James Clemens - Shadowfall

But Gerrod was not done with Paltry. “What happened after that?”

“I… I heard back from Castellan Mirra. She claimed the girl was an abomination. She expressed fear of some plot against Chrism.”

“If Henri had not informed her of the girl,” Master Gerrod said, “I could see Mirra making that mistake, the same as I did with the blood. And with Henri’s recent death, she must have assumed the worst.”

Yaellin stirred. “So you attempted to kill Dart. Why?”

“I was so ordered. Castellan Mirra sent gold and names among the blackfeet. She asked me to stay my hand until she could investigate further. She seemed to fear some faction at Tashijan.”

“The Fiery Cross,” Castellan Vail mumbled.

Gerrod fixed Paltry with a cold stare. “Did Mirra ever contact you again?”

“No, she disappeared… vanished at Tashijan. I assumed something had happened. I had no choice but to continue with her plan to kill the abomination. It was for the good of Myrillia.” Paltry puffed up at this last bit.

The master made a rude noise. “Rather, it fit your plans just fine. You didn’t want the young girl’s rape being discovered. What if she talked? So you carried forward the assassination anyway.”

Dart’s head spun with the stories being told.

“But she lived,” Yaellin said. “And the story of the illuminaria did not escape the attention of Mistress Naff. She must have told Chrism of the incident. They must have started to suspect the truth.”

“And they didn’t know before this,” the bearded man said, turning toward Dart. “Seems strange that a child Ser Henri hid from the Cabal ends up back on their doorstep, and they’re none the wiser.”

“Perhaps not so strange,” Master Gerrod said. “Remember, it was an Oracle that chose her. Such men and women are tied to the deepest desires of the gods they serve. The one who chose Dart must have made his choice based on Chrism’s deep-seated craving for the blood of a godling. The Oracle must have blindly sensed something about the girl with his Grace-blessed senses. Especially as it was the Hand of Blood for which she was picked. A very appropriate choice, considering the circumstances and his master’s desires.”

Again a heavy silence weighed upon the room.

The man with the beard tugged at his whiskers. “According to Master Gerrod’s ancient texts, Chrism arrived here with the Godsword. And we came here hoping he still had it or knew where to find it. But now we discover he’s corrupted, a part of this Cabal, if not its leader.” He turned to Yaellin. “When did you begin to suspect Chrism?”

“Only seven days ago. He hides himself well. But over the past few moons, I had noted strange happenings at the High Wing. Hands seemed to be burning faster, aging quicker. Strange dreams plagued us all. At first, I attributed it to the same malaise spreading over Myrillia. But then I discovered more and more Cabalists appearing near the castillion, acting more boldly, hardly hiding their allegiances. They seemed to be focused on the Eldergarden. Fearing some foul mischief, I ventured into the deep wood, all the way to the Heartwood. As the Hand of Black Bile, it was an easy thing to anoint myself with nullifying alchemies and move past Chrism’s wards unseen. There, to my horror, I discovered the corruption. With my father dead and Castellan Mirra gone, I didn’t know whom to trust.”

Yaellin glanced to Castellan Vail. “And when Argent ser Fields, my father’s enemy, chose you as the new castellan, I feared you might have been corrupted. I was seeing Cabalists everywhere. So instead, I pursued my dead father’s wishes. To protect the Godsword from the Cabal. I watched Chrism closely, dogging his steps in secret. I hoped to discover where the Godsword might be hidden. To steal it if I could. I’ve even searched his rooms twice.” He shook his head. “To no avail.”

Dart remembered Yaellin sneaking out of Chrism’s chambers. He had been seeking the sword. If they hadn’t followed him…

Master Gerrod paced around the circular room, slowly, methodically. “Which brings us to the death of Meeryn. She must have learned about Chrism. He must have sent that black naether-spawn to slay her, to silence her. But how did it kill her?”

The answer came from an unexpected source. “With the Godsword,” the man in the bed said, pushing up on one elbow. He opened eyes a startling storm-gray in color. How long had he been feigning sleep?

Dart took a worried step backward.

“Tylar…” Castellan Vail said with relief.

He held her back with a nod, a silent assurance that he was all right. “The beast had a weapon,” he continued. “I saw it. A lance of silver that seemed ghostly yet potent.”

“Rivenscryr,” Yaellin said. “Chrism must have been able to forge it.”

“With the blood of the infant boy,” Tylar said, demonstrating how much he had overheard. “They must have a small cache still left.”

“But the source is too meager for them to show themselves,” Master Gerrod said. “They still move in secret.”

“For now.” Tylar’s gray eyes found Dart. “I think that was why Ser Henri kept this child alive… in secret. He could’ve slain her to keep her blood from ever falling into the Cabal’s hands, but he knew eventually a war would arise, a new War of the Gods here on Myrillia. And he wanted our side to have a way to wield the Godsword. So he placed a guard upon the one god who had knowledge of the sword.” Tylar nodded to Yaellin, then turned to Dart. “And he locked away a source of blood to fuel the sword.”

Dart felt a growing horror at his words. Tylar continued to stare at her, sorrowfully yet fiercely.

“So what do we do?” Castellan Vail asked.

“We do what we all must. I was named a godslayer. Now I must become one in truth.” He finally faced the others. “We must kill Lord Chrism.”

Tylar sipped the draft of bloodvine, bitter but sweetened with honey. It was his third dousing. He held the mug with two hands, needing both. A shiver from his bones threatened to shake his frame, but he contained it.

Kathryn sat on the neighboring bed. He felt her eyes on him, a steady watch, as if expecting him to swoon at any moment. Upon his waking, she had tried to comfort him with her soothing hands and whispered words, but it grew too difficult for them both. Such intimacy was still beyond them, confused by old familiarity and new awkwardness.

And for the moment, more important matters had to be settled.

It was nigh on midday and a plan had yet to be worked that held any chance of victory. They had debated and strategized. How did one reach Lord Chrism with untold legions of ilk-beasts guarding his grounds and an entire castillion garrison roused to alert? And once cornered, how did one slay a god corrupted by Dark Grace and wielding untold power?

Tylar studied the room over his mug. They were too few: a thief, a warrior woman, a wise man in bronze, two Shadowknights… and two frightened girls.