Shadowfall

  He did not have our natural ability to heal from mortal wounds. Who would’ve known that? The offspring of gods was not immortal. So much was wasted. We won’t make that same mistake again.”

  Tylar pictured Dart. He couldn’t let this monster have her.

  Chrism continued. “But the Cabal did preserve enough of the boy’s blood, saved in crystal. We bided our time. We chose where best to strike first. Two centuries ago, the castillion here was infiltrated, the sword stolen and whetted and planted as a trap in the Eldergarden. The god came, sensing the poisoned touch of the sword in his midst. He found the sword, yanked it free. The fool.”

  “The sword had pierced into the naether,” Tylar said.

  “And I was there, waiting. When he pulled the blade, I swept forth and into Chrism. Bathed in Gloom, he had no defenses. I burned the quick from his flesh, hollowing him out. Then I slipped into him like one slips into a well-worn boot.”

  Tylar touched his chest, forgetting himself.

  Chrism noted his movement. “Not like you, Godslayer. Or even like the creature you slew in the High Wing, wearing Mistress Naff’s skin. That underling, of low mind and station, served us, carried the whetted sword and slew Meeryn. It was unfortunate Meeryn had learned of the Cabal’s infiltration of Chrismferry; even she did not know how high it had spread. But such knowledge could not be allowed to survive.”

  “So you had Meeryn killed,” Tylar said.

  “The Cabal will have this world. We will possess it like I do this skin. We will pave the way once again for He Who Comes. Nothing will stop us this time. We acted too hastily in the past, in our own kingdom. We did not understand fully what I had forged.” Chrism stared at the sword again, eyes shining. “But now we do. As before, we will bring a new age to Myrillia. But not one of peace for the crawling vermin of these lands. Such a time has ended. You shall become our chattel and clay. Your blood and flesh will open the way for His coming.”

  “Who—?”

  Chrism sneered. “Even his name you are not worthy to hear.”

  Chrism finally stood. A black mist steamed from his skin. Tylar had seen such a sheen in gods when they were worked up, like when Meeryn had fled her assassin. But while Meeryn’s glow was sunlight and petals, the pall rising from Chrism ate the light and stirred with the winds of the naether. It made his form shimmer, as across baked sands.

  “I am not like you or the creature you slew,” he repeated. “You are possessed by smoke and shadow. But as I forged Rivenscryr, it forged me. You are possession. I am fruition, culmination, perfection.”

  He lifted his arms. His true form pierced out of his flesh.

  “See the face of the Cabal!”

  Locked in dark thoughts, Dart stood by the windows of the High Wing. She kept one hand on the dagger at her belt. Tylar had been gone so long. What was happening? She could see the others reflected in the windows. They all seemed lost to their private dungeons. Kathryn had finally risen from the floor, her eyes haunted and empty. Krevan and Eylan, warriors both, seemed boneless now, sunken in. Gerrod had gone very still, becoming a bronze statue, unmoving.

  And among them stood the Hands, eyes blazing, watching them all. Two of the Hands stood, sentinels of flesh and Dark Grace. But the other two wandered the hall, keeping a blazing eye on all.

  Dart watched for them, keeping away in a slow dance. She didn’t want herself being grabbed and pinned before she could wield the dagger and end her life. Her blood would never be Chrism’s. Pupp kept to her side. He was clearly disturbed by the Hands, too.

  So she kept a watch on the room’s reflection while staring out at the storm. The windows of the High Wing faced across all of Chrismferry. The Tigre River snaked outward from the castillion, splitting the city in half.

  True night neared, though it was hard to discern through the dark clouds. Lights dotted the city below.

  How many went about their ordinary day, oblivious of the terror and bloodshed being waged at the city’s heart? Dart wished for such oblivion, to live a simple life. But wishes would not help her now.

  Lightning flashed in a forking display across the skies. For a moment, night became day again. The city appeared in stark, silvery relief. The river below ignited, reflecting the brilliance.

  Thunder followed as darkness swept back over Chrismferry. Dart blinked away the flash of the lightning, dazzled. But the brightness would not go away. The river below continued to shine in patches as if the waters had trapped some of the brilliance and refused to let it go.

  She leaned closer, her forehead on the cold glass. Her brow wrinkled.

  The tiny glows in the water moved as she watched, streaming toward the castillion, against the current. These were no reflections.

  “Lights . . .” Dart mumbled.

  Lights under the water.

  Fingers closed on her shoulder. She jumped, fearing it was one of the Hands.

  “Hush,” Rogger said, a faint whisper at her ear. “Back away.”

  Dart, though confused, obeyed. She stared questioningly at Rogger. The thief simply shook his head.

  “Help me,” he said as he drew her to the opposite side of the hall, away from the bank of windows. “We need to keep the Hands’ attention away.”

  Though she did not fully understand, Dart nodded. She had asked similar of Laurelle earlier. To draw the eyes from what must not be seen.

  Dart pulled her dagger. “Struggle with me,” she whispered. “If there is one person here who Chrism is most concerned about, it’s me. He will not wish me to come to harm.”

  Rogger seemed to understand her intent and reached for her hand.

  “But be careful of the blade,” Dart added.

  “Naturally,” Rogger said, taking hold of her hand. “Shall we dance?”

  Dart nodded, raised her voice for all to hear, and feigned a struggle. “I . . . I can’t stand it anymore! I will take my own life!”

  “No, you mustn’t!” Rogger answered.

  She and Rogger began their dance, drawing all eyes away from the windows, away from the glow moving against the current.

  “See the true face of the Cabal!”

  Tylar gaped as Chrism stepped down from the dais. His flesh was pierced by hard black spines. His eyes went black, but still glowed with some inner fire.

  “I am no smoky phantom,” he said. His voice quaked at the edges with the keening wail of the naether. “I am naethryn given flesh and form in this world.”

  He stepped lower, arms outstretching, spines shattering out his fingertips into great claws. His knees broke as he stepped to the stone floor, bending backward inhumanly. Shining black spurs sprouted from the backs of his legs. They dripped with oil that ate through the stone.

  Tylar fell backward, knowing now why Chrism had been so relaxed. He was no daemon, but something greater and deadlier.

  Chrism stalked toward him. From either side of his head, behind his ears, a pair of horns spiraled out, winding back in a fierce sweep. He opened his mouth and black fangs uprooted teeth. His tongue burned away to flame.

  “Do you think to stand against us, little man?” A laugh as harsh as braided steel burst forth. “Not even your sword can slay me. Why do you think it was left in the gardens, untended, unguarded? Rivenscryr forged me. It cannot unmake me.”

  Tylar balked. Was it true?

  “WHO ARE YOU TO FACE ME?” Chrism boomed, his words racking through the wail. “YOU ARE NO GODSLAYER!”

  Tylar stood before the onslaught. “You know I’m not,” he answered quietly. “Because you took everything from me. My honor, my body, even my humanity.”

  “THEN WHAT IS LEFT? WHAT ARE YOU TO DEFY ME?”

  Tylar sheathed Rivenscryr and pulled forth Krevan’s sword. “I am a knight.”

  He lunged toward the beast, firing all the Grace in his cloak, igniting shadow to speed and strength. He fed it into his one arm, sweeping at the naether monster.

  “Now!” he shouted.

  By then, the writhing w
all of tangleweed had climbed the wall behind the throne, reaching to the ceiling. It had risen silently, growing thicker, bending leaf and vine to sluice the river water. Not even a drip spattered to alert Chrism.

  This was no growth of loam, but of water.

  Chrism was blind to it.

  Upon Tylar’s shout, the wall of tangleweed burst out and crashed over the daemon, ripe with Fyla’s Grace.

  Tangleweed wrapped and bound, coiled and snarled.

  The poisonous touch of the naethryn burned vine and leaf, but more weed surged to take its place. And there was still flesh that moored the naethryn, Chrism’s old shell. Tendril and stalk rooted deep for purchase.

  Still, Chrism bucked and tore. Neither god nor weed could get the upper hand.

  Tylar tipped the balance, striking with his borrowed sword. He cleaved into the beast’s shoulder. Steel clanged, like striking rock. The sword was knocked from his grip. But Chrism’s attention was diverted long enough for a ropy vine to snare his claw on one side.

  Tylar dove away as the other claw swiped at his belly, ready to rip him in half. But the years in the slave pits had taught him how to roll and dodge. He landed on his shoulder and flipped back to his feet.

  Rogger’s daggers rested in both palms.

  He threw one, then the other. The first struck Chrism in the throat. The other in his belly. Tylar grabbed another pair from his belt and whipped them, hitting upper arm and lower thigh.

  Vines followed, winding out to grab the embedded daggers, finding good purchase to further wrap up the naethryn. A thick trunk lashed around Chrism’s throat.

  A ripping howl escaped the creature’s maw.

  Chrism was lifted bodily from the floor, dragged up by the neck. Legs kicked, poisoned spurs sliced through the weeds under them.

  “Strike now!” a voice rang behind him. Fyla, the Mistress of Tangle Reef, had come, rising through another of the broken holes. “Strike with the Godsword!”

  Tylar ran at the writhing naethryn. He dragged Rivenscryr from its sheath and lifted it high, cradling its hilt in both fists.

  One strike. That would be all he had.

  Tylar tapped the last of the Grace in Kathryn’s cloak. With a will borne of blood and shadow, Tylar leaped at the naethryn. Chrism’s legs attempted to kick him away. Tylar twisted in midair. A spur caught him in the thigh, but it was too late.

  Tylar struck the monster and drove the blade clean through the monster’s chest, through the heart of the naethryn.

  Chrism racked, throwing Tylar back.

  He tumbled away, hitting the stone hard.

  A wail shattered through the room. Torches were blown out. Darkness fell. Tylar scrambled backward.

  But glow pods quickly rose from the many holes and cracks in the floor. It was one of those same pods that Tylar had spotted in the river’s current earlier.

  Light returned.

  Chrism still hung among the weeds, panting heavily, wrapped tight in vines. The beast no longer fought. The sword hilt rested square in the center of the chest.

  His fiery black eyes sought Tylar, then Fyla.

  “Meeryn’s lover,” Chrism spat, blood flowing from his lips.

  Fyla remained silent. She stood naked, resting atop one of her weed pads.

  Instead, Tylar, gaining his feet, spoke. His left thigh was on fire, but he ignored it. “It is not only man that will hold this line,” he said coldly and certainly. “We are not alone. Bring this war if you will, but it will not be only a War of Gods . . . but a War of Gods and Man.”

  Chrism writhed again, but the weeds dug deeper into his flesh. “You have not slain me. Rivenscryr cannot harm me.”

  “But it can rend your flesh,” Fyla said calmly. A tiny tendril of weed spiraled out, glowing with Grace. It reached across Chrism’s shoulder.

  Chrism’s eyes widened with fear.

  The fragile sprout touched the tip of the hilt.

  Fires blasted outward from the impaled sword. Flesh seared and blackened. Chrism arched backward, screaming flames. His body blazed among the weeds.

  Tylar watched as flesh turned to ash, falling fully away, revealing the full extent of the black naethryn. It was the form of a mighty wyrm, clawed and horned. It screamed one last time; then shape without substance dissolved, collapsing in on itself.

  With a mighty clap of thunder, it was gone.

  The sword tumbled from on high and clattered against the floor. It bounced and rattled, then settled to the stones.

  Tylar walked up to it. The blade was still present. It had not vanished. He stared from the intact sword, to Fyla, frowning.

  Her weedy pad carried her closer, dropping to the stone.

  “The naethryn spoke the truth,” she said.

  Tylar bent and retrieved the sword. He stared at the blade. “It did not kill him.”

  “No, but he has been banished back to the naether. Without his toehold in flesh here, he could not remain in our world. And with Chrism’s body destroyed, his naethryn will never find a host that will allow him to take such perfect form again. It is a blow that the Cabal will find hard to recover from.”

  Tylar stared at the flowing weed, wondering at her arrival. “How . . . ?”

  “The raven you sent upon departing Tashijan reached me, calling me to Chrismferry. I was already nearby, hugging the coast of the First Land, hoping to be of use.”

  Tylar had forgotten the raven he had sent. Kathryn had sent hers to Yaellin, to alert him to meet them at the school. But his raven had been sent out to sea, to seek out Fyla.

  “I had wanted you to come here only to support my claims,” Tylar said. “To speak on my behalf when I met with Chrism.”

  She nodded. “But I have ears in many places. I heard of the battle as I was already flowing up the Tigre River from the coast. I came to lend my strength to this war.”

  “And that you did.” Tylar held out Rivenscryr to Fyla, resting the blade across his palms. “This is the sword of the gods. You must take it.”

  She raised a palm. “That was the past. Like you said to Chrism, this is no longer a war of gods alone. Man has as much stake here in Myrillia as any of us. More so, in fact. Rivenscryr now belongs to the world of man. It is yours to bear.”

  “Why me?”

  Fyla moved closer. She leaned out from her pad. This was not her realm. Weed and water were her home. Only the river channel allowed her to delve so far into the First Land.

  She tenderly brushed Tylar’s lips, sighing between them, then pulled away. “Thank you. For Meeryn. For myself.”

  Her pad lifted her up and began to slide away.

  Tylar followed a step, lifting the blade. “Why me?”

  She met his gaze, eyes shining with Grace, and answered him. “Because you were chosen. Because there is no other.” Her eyes glowed with sadness and sympathy. “Because you must.”

  26

  DOORS

  DART RACED DOWN THE HIGH WING HALL. SUNLIGHT blazed with the dawn of a new day. It seemed a full year had passed since that awful, bloody day, but it had been only a full moonpass. Twenty-eight days. Dart reached Laurelle’s door and knocked briskly. There was no immediate answer, so she knocked harder.

  “Hold!” a shout answered her. “You’ll rattle the door right off its hinges!”

  “What is taking you so long?” Dart squirmed in her new leather boots.

  Pupp danced around her, matching her excitement.

  Dart smoothed the lay of her velvet brown pants and snowy silk blouse. But it was the cloak she was most proud of. It was as black as any Shadowcloak and hung perfectly to her ankles. It was pinned at her throat by a black diamond.

  Laurelle finally opened the door. Dart had to blink, taken aback. Laurelle was resplendent in a silver gown and a tiara of kryst jewels. Each jewel shone brilliantly against the ebony of her friend’s straight locks.

  “There’s plenty of time,” Laurelle said, but even her cheeks were flushed.

  “But you must be in y
our seat before the ceremony begins,” Dart said. “The other Hands have already left.”

  Dart led the way down the hall to the back stair. The girls hurried, but a firm voice struck out behind them.

  “Children! I’ll not have one of you tripping on a gown’s hem or a cloak’s edge. You’ll tumble all the way down to Tigre Hall.”

  Dart slowed her step. “Sorry, Matron Shashyl.” She turned and curtsied to the portly woman. Dart had to hide a smile.

  Thankfully Shashyl had been away from the keep when Chrism had ilked the guards and underfolk. She had been visiting her sick sister in Cobbleshores. She was spared, one of the few.

  Matron Shashyl stepped to the door to the private stair and held it open. “Grace is not only found in humours,” she said sagely, “but also in the bearing of a young woman.”

  “Yes, Matron,” Laurelle said with a perfectly serene face.

  But once the door closed behind them, Laurelle burst with laughter. They fled down the stairs, as if late for their morning meal. They wound around and around the narrow stairs. Pupp lit the way, racing ahead. They finally reached the bottom and burst into the antechamber.

  They almost collided with the bulk of Master Pliny. He had been bent over, securing a bootlace. He straightened, his jowled face flushed. “There you are, Mistress Laurelle. I was to wait for you so we can enter, arm in arm.”

  “I’d be honored,” Laurelle said and leaned out an elbow. But she winked past his shoulder to Dart.

  Dart hid a giggle behind a fist. The Hands had no recollection of their enthrallment by Chrism. Once the monster had been vanquished, the blaze of fire had died in their eyes, and they had all collapsed. Each slept for a full day, then woke as if from a regular slumber.

  But they had all heard the tale afterward.

  Each still held a haunted look in the eye.

  Guards at the doors, new to their posts, opened the way. The muffled voices of the crowds filling the grand hall rose to a din. Laurelle and Master Pliny set off into the arched chamber.