Tylar nodded. It was a chilling thought. Chrism gone rogue.
They continued the trek in silence. Winds shook the upper tree limbs. Dried leaves fell with whispery rattles, putting everyone on edge, making it seem like the forest itself gasped and wheezed. The darkness grew to a midnight gloom. The only light came from strange luminescent berries decorating thorny bushes and palm-sized butterflits resting among the branches.
After a time, Yaellin lifted an arm and waved them to an even quieter tread. “We skirt the Heartwood. Take care we don’t wake it.”
The knight led them around in a wide arc. Tylar caught glimpses of the massive bole of the tree, the heart of the wood, corrupted and ilked like the men and women who served Chrism. Very faintly, the rustle of dried wood . . . or bone . . . whispered from that direction.
No one spoke.
They slowly passed the Heartwood and continued farther into the myrrwood. A light rain began to patter the canopy, but few drops reached the ground. They might as well have been indoors.
“Not much farther,” Yaellin said.
They paused to take a short break. Bandages were checked. All of them bore wounds, except for Gerrod, who worked on the creaking joints of his armor.
Then they set off again, moving more slowly, eyes wary for any ilk-beasts still lurking here after the ritual. But the woods appeared empty. The hunt out in the streets still occupied Chrism’s minions.
But for how long?
“There!” Yaellin said.
He pointed toward a pair of stone pillars in the middle of a glade of massive trunks. The branches overhead wove together to form a massive raftered roof. A few drizzling streams wormed through the canopy and tinkled to small pools of rainwater.
They waited at the edge for Kathryn and Yaellin to make a complete circuit of the glade. All seemed quiet. A faint smell of old woodsmoke hung in the air. Tylar spotted a circle of fire pits, dug into the ground, gone cold.
Yaellin and Kathryn reappeared.
“No one’s about,” Kathryn said.
“I found some spoor,” Yaellin said with thick distaste. “Ilk-beast. But nothing fresher than two bells. I think we’re alone.”
“For the moment,” Kathryn said. “We’d best make a fast inspection, then find a less conspicuous place to ride out the storm and decide what course to pursue next.”
As if agreeing with her, thunder grumbled distantly.
Tylar led the others into the glade, aiming for the twin pillars. They were white granite, etched with yellow lichen, and half overgrown with vines that were now brown and dead.
Despite all that had occurred, Tylar could not help but feel a bit of reverence for this site. Here is where the present age of Myrillia had begun, the longest stretch of sustained order and relative peace. Chrism might be corrupted now, but his great sacrifice here four thousand years ago could neither be dismissed nor belittled.
Tylar walked around the pillars. Here Chrism had himself bound, cut at throat, groin, and wrist. He bled himself in despair, refusing the very madness that now consumed him. He sought an end, but instead found a beginning.
What had happened?
Gerrod knelt between the pillars. He dug up a handful of soil. Tylar twinged a bit at the violation of the sacred ground. Gerrod sniffed at the soil, then replaced it with a pat.
“Fresh loam,” Gerrod mumbled. “I don’t understand. I smell no corruption.”
Tylar heard the disappointment in his voice.
“Maybe if I had more time . . . my alchemy tools . . .” He straightened up with a creak. “Nothing’s here.”
“What did you hope to find?” Tylar asked.
“Proof for what we must claim. Who will believe Chrism is corrupt? You heard on the street. Those who saw the ilk-beasts believe we are their masters. We’re also blamed for the flippercraft’s crash and the subsequent damage to the lower holds of the castillion. But if we could’ve shown this spot to be corrupted . . .” He shook his head. “I’m sorry. I led you all out here for nothing.”
Kathryn laid a hand on his shoulder. “We needed to hide, to regroup. No harm is done.”
“I had hoped maybe the Godsword was here,” Gerrod continued, crestfallen. “If Yaellin could find no sign of it in the High Wing, maybe it had been sequestered here.”
“I searched here, too,” Yaellin said. “There is no sword.”
“Chrism must keep it with him,” Tylar said.
A new voice interrupted them, coming from around the edge of Kathryn’s cloak. “I . . . I don’t understand.”
Kathryn turned, revealing Dart. She stood near one of the pillars.
“What is it?” Tylar asked.
She pointed to the ground. “There’s a sword stuck in the dirt right there.”
Tylar saw nothing.
She shooed her fingers at the ground. “Pupp, get away from there.”
Tylar glanced to Kathryn, then Gerrod.
Rogger spoke aloud what they all suddenly understood. “She can see it! Just like her dog creature.”
“ ‘A sword of shadow and light,’ ” Gerrod said. “No wonder it’s never been seen or found.”
“Rivenscryr,” Tylar gasped. “The Godsword.”
Dart frowned at all their reactions. They had to be mistaken. The sword appeared be ordinary dull bronze, even its unadorned hilt. Surely this was no dire weapon to shatter worlds.
But all eyes were upon her. From their expressions, they failed to see what was evident to her. She watched Pupp again nose up to the embedded sword. His bronze form was almost a match to the blade and hilt, except his form glowed with a molten sheen. The sword appeared cold and somehow ancient.
“Can you describe what you see?” Gerrod asked.
She did, knowing they were mistaken. There must be some blessing or curse placed upon the blade, hiding its form, but it could not possibly be the dreaded Godsword. “. . . and it’s shoved into the dirt, almost to the hilt. A handspan of blade still shows.” She held out her hand, fingers splayed to indicate.
“Are there any markings?” the master asked.
Dart stepped closer to be sure. Everyone else had backed from the space between the pillars. She leaned down. One hand reached out.
“No!” a firm voice commanded.
She yanked her arm back. The order had come from Eylan. Few words had ever been spoken by the Wyr-mistress, but these now had the force of familiar command. She was used to being obeyed.
“She mustn’t touch the Godsword,” Eylan said, her voice dropping slightly upon the others’ sudden attention.
“Why’s that?” Rogger asked.
Eylan’s eyes, black already, darkened further. She turned to Tylar. “The sword is meant only for the god-bearer.”
Tylar frowned. “Me?”
Rogger harrumphed. “It’s a better name than godslayer.”
“What do you know that you’ve not told us?” Tylar asked.
The Wyr-mistress glanced from Dart to Tylar. “We were not sure. When you came to the Wyr, you came with Grace. You came alone. But in the tower, I bore witness to the god inside you. And in the same tower, you found your sheath.”
“I found my what ?”
The Wyr-mistress again glanced down to Dart. “She is the sheath.” Eylan faced Tylar again. “And you are the sword.”
Tylar pinched his brows.
Gerrod spoke up. “I believe Wyr-mistress Eylan is referring to Dart’s blood. As the child of two gods, she alone has the ability to whet the sword from shadow to substance. But apparently, you are the one meant to wield the sword.”
“According to whom?” Castellan Vail asked.
Again attention focused to Eylan. Still, Dart’s breathing remained labored. She glanced to Laurelle. Her friend had her arms crossed tightly about her chest. Yaellin guarded over her. Dart dropped back to them, fearing what would be spoken next.
“Who spoke of this sheath and sword ?” Tylar asked.
Eylan met his gaze, but nodded
toward Dart. “This one’s mother.”
“What?” Dart gasped.
Yaellin bent down to her. “It’s all right, Dart,” he whispered.
She leaned in to him. It was all too much for her. For so many years, she had wondered about her mother and father, fantasized about them, been plagued with questions. But the truth was worse than never knowing. Yaellin held her and wrapped her up in shadow, offering what comfort he could.
Gerrod shifted toward the Wyr-mistress, understanding glowing in his eyes. “It was you who carried the message to Tashijan from the hinterland god, the child’s mother. You were the emissary who told Ser Henri about the child and urged her rescue.”
Eylan did not disagree.
“But there was more that was never told to Ser Henri,” Gerrod said. “Wasn’t there?”
A slow nod answered him. “The god and mother raved. Such creatures are sometimes so flamed by Grace that all moorings to the present are burned away. They travel to the past . . . and to places yet to come. The god-mother saw the great war of the ancient past . . . and an even greater war to come to Myrillia.” Eylan stared hard at Tylar. “And they were the same war.”
“What does that mean?” Castellan Vail asked.
It was Gerrod who answered. “Another War of the Gods.”
Eylan turned to the armored master. “No, not another war . . . the same war. The old enmities still exist, shoved deep into the naether. But they will rise again to bring their ancient war to our soil.”
Tylar took a deep breath. “And it’s already begun.” He touched the black mark on his bare chest.
Dart feared his fingers would fall through that stirring void. Something drew to the surface as his fingers neared. But the man seemed ignorant of it. His fingers found only his own flesh. Dart glanced from Pupp, to the sword, to the stirring darkness centered on Tylar’s chest. They were all the same. Barely connected to this world.
Only she could see them.
Eylan’s words repeated in her head. She is the sheath. And you are the sword. A shiver passed through Dart, rising from places she didn’t know existed inside her.
“Why was all this not told to Ser Henri?” Castellan Vail asked.
“The god-mother forbade it. She saw strings of continuity and lines of force. ‘I am a spider,’ she told me, ‘in a web without end.’ Only certain strings could be enlightened. The rest needed to remain dark. Only the Wyr knew the truth. Because the god-bearer would come to us. And as Tashijan protected the sheath, I must protect the sword.”
“And all that about needing his seed?” Rogger asked. “That was all a ruse?”
Eylan arched a brow at the thief. “No. We will still have his seed. We of the Wyr have our own goals that are independent of great wars. In this one matter here, our thread and the gods’ thread cross.”
“In other words,” Rogger said, “why not take advantage of the situation?”
Eylan shrugged.
Rogger pursed his lips and tugged his beard. “I can respect that.”
Gerrod, though, was not finished with Eylan. “What else did Dart’s mother see in the future? What will happen in this war?”
Eylan shook her head, looking concerned for the first time. “According to the god-mother, too many lines intersected at this moment. ‘A dark tangle of webs, shrouded in mists.’ Details beyond the joining of the sword and sheath are unknown.”
“There’s no hint about what we must do?” Tylar asked. “With Rivenscryr? With ourselves?”
Eylan remained silent for a long breath. Her voice dropped from its stolid demeanor to softer, sadder tones. “The Wyr don’t believe in the preordained. Prophecy is a path walked by fools.”
“Yet here we all are,” Gerrod said. “The sword and the sheath.”
“Yes, but were the words of the god ordained or only supposed? She knew the Godsword still existed. She knew her child bore the blood to wield it. She knew the old enemies still lurked in the naether. Is it so much to suppose a return to war? Is such a thing prophecy?” Eylan’s eyes drifted to Dart. “The Wyr have their own idea why the child was sent into the settled lands.”
“And what idea is that?” Tylar asked.
Eylan kept her gaze fixed to Dart. “We think she was sent here to start the war, a flame set to a very long wick.”
Dart fell back from her words. But Yaellin still held her.
No . . . it couldn’t be true . . .
Tylar watched the poor girl sink into Yaellin’s shadows, saw the horror in her eyes. He understood what she must be feeling. He had only to glance to his own chest. Could it be true? Were they both just pawns in a greater war?
Gerrod covered his eyes. “For four thousand years, the two sides of the ancient war have been held in check. All that kept them apart was this vanished sword.” He waved to the empty ground between the pillars, to the ghost blade. “But if a way to forge the sword again was loosed, and both sides knew of its existence, then both could no longer stay idle.”
“Blood dripped into a skorpion’s nest,” Rogger said. “Stirring all into a frenzy.”
“All the dire happenings across Myrillia,” Tylar said. The rise of strange beasts, the spat of skirmishes along the hinterlands, the increases in dark rites, the disturbing behavior of some gods . . .
“Stirrings of the coming war,” Eylan said.
“And Meeryn’s death . . .”
Tylar remembered Darjon’s words as they fought aboard the flippercraft. The first to fall. But she will not be the last! At long last, the War of the Gods is upon us.
At last, Tylar began to fathom Meeryn’s death. The resurgence of old enmities. No one spoke as the rain continued to patter atop the bower’s roof. Streams of drizzle tinkled too brightly in the darkness. It seemed suddenly much colder.
“And Chrism?” Gerrod asked. “It was he who brought the sword to Myrillia. Now it’s planted here. Why? What role is he playing?”
Tylar shook his head. “Only one person can answer that.” He stared in the direction of the dark castillion, lost behind the branches of the corrupted myrrwood. “We’ll have to ask him.”
“And how do you propose doing that?” Rogger asked. “Knock on the front door and ask him to tea?”
Tylar turned to Dart. He hated to ask this of her, but he had no choice. None of them did. They had a role to play. Sword and sheath. And even if they were both pawns in some greater game, it didn’t mean they could not make their own choices.
“Dart,” he began, “I’m sorry. I must—”
“I know,” she said with surprising firmness. She stepped out of Yaellin’s shadows and peeled back the bandage that bound her clawed shoulder. Wincing, she tugged the dried cloth, tearing away scabbing and causing blood to flow fresh. She dabbed her fingertips in it. “I don’t know how much blood . . .”
“Touch and see,” Tylar said. “That’s all I ask.”
She nodded and moved forward. Tylar accompanied her, keeping to her shoulder. It was much to require of one so young. Then again, he had seen her eyes up in the rookery. She was a child no longer.
After a final glance up to him, she reached out to the empty air. Her fingers quested—then something ignited her fingertips, glowing so brightly that the bones of her hand could be discerned through her flesh.
She yanked her arm, tripping back into him.
He caught her and hugged her to his waist, but his eyes were on the ground ahead of them.
Gasps rose around them.
A handspan above the leaf-strewn loam floated the golden hilt of a sword. But there was no blade. Tylar bent down. The hilt simply hovered in the air. It seemed made more of sunlight than metal. Tylar waved his hand under the hilt. “Nothing,” he said.
“It’s still there,” Dart said. “The blade.”
“It must take more blood,” Gerrod said. “The hilt and blade must be two pieces of a whole. I suspect the entire blade’s length must be smeared in blood.”
Tylar reached for the hilt.
“I’ll pull it free.”
“Wait!” Gerrod urged. “It was planted here for a reason, at the site where Chrism poured his own blood and settled this realm. So intimately connected to this plot of land, he may know if anyone removes the sword.”
“Then so be it,” Tylar said. “Let him fear for once.” He reached again for the blade.
“Wait!” This time, the command came from Dart.
“What is it?”
“Master Gerrod says all the blade needs blood.” Dart wet both palms with the blood dripping from her left shoulder. She then sprawled atop the leafy loam and positioned a palm on either side of the hilt.
“You tell me when,” he said.
Dart nodded and settled her hands. She took a rattling, deep breath. “Grab the hilt.”
Tylar obeyed, though he heard the terror in her voice. He gripped the hilt. It felt warm to the touch, almost as if he could sink his fingers into its surface. But it wasn’t a pleasant warmth, more like sticking your hands in a raw belly wound. There was a sickly fleshy feel to the grip, as if the hilt were trying to hold him. “I . . . I’ve got it.”
“Pull!” Dart said, bringing her palms together. Again a brightness erupted, limning all in silver, shoving the myrrwood shadows far away. He drew the blade up between her palms.
She cried out but held her place, hands pressed.
Tylar watched the blade unsheathe between her palms, ablaze with the same silver light. It blinded the eye. He drew it to its full length from her hands. It stretched the length of his arm, solid moonlight, in contrast with the hilt’s sunlight.
Tylar gaped at the sword. He suddenly recognized what he held. He had seen the weapon before. On the streets of Punt. Wielded by the black naether beast, the assassin of Meeryn. The same blade had plunged through Meeryn’s breast and heart.
“It killed her,” he gasped. He felt the certainty stir deep inside him, smoky and black. Meeryn’s naethryn knew the weapon. Tylar faced the others. “Here is the blade that slew Meeryn.”
At his feet, Dart again cried out. She rolled away. Her hands smoked as if seared . . . but her flesh appeared untouched.
Then something ranker welled through the air, coming up from below. It reeked of black bile and the rot of poisoned flesh.