Shadowfall

  They had all heard Chrism’s order and command.

  It was no idle threat.

  A moment ago, Krevan had attempted to use the outer stairs. None of the Hands tried to stop him, but their eyes watched. Upon setting a foot on the top step, a mighty crack sounded to the south, followed by a crash of heavy stone, louder than thunder. The entire castillion shook.

  “Chrism is still master of loam,” Gerrod had warned. “Perhaps he couldn’t tear all his realm apart, but certainly he could shatter this castle, pull down the river’s dikes and levies, flooding the entire city.”

  So they had no choice. They were trapped in the High Wing. Only one person could descend.

  The godslayer.

  “It’s a trap,” Rogger said. “You know that, of course?”

  Tylar did not even bother answering the thief’s question.

  “This is wrong,” Eylan said stiffly and nodded to Dart. “Chrism seeks to separate you from your sheath. He knows therein lies your strength. He will divide and conquer.”

  “We could still run,” Krevan said. “Attempt to escape the castillion before it falls. Stand to fight another day.”

  “No,” Gerrod answered. The master was kneeling on the floor, marking in charcoal a rough layout of Tigre Hall, where Tylar was to meet Chrism. The grand hall at the base of the tower was where the god normally conducted his affairs of the realm.

  Gerrod leaned back. “Even if we escape, if Chrismferry falls, so falls the First Land. And in such chaos, all of Myrillia will be threatened.”

  Tylar nodded. “Right or wrong, we make a stand here.”

  “You make a stand,” Kathryn said sourly.

  “This is my battle,” Tylar said. “You all know it. From the moment Meeryn touched my chest, it was to prepare me for this fight.”

  Silence met his words.

  Finally Krevan stirred. “If you must go alone, then take a part of me with you.” He stepped forward and held out his sword. The golden wyrm glowed along the length of silver. “Serpentfang is only steel, but there is no stronger blade or one as finely balanced. Perhaps what Grace can’t defeat, steel may.”

  Tylar accepted the sword and Krevan’s scabbard. He belted it in place.

  Rogger came next, shrugging out of his belt of daggers. “I guess these are only going to gather rust.”

  Tylar snugged the belt across his chest.

  “But I want those back when you’re done,” the thief added. “It’s not like I’m givin’ the blades for keeps or nothing.”

  Gerrod waved Tylar over. “All I have is my knowledge.” He pointed to the charcoal sketch. “Best to know the lay of the land when engaging battle.” He quickly went over the map.

  Tylar nodded when done.

  “There’s a back stair,” Gerrod said, pointing to the far side of the High Wing. “It leads directly to Tigre Hall through a small anteroom.”

  Eylan stood next to him. “I have nothing to give but my sworn word,” she said. “I’ll forsake my duty for now. Let you leave with your seed.”

  Tylar nodded his awkward thanks.

  Dart came up next. “And all I have is my blood, which I’ve given freely.” She had already ignited his sword. “And Pupp won’t leave my side. Not here.”

  Tylar knelt and touched Dart’s cheek. “He’s done enough, as have you.”

  Dart glanced to her toes. “But there is still one thing left for me to do.” She met his eyes. Again they seemed so much older than the face that held them. The girl’s fingers touched the dagger worn at her belt. Yaellin’s cursed dagger. Her voice was a whisper. “I won’t be captured.”

  Tylar opened his mouth to object, but she was already backing away. The girl knew the truth. False hope would only insult her.

  Tylar stood as Kathryn stepped to him. She shimmered out of her Shadowcloak and held it out to him. “It’s ripe with power.”

  “But I’m no blessed knight.”

  “Still, it will serve you for a short time, until it’s bled of Grace. Use the shadows wisely.”

  She attempted to help him into it, but it became too awkward. His elbow struck hers. She stepped on his toe. They no longer moved well together. She backed away.

  Tylar settled into the cloak on his own, relying on old habit.

  Kathryn met his eyes. Tears welled. Again she seemed unable to say something. It was as if they were locked behind some door, waiting for a key. Tylar did not have it. He wasn’t even sure he could find the lock. Too much guilt and grief clouded everything. It was hard to say where hers began and his ended.

  And what, in the end, did he have to offer? He touched his chest. He had seen the horror in her eyes when she had viewed the broken form that was his true shape. The body he wore now was only memory, a shell of who he once was. Illusions, echoes, shadows, and light.

  He turned away, knowing all was suspect.

  Even his heart.

  The Hands stirred. Voices raised in that eerie cadence, rising from all the throats together.

  “Bring the sword now.” The castillion shook again. Stones toppled deep in the keep. “I will wait no longer.”

  Tylar took a steadying breath. He faced the others.

  The time for words was over. He gripped the sword and headed for the back door. The others followed, as did the Hands, moving woodenly. Puppets manipulated by the god below. Were any of them freer?

  Tylar reached the door, opened it, and without glancing back, he headed down the narrow stair.

  Kathryn watched him depart, disappearing down the dark throat. She flashed back to the docks below Tashijan, spying upon Tylar in chains, leaving her life, broken and stripped. Tears finally flowed. She turned away.

  The Hands simply stared, eyes on fire.

  Kathryn wanted to take a sword to each, to savage them completely. Her shoulders shook. Her fingers clenched on the hilt of her blade. But the folk here were not to blame. To put them to the blade would serve no end.

  She stared at the others, her companions.

  It was difficult to meet anyone’s eyes.

  To do so was to read the hopelessness in each.

  Kathryn fell to her knees on the stones. She covered her face, bowing her head to the floor. She had not allowed herself to break down. Not in front of Tylar. Pain wrenched through her. He had left her again, with nothing but her guilt. Her belly ached, remembering an old pain . . . and blood.

  She hated him at that moment.

  But as before, on her knees, she wanted only one thing.

  Come back.

  Tylar stalked down the stairs. The way was narrow. Only a few torches lit it. He kept his mind fixed to what he must face, but at the edges of his perception, he felt the shadow Graces flowing throughout his cloak.

  As he swept past a torch, the power ebbed to the deepest folds, and as he descended into darkness again, it flushed anew. This tidal rhythm was as familiar as his own heartbeat . . . yet it was muffled. He was cut off from it fully. It felt more like memory than reality.

  And in many ways, it was.

  He descended swiftly, tasting the power, remembering a time when he wore such a cloak without ever feeling it. It was a second skin. But this was not his skin, he reminded himself.

  It was Kathryn’s cloak.

  She had worn this same cloth when she had sat and denied him in court. Expressed her doubts of him. But then again, how honest had he been with her? She had known nothing of his dealings with the Gray Traders.

  At the time, he had been brash enough to believe he could slip between the black and the white. It had all started to raise funds for the orphanages of Akkabak Harbor, where he had grown up. He didn’t want others to face the same cold streets and rough peddling that he had. Few survived. And he’d still had contacts among the Traders from his own days among the alleys.

  But slowly things changed. Coins began to find their way into his own pocket. A few at first, then a bit more. It seemed a minor thing, done for the greater good.

  Tylar
felt old bile rising. It was hard to recognize when gray darkened to black, when twilight became true night.

  But it did.

  Then there was Kathryn. They were to be one. Her light finally opened his eyes to the darkness. He tried to break away. But mistrust was the coin of the Gray Traders. Murders were laid at his doorstep.

  Old anger flared. Old injustices.

  If only he had never met her . . .

  He closed his eyes, knowing it wasn’t fair. But the anger still burned, deeper than he cared to admit. And mixed amid it all was a new, rawer guilt. His child. Lost in blood and heart-break. How could she ever forgive him?

  And somehow that guilt, that question, only fueled the anger inside him. His steps began to hurry.

  He found the cloak suddenly cloying.

  But at last, he reached the end of the stairs. There was nowhere else to run. He forced his feet to slow, his breathing to even.

  He halted on the bottom step and took a deep breath.

  It was time to stop running.

  Stepping down, he moved to the door. It led to a small antechamber, the walls lined with benches and pillows. He inspected the room from the doorway, ready for another trap. It was empty. The far door was grander. According to Gerrod’s sketch, it opened to the main hall.

  He approached the door, Rivenscryr in hand.

  Thunder echoed.

  He waited for it to pass, then leaned an ear to the door. He heard nothing, except for a rumble of rushing water under his feet. The Tigre River flowed under this bottommost level. It must be flood high by now.

  Stepping back, he gripped the Godsword and reached to the latch with his other hand. He pulled the door open and flowed into the hall, touching the Grace in his cloak to hide his entry. He kept crouched and slid to the neighboring wall.

  Tigre Hall spread before him, half in ruins.

  He gaped at the destruction. The churn of water burbled louder, echoing up from ragged holes in the floor. It seemed the grand hall had not been spared when the flippercraft tore beneath the keep.

  But that was not all the damage.

  Torches lit the space sparingly, hanging from sconces, illuminating broken benches, tables, and splintered chairs. It looked as if some mad whirlwind had torn through the hall. The broken floor could not have done all this damage.

  Then Tylar smelled it.

  A residual odor of burned blood.

  Here was where Chrism must have gathered his guard and underfolk, where the humanity was burned from them by corrupted Grace. The destruction was the aftermath of that foul birthing.

  “Do not tarry at the door, Godslayer.”

  The soft voice came from the far side of the room, where tables and chairs still stood upright. A raised dais was lit by two torches atop poles. They blazed merrily, brighter than those along the walls. Their flickering flames shone upon a row of nine chairs atop the dais. Four smaller seats flanked each side of a taller chair. It had been carved from myrrwood, gone black by age.

  The throne of Chrism.

  It was empty.

  The figure rose from the steps of the dais. He had been righting an overturned pot that supported a dwarf sedge-wood tree. Its fronded crown shook slightly as the pot settled on the floor.

  Lord Chrism stood back, staring at it, fists on his hips. Then he reached forward and touched the spindly trunk. The small buds, buried amid the leaves, opened, peeling back opalescent petals.

  Satisfied, Chrism lifted his other arm and motioned Tylar to join him.

  “This way, Godslayer.”

  Chrism climbed the dais and dropped to his throne. He lounged comfortably and waited.

  Tylar waded out of shadows and edged warily across the room. He skirted the edges of a hole. The rush of water below sounded like a heavy wind.

  He glanced down.

  Deeper in the water, a slight glow shone. Perhaps a glowpike working against the stream. Then it vanished, swept away.

  Tylar cleared the ruined sections of the hall and continued forward. Behind the dais, another hole cracked the floor, spewing up a bit of spray that scintillated in the torchlight. It was too bright for such a dark moment.

  Chrism’s eyes fixed on the Godsword as Tylar stepped forward. Tylar read the desire behind his dispassionate features.

  The god waved to a chair by the sedge-wood tree.

  Tylar remained standing.

  Chrism sighed, a soft, pleasant sound. “I’ve called you down here to make you an offer, Tylar.”

  Tylar winced at the god’s familiarity.

  Chrism continued. “The Cabal could use someone of your . . . unique talents. It would be a shame to waste such an opportunity, but we will if we must. Join us freely, turn over the sword, and we’ll spare all your companions in the High Wing.”

  Tylar stared at the god before him. He was plainly handsome, unassuming in greens and browns. But Tylar remembered another Chrism. He again touched Mistress Naff’s memories, of Chrism attacking her, abusing her, destroying her with his corrupted seed. Tylar still felt the stubble of his cheek at his throat. He remembered the agony.

  There was no kindness or mercy to be had here.

  His fingers tightened.

  Chrism noted the strain of his muscles. “A shame.”

  “Who are you?” Tylar asked. He would know more. From the easy carriage of the god, there was a trap hidden here. He wanted time to discern it, to let it show itself, to let the god drop his guard. He needed every advantage.

  But mostly he wanted answers.

  “I am still Chrism,” the god answered. “Or rather as much of Chrism as once filled this skin. We are one and the same. Or rather one part of three. Except our aethryn selves have vanished to the aether. Unknowable, untouchable, uncaring of flesh and things beneath it.”

  “You’re a naethryn,” Tylar said, realizing the deeper truth behind the god’s words. Disgust filled his words. “You’re Chrism’s undergod.”

  Chrism shrugged. “This cloth is as much mine to wear as the one before.”

  “How . . . ?” Tylar asked. “What became of the other?”

  “Gone. Burned away by the sword you carry with you now.”

  “You killed a part of yourself?”

  “It was no matter. The Sundering shivered away all that was soft and merciful from me, left it in flesh here. The greater purpose was set aside, forgotten. But not in the naether! We still remembered. Those who served He Who Comes still survived. We banded together.”

  “The Cabal,” Tylar mumbled.

  A nod answered. “When the time was ripe, the Cabal stole the Godsword, whetted the blade, and buried it into the spot where Chrism bled and settled this land. He knew it, of course, felt its poison in his precious garden, and came to the pillars, to the sword. He was so easily trapped . . . again.”

  “What do you mean?”

  Chrism sat straighter. “That’s right. You never knew the truth.” Laughter flowed, darkly complexioned. “The story of Chrism’s settling of this First Land. His great sacrifice. It was not as your illustrious historicals describe. Do you wish to know how your lands truly started?”

  Tylar noted the furtive movements behind Chrism’s shoulders. I must keep the god distracted, focused on me.

  “What happened?” Tylar asked stiffly, but he shifted the Godsword to catch Chrism’s eye.

  Chrism settled back. “It was a dark time when the gods first came to this world. Atrocities were committed across Myrillia, by god and man alike. Chrism was no different. He raved. Did horrible things. He was eventually captured by your folk. Chained between the pillars here. His throat, wrists, and groin were sliced to the bone. They meant to kill the daemon who had slain a hundred children among their villages. But Chrism bled and bled. Undying, he fed the land. His Grace took root here, and his ravings died away. He pledged himself to the land and spent another hundred years chained to that pillar, in servitude, until finally being freed.”

  Tylar’s skin went cold at that thought
. A century in chains.

  “Only after he was freed was his discovery shared among the other gods. Others settled to escape the ravings. But the first . . . Chrism’s settling was not done by choice or even despair, but by force. A savage and bloody beginning of Myrillia’s new age.”

  Tylar shook his head, refusing to believe.

  “And the Godsword,” Chrism continued. “Why do you think Chrism slew those children? He was trying to revive our sword. When we were whole, in our own kingdom, we forged it for He Who Comes. Some sense of this persisted in his ravings. He struggled to revive the sword. But once settled, such desire faded. He hid the sword, but others knew of it.”

  “Your Cabal.”

  Chrism nodded. “For millennia we sought some way to break from the naether and into this world. Rivenscryr was our only hope. And there were those among your people who used Dark Grace to thin our world from yours. We broke through in tiny seepages. Enough to set a foothold here. We lured others to us. We set them on a path to free Myrillia.”

  Tylar remembered the screams of freedom by Darjon. Such human Cabalists had been duped, believing they fought for some greater purpose, some illusory freedom that would benefit all of Myrillia, not realizing the Cabal’s darker purpose.

  Chrism leaned forward. “Who do you think finally released Chrism from his chains after a hundred years? Who allowed Chrism to spread his peaceful message and start this age?”

  Curiosity burned in Tylar. Yet he had to maintain focus. Not let his eyes wander to the silent writhing that rose behind the throne. It had not been a glowpike in the waters under the keep. Tylar’s eyes narrowed.

  “It was the Cabal who freed Chrism from his chains. Those first to wear human skin. But not the last.”

  “If . . . if you freed Chrism from his chains then why murder him now?”

  “At that place in history, peace served the Cabal. Time was needed to study this land and the odd Graces born to us here. It took millennia to spread ourselves, to root ourselves, to corrupt those of weak mind. But four centuries ago, a new way to whet Rivenscryr was discovered.”

  “The godling boy.”

  Chrism smiled, a predatory gleam. “Much was wasted until we discovered how to use the boy’s gifts. It was difficult without possessing the sword at the time. The boy died too soon.