James Clemens - Shadowfall

Tylar felt old bile rising. It was hard to recognize when gray darkened to black, when twilight became true night.

But it did.

Then there was Kathryn. They were to be one. Her light finally opened his eyes to the darkness. He tried to break away. But mistrust was the coin of the Gray Traders. Murders were laid at his doorstep.

Old anger flared. Old injustices.

If only he had never met her…

He closed his eyes, knowing it wasn’t fair. But the anger still burned, deeper than he cared to admit. And mixed amid it all was a new, rawer guilt. His child. Lost in blood and heart-break. How could she ever forgive him?

And somehow that guilt, that question, only fueled the anger inside him. His steps began to hurry.

He found the cloak suddenly cloying.

But at last, he reached the end of the stairs. There was nowhere else to run. He forced his feet to slow, his breathing to even.

He halted on the bottom step and took a deep breath.

It was time to stop running.

Stepping down, he moved to the door. It led to a small antechamber, the walls lined with benches and pillows. He inspected the room from the doorway, ready for another trap. It was empty. The far door was grander. According to Gerrod’s sketch, it opened to the main hall.

He approached the door, Rivenscryr in hand.

Thunder echoed.

He waited for it to pass, then leaned an ear to the door. He heard nothing, except for a rumble of rushing water under his feet. The Tigre River flowed under this bottommost level. It must be flood high by now.

Stepping back, he gripped the Godsword and reached to the latch with his other hand. He pulled the door open and flowed into the hall, touching the Grace in his cloak to hide his entry. He kept crouched and slid to the neighboring wall.

Tigre Hall spread before him, half in ruins.

He gaped at the destruction. The churn of water burbled louder, echoing up from ragged holes in the floor. It seemed the grand hall had not been spared when the flippercraft tore beneath the keep.

But that was not all the damage.

Torches lit the space sparingly, hanging from sconces, illuminating broken benches, tables, and splintered chairs. It looked as if some mad whirlwind had torn through the hall. The broken floor could not have done all this damage.

Then Tylar smelled it.

A residual odor of burned blood.

Here was where Chrism must have gathered his guard and underfolk, where the humanity was burned from them by corrupted Grace. The destruction was the aftermath of that foul birthing.

“Do not tarry at the door, Godslayer.”

The soft voice came from the far side of the room, where tables and chairs still stood upright. A raised dais was lit by two torches atop poles. They blazed merrily, brighter than those along the walls. Their flickering flames shone upon a row of nine chairs atop the dais. Four smaller seats flanked each side of a taller chair. It had been carved from myrrwood, gone black by age.

The throne of Chrism.

It was empty.

The figure rose from the steps of the dais. He had been righting an overturned pot that supported a dwarf sedge-wood tree. Its fronded crown shook slightly as the pot settled on the floor.

Lord Chrism stood back, staring at it, fists on his hips. Then he reached forward and touched the spindly trunk. The small buds, buried amid the leaves, opened, peeling back opalescent petals.

Satisfied, Chrism lifted his other arm and motioned Tylar to join him.

“This way, Godslayer.”

Chrism climbed the dais and dropped to his throne. He lounged comfortably and waited.

Tylar waded out of shadows and edged warily across the room. He skirted the edges of a hole. The rush of water below sounded like a heavy wind.

He glanced down.

Deeper in the water, a slight glow shone. Perhaps a glowpike working against the stream. Then it vanished, swept away.

Tylar cleared the ruined sections of the hall and continued forward. Behind the dais, another hole cracked the floor, spewing up a bit of spray that scintillated in the torchlight. It was too bright for such a dark moment.

Chrism’s eyes fixed on the Godsword as Tylar stepped forward. Tylar read the desire behind his dispassionate features.

The god waved to a chair by the sedge-wood tree.

Tylar remained standing.

Chrism sighed, a soft, pleasant sound. “I’ve called you down here to make you an offer, Tylar.”

Tylar winced at the god’s familiarity.

Chrism continued. “The Cabal could use someone of your… unique talents. It would be a shame to waste such an opportunity, but we will if we must. Join us freely, turn over the sword, and we’ll spare all your companions in the High Wing.”

Tylar stared at the god before him. He was plainly handsome, unassuming in greens and browns. But Tylar remembered another Chrism. He again touched Mistress Naff’s memories, of Chrism attacking her, abusing her, destroying her with his corrupted seed. Tylar still felt the stubble of his cheek at his throat. He remembered the agony.

There was no kindness or mercy to be had here.

His fingers tightened.

Chrism noted the strain of his muscles. “A shame.”

“Who are you?” Tylar asked. He would know more. From the easy carriage of the god, there was a trap hidden here. He wanted time to discern it, to let it show itself, to let the god drop his guard. He needed every advantage.

But mostly he wanted answers.

“I am still Chrism,” the god answered. “Or rather as much of Chrism as once filled this skin. We are one and the same. Or rather one part of three. Except our aethryn selves have vanished to the aether. Unknowable, untouchable, uncaring of flesh and things beneath it.”

“You’re a naethryn,” Tylar said, realizing the deeper truth behind the god’s words. Disgust filled his words. “You’re Chrism’s undergod.”

Chrism shrugged. “This cloth is as much mine to wear as the one before.”

“How…?” Tylar asked. “What became of the other?”

“Gone. Burned away by the sword you carry with you now.”

“You killed a part of yourself?”

“It was no matter. The Sundering shivered away all that was soft and merciful from me, left it in flesh here. The greater purpose was set aside, forgotten. But not in the naether! We still remembered. Those who served He Who Comes still survived. We banded together.”

“The Cabal,” Tylar mumbled.

A nod answered. “When the time was ripe, the Cabal stole the Godsword, whetted the blade, and buried it into the spot where Chrism bled and settled this land. He knew it, of course, felt its poison in his precious garden, and came to the pillars, to the sword. He was so easily trapped… again.”

“What do you mean?”

Chrism sat straighter. “That’s right. You never knew the truth.” Laughter flowed, darkly complexioned. “The story of Chrism’s settling of this First Land. His great sacrifice. It was not as your illustrious historicals describe. Do you wish to know how your lands truly started?”

Tylar noted the furtive movements behind Chrism’s shoulders. I must keep the god distracted, focused on me.

“What happened?” Tylar asked stiffly, but he shifted the Godsword to catch Chrism’s eye.

Chrism settled back. “It was a dark time when the gods first came to this world. Atrocities were committed across Myrillia, by god and man alike. Chrism was no different. He raved. Did horrible things. He was eventually captured by your folk. Chained between the pillars here. His throat, wrists, and groin were sliced to the bone. They meant to kill the daemon who had slain a hundred children among their villages. But Chrism bled and bled. Undying, he fed the land. His Grace took root here, and his ravings died away. He pledged himself to the land and spent another hundred years chained to that pillar, in servitude, until finally being freed.”