James Clemens - Shadowfall

Tylar’s skin went cold at that thought. A century in chains.

“Only after he was freed was his discovery shared among the other gods. Others settled to escape the ravings. But the first… Chrism’s settling was not done by choice or even despair, but by force. A savage and bloody beginning of Myrillia’s new age.”

Tylar shook his head, refusing to believe.

“And the Godsword,” Chrism continued. “Why do you think Chrism slew those children? He was trying to revive our sword. When we were whole, in our own kingdom, we forged it for He Who Comes. Some sense of this persisted in his ravings. He struggled to revive the sword. But once settled, such desire faded. He hid the sword, but others knew of it.”

“Your Cabal.”

Chrism nodded. “For millennia we sought some way to break from the naether and into this world. Rivenscryr was our only hope. And there were those among your people who used Dark Grace to thin our world from yours. We broke through in tiny seepages. Enough to set a foothold here. We lured others to us. We set them on a path to free Myrillia.”

Tylar remembered the screams of freedom by Darjon. Such human Cabalists had been duped, believing they fought for some greater purpose, some illusory freedom that would benefit all of Myrillia, not realizing the Cabal’s darker purpose.

Chrism leaned forward. “Who do you think finally released Chrism from his chains after a hundred years? Who allowed Chrism to spread his peaceful message and start this age?”

Curiosity burned in Tylar. Yet he had to maintain focus. Not let his eyes wander to the silent writhing that rose behind the throne. It had not been a glowpike in the waters under the keep. Tylar’s eyes narrowed.

“It was the Cabal who freed Chrism from his chains. Those first to wear human skin. But not the last.”

“If… if you freed Chrism from his chains then why murder him now?”

“At that place in history, peace served the Cabal. Time was needed to study this land and the odd Graces born to us here. It took millennia to spread ourselves, to root ourselves, to corrupt those of weak mind. But four centuries ago, a new way to whet Rivenscryr was discovered.”

“The godling boy.”

Chrism smiled, a predatory gleam. “Much was wasted until we discovered how to use the boy’s gifts. It was difficult without possessing the sword at the time. The boy died too soon.

He did not have our natural ability to heal from mortal wounds. Who would’ve known that? The offspring of gods was not immortal. So much was wasted. We won’t make that same mistake again.”

Tylar pictured Dart. He couldn’t let this monster have her.

Chrism continued. “But the Cabal did preserve enough of the boy’s blood, saved in crystal. We bided our time. We chose where best to strike first. Two centuries ago, the castillion here was infiltrated, the sword stolen and whetted and planted as a trap in the Eldergarden. The god came, sensing the poisoned touch of the sword in his midst. He found the sword, yanked it free. The fool.”

“The sword had pierced into the naether,” Tylar said.

“And I was there, waiting. When he pulled the blade, I swept forth and into Chrism. Bathed in Gloom, he had no defenses. I burned the quick from his flesh, hollowing him out. Then I slipped into him like one slips into a well-worn boot.”

Tylar touched his chest, forgetting himself.

Chrism noted his movement. “Not like you, Godslayer. Or even like the creature you slew in the High Wing, wearing Mistress Naff’s skin. That underling, of low mind and station, served us, carried the whetted sword and slew Meeryn. It was unfortunate Meeryn had learned of the Cabal’s infiltration of Chrismferry; even she did not know how high it had spread. But such knowledge could not be allowed to survive.”

“So you had Meeryn killed,” Tylar said.

“The Cabal will have this world. We will possess it like I do this skin. We will pave the way once again for He Who Comes. Nothing will stop us this time. We acted too hastily in the past, in our own kingdom. We did not understand fully what I had forged.” Chrism stared at the sword again, eyes shining. “But now we do. As before, we will bring a new age to Myrillia. But not one of peace for the crawling vermin of these lands. Such a time has ended. You shall become our chattel and clay. Your blood and flesh will open the way for His coming.”

“Who-?”

Chrism sneered. “Even his name you are not worthy to hear.”

Chrism finally stood. A black mist steamed from his skin. Tylar had seen such a sheen in gods when they were worked up, like when Meeryn had fled her assassin. But while Meeryn’s glow was sunlight and petals, the pall rising from Chrism ate the light and stirred with the winds of the naether. It made his form shimmer, as across baked sands.

“I am not like you or the creature you slew,” he repeated. “You are possessed by smoke and shadow. But as I forged Rivenscryr, it forged me. You are possession. I am fruition, culmination, perfection.”

He lifted his arms. His true form pierced out of his flesh.

“See the face of the Cabal!”

Locked in dark thoughts, Dart stood by the windows of the High Wing. She kept one hand on the dagger at her belt. Tylar had been gone so long. What was happening? She could see the others reflected in the windows. They all seemed lost to their private dungeons. Kathryn had finally risen from the floor, her eyes haunted and empty. Krevan and Eylan, warriors both, seemed boneless now, sunken in. Gerrod had gone very still, becoming a bronze statue, unmoving.

And among them stood the Hands, eyes blazing, watching them all. Two of the Hands stood, sentinels of flesh and Dark Grace. But the other two wandered the hall, keeping a blazing eye on all.

Dart watched for them, keeping away in a slow dance. She didn’t want herself being grabbed and pinned before she could wield the dagger and end her life. Her blood would never be Chrism’s. Pupp kept to her side. He was clearly disturbed by the Hands, too.

So she kept a watch on the room’s reflection while staring out at the storm. The windows of the High Wing faced across all of Chrismferry. The Tigre River snaked outward from the castillion, splitting the city in half.

True night neared, though it was hard to discern through the dark clouds. Lights dotted the city below.

How many went about their ordinary day, oblivious of the terror and bloodshed being waged at the city’s heart? Dart wished for such oblivion, to live a simple life. But wishes would not help her now.

Lightning flashed in a forking display across the skies. For a moment, night became day again. The city appeared in stark, silvery relief. The river below ignited, reflecting the brilliance.

Thunder followed as darkness swept back over Chrismferry. Dart blinked away the flash of the lightning, dazzled. But the brightness would not go away. The river below continued to shine in patches as if the waters had trapped some of the brilliance and refused to let it go.

She leaned closer, her forehead on the cold glass. Her brow wrinkled.

The tiny glows in the water moved as she watched, streaming toward the castillion, against the current. These were no reflections.

“Lights…” Dart mumbled.

Lights under the water.

Fingers closed on her shoulder. She jumped, fearing it was one of the Hands.

“Hush,” Rogger said, a faint whisper at her ear. “Back away.”

Dart, though confused, obeyed. She stared questioningly at Rogger. The thief simply shook his head.

“Help me,” he said as he drew her to the opposite side of the hall, away from the bank of windows. “We need to keep the Hands’ attention away.”

Though she did not fully understand, Dart nodded. She had asked similar of Laurelle earlier. To draw the eyes from what must not be seen.