James Clemens - Shadowfall

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 god slayer.”

“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.”