James Clemens - Shadowfall

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.