “I fear to speak it aloud.”
“Truth is often gray,” Tylar said softly. “But it’s still the truth.” He glanced at Kathryn. She understood this all too well.
“Tell us what you suspect,” she said. “It will be up to us to act or not.”
Gerrod turned to face the group. “Pryde Manthion saw a god with a sword, a blade he described as ryvan and screer, light and shadow. The gods took this name for their own, Rivenscryr. But what of the bearer of this sword, the one who came to Myrillia with it? Manthion described the figure as one of blood and bone.” He took another deep breath. “In ancient Manth, the words are krys and ymm.”
Stunned silence met his words.
“The first god seen by man,” Gerrod said. “If this god took Pryde Manthion’s name for the sword, did he take his own name, too? Krys and ymm.”
“Chrism . . .” Tylar said, more a moan.
Gerrod stared at Tylar. “To find Rivenscryr, you know where you must go next.”
“If Chrism arrived with the Godsword, he may still possess it . . . or know where to find it.”
“But be warned,” Gerrod finished. “If Chrism arrived in Myrillia with the sword, could he also be the one who wielded it, who shattered their world?”
Tylar shook his head. “The answers will be found only in Chrismferry.”
Gerrod stepped from the fire. “Then I’ll help you get there. But first we need to draw off the wolves.”
Tylar stood two steps below the landing that separated the masters’ subterranean realm from the upper Citadel. The others gathered below him, all wrapped in shadowcloaks and masklins. A wall of Shadowknights blocked their way.
Kathryn faced them, flanked by the bullhounds and backed by Lorr.
“Castellan Vail,” the knight in charge said, a bulky fellow with porcine eyes. “All faces must be bared. None may pass from upper to lower without inspection.”
“Ser Balyn, we are not passing from upper to lower, but the reverse. Do you believe the godslayer has burrowed into the Masterlevels, through solid rock, and now rises to attack Tashijan?”
The knight hesitated. “I have my orders.”
“From Warden Fields . . . or the Fiery Cross?” Kathryn jabbed a finger at the badge pinned boldly on the knight’s chest.
“They are one and the same.”
“Not all follow the Cross. And those who have volunteered to protect me . . . against all . . . wish to stay anonymous. I have given my word, and I won’t let it be broken upon your stiffness.” Kathryn waved to Lorr. “I’m sure Warden Fields has informed you of Tracker Lorr’s assignation to me, by his own writ, a man loyal to the warden. If he vouches for my guardians, then that is as good as the warden’s, is it not?”
Ser Balyn shifted his feet.
Tylar grinned behind his masklin. Over his years with Kathryn, he had been the brunt of her clever tongue and sharp wit. It could tangle the best of men.
Kathryn pried the chink in the other’s armor. “We will proceed, Ser Balyn. Feel free to inform Warden Fields. But we will pass unmolested.”
She waved to Lorr. He whistled his hounds forward, wedging and forcing a phalanx through the wall of Shadowknights. The bullhounds snarled and dripped acid from their rippling lips.
Knights fell back.
Ser Balyn stood his ground.
Kathryn met his gaze, unblinking. “Would you raise a sword against the castellan of Tashijan?”
He finally stepped aside. “Warden Fields will know of this immediately.”
Kathryn strode past him. “Do your duty,” she said with an icy coldness. “And I’ll do mine.”
Tylar followed Kathryn’s lead. He and Krevan flanked the others, showing their knighted stripes above the masklin. The others kept their faces lowered from sight. They moved past the line of guards on the landing and continued up the stairs.
Glancing back, Tylar saw Ser Balyn elbow aside another knight, off to send a fast dispatch up to the warden. Tylar turned forward and continued after the others. He glanced to a high window and caught a glitter of starshine. Dawn was not far off. Timing would be critical.
Earlier, Master Gerrod had gone ahead of them, to dispatch two wyndravens, birds blessed in fire and air. The ravens would race with fire under their wings. No bird was faster, homing upon their targets with the speed of Grace. One had been addressed by Kathryn, the other by Tylar. They needed allies in the com
ing storm.
Tylar increased his pace to join Lorr and Kathryn.
“We should separate now. Ser Balyn will have the Warden’s Eyrie stirred up. They will be upon us like a flock of crows.”
“And we dare wait no longer in the search for Perryl,” Kathryn agreed.
Tylar reached out and took Lorr by the elbow. “Watch after her. Keep her from harm.”
Lorr nodded. “She’ll be safe. Warden Fields would not dare lay a hand on her. Now, as for you . . .” The tracker chuckled roughly.
Tylar knew a swift death awaited him if he was caught.
“Keep your track light and your path unmarked,” Lorr warned, using an old wyldman adage.
“I’ll do my best.”
Argent ser Fields raced with a cadre of knights, his best and most loyal. In the lead ran Symon ser Jaklar, whom many called his Wolf. Argent kept a step behind him. They all fed shadows into their cloaks, quickening their pace, sweeping through the halls, down stairs.
It wouldn’t be long.
The godslayer is here. He knew it in his bones. They would have to be swift and merciless.
Earlier, he had heard word of Kathryn and Lorr. They had broken into the Grand Court. He had dispatched men to the amphitheater, but a search turned up no sign of them. Then again, there were a hundred doors that led out from the court. It was a clever way to lose any trackers upon their tail. In one door, out any of a hundred.
But why was Lorr cooperating with Kathryn?
And just a quarter bell ago, word again reached him in his Eyrie. Kathryn had bulled her way past the guards stationed between the subterranean Masterlevels and the upper Citadel. She had been in the lower levels, but how had she gotten there? He had left word with the guards to alert him if Kathryn should leave the Citadel for the Masterlevels. He had wanted her movements under constant scrutiny. But none could say how she suddenly appeared from below.
And with a handful of cloaked knights, folks who refused to show their faces.
Argent raced with his knights. He had faced monsters and hinter-kings. But no greater glory would come to him than to carry the head of the godslayer upon a pike. After this, all obstacles to his plans here at Tashijan would fall away. He would spread the Fiery Cross throughout Myrillia. A new age would dawn . . . and he would lead the way.