James Clemens - 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.