James Clemens - Shadowfall

Tylar had forgotten the raven he had sent. Kathryn had sent hers to Yaellin, to alert him to meet them at the school. But his raven had been sent out to sea, to seek out Fyla.

“I had wanted you to come here only to support my claims,” Tylar said. “To speak on my behalf when I met with Chrism.”

She nodded. “But I have ears in many places. I heard of the battle as I was already flowing up the Tigre River from the coast. I came to lend my strength to this war.”

“And that you did.” Tylar held out Rivenscryr to Fyla, resting the blade across his palms. “This is the sword of the gods. You must take it.”

She raised a palm. “That was the past. Like you said to Chrism, this is no longer a war of gods alone. Man has as much stake here in Myrillia as any of us. More so, in fact. Rivenscryr now belongs to the world of man. It is yours to bear.”

“Why me?”

Fyla moved closer. She leaned out from her pad. This was not her realm. Weed and water were her home. Only the river channel allowed her to delve so far into the First Land.

She tenderly brushed Tylar’s lips, sighing between them, then pulled away. “Thank you. For Meeryn. For myself.”

Her pad lifted her up and began to slide away.

Tylar followed a step, lifting the blade. “Why me?”

She met his gaze, eyes shining with Grace, and answered him. “Because you were chosen. Because there is no other.” Her eyes glowed with sadness and sympathy. “Because you must.”

Dart raced down the high wing hall. sunlight blazed with the dawn of a new day. It seemed a full year had passed since that awful, bloody day, but it had been only a full moonpass. Twenty-eight days. Dart reached Laurelle’s door and knocked briskly. There was no immediate answer, so she knocked harder.

“Hold!” a shout answered her. “You’ll rattle the door right off its hinges!”

“What is taking you so long?” Dart squirmed in her new leather boots.

Pupp danced around her, matching her excitement.

Dart smoothed the lay of her velvet brown pants and snowy silk blouse. But it was the cloak she was most proud of. It was as black as any Shadowcloak and hung perfectly to her ankles. It was pinned at her throat by a black diamond.

Laurelle finally opened the door. Dart had to blink, taken aback. Laurelle was resplendent in a silver gown and a tiara of kryst jewels. Each jewel shone brilliantly against the ebony of her friend’s straight locks.

“There’s plenty of time,” Laurelle said, but even her cheeks were flushed.

“But you must be in your seat before the ceremony begins,” Dart said. “The other Hands have already left.”

Dart led the way down the hall to the back stair. The girls hurried, but a firm voice struck out behind them.

“Children! I’ll not have one of you tripping on a gown’s hem or a cloak’s edge. You’ll tumble all the way down to Tigre Hall.”

Dart slowed her step. “Sorry, Matron Shashyl.” She turned and curtsied to the portly woman. Dart had to hide a smile.

Thankfully Shashyl had been away from the keep when Chrism had ilked the guards and underfolk. She had been visiting her sick sister in Cobbleshores. She was spared, one of the few.

Matron Shashyl stepped to the door to the private stair and held it open. “Grace is not only found in humours,” she said sagely, “but also in the bearing of a young woman.”

“Yes, Matron,” Laurelle said with a perfectly serene face.

But once the door closed behind them, Laurelle burst with laughter. They fled down the stairs, as if late for their morning meal. They wound around and around the narrow stairs. Pupp lit the way, racing ahead. They finally reached the bottom and burst into the antechamber.

They almost collided with the bulk of Master Pliny. He had been bent over, securing a bootlace. He straightened, his jowled face flushed. “There you are, Mistress Laurelle. I was to wait for you so we can enter, arm in arm.”

“I’d be honored,” Laurelle said and leaned out an elbow. But she winked past his shoulder to Dart.

Dart hid a giggle behind a fist. The Hands had no recollection of their enthrallment by Chrism. Once the monster had been vanquished, the blaze of fire had died in their eyes, and they had all collapsed. Each slept for a full day, then woke as if from a regular slumber.

But they had all heard the tale afterward.

Each still held a haunted look in the eye.

Guards at the doors, new to their posts, opened the way. The muffled voices of the crowds filling the grand hall rose to a din. Laurelle and Master Pliny set off into the arched chamber.

Dart watched from the doorway. Tigre Hall was in the midst of repair. Temporary planks covered the holes in the floor, but the rush of the river could still be heard below.

Laurelle and Pliny slowly traversed the aisle between the curved benches that fronted the grand dais. The wood smiths had built most of the seating in only the past few days, working through all the bells.

Laurelle finally reached the dais and climbed with Pliny. They each took their seats, filling their proper places as Hands of the realm. Dart glanced to the chair to the immediate right of the center myrrwood throne. It had been her place. Hand of Blood. But another sat there now.

Delia.

It was her right as Meeryn’s original Hand of Blood.

But others were empty. Yet to be filled.

The smile on her lips faded as she remembered Yaellin, fallen to save her. She would honor him as best she could. She reached and clutched the black diamond at her throat.

“There you are,” a firm voice cracked behind her.

Dart jumped and turned. She curtsied again. “Castellan Vail.”

“A page does not curtsy,” Kathryn said sternly. “They bow, first the head, then at the waist.”

Dart licked her lips. She was to leave in the next day or so for Tashijan, to train as a knight. She would serve as page to the castellan herself. The clothes she wore now were reflective of her station. It had taken a bit of convincing to fight for this opportunity.

Tylar and the others had refused at first.

But Dart had not backed down. Yaellin had been both knight and Hand. To honor his sacrifice, she would become the same.

Surprisingly, Kathryn had come to her defense.

“None know the girl there,” the castellan had said. “Only those loyal to us, like Krevan and Gerrod, know the secret of her godhood. Not even Argent is aware. What better place to keep her safe than at the heart of Tashijan, surrounded by knights? And perhaps it’s still best to keep you and Dart apart for now.”

Tylar had finally relented, bowing to the wisdom of it.

So Dart had been bled almost daily by Delia, the new Hand of Blood. Her humour was stored in secret, available for Tylar to ignite Rivenscryr whenever necessary. Dart was no longer needed here, not as Hand, nor as sheath.

Dart attempted to bow now as the castellan directed.

Kathryn watched. “Much better.” Then she leaned down and faced Dart. “Is this something you truly want? To come with me to Tashijan? You are safe here.”

Dart met her gaze. Nowhere was truly safe. She had learned that too well. True security could be found only in one’s own heart. She would learn to defend herself, to find a place for herself.

“I want to be a knight,” Dart said solemnly. “I will be a knight.”

Kathryn stared at her and nodded. “Then come with me.” She crossed to the door. “Stay by my side.”

Dart fell in step with Kathryn as she traversed the hall. Cloaked knights and tattooed masters filled all the benches to the right. It was as if all of Tashijan had come.

Kathryn stepped to the very front bench. She sidled over and sat next to a tall man with a plate of bone over one eye.