James Clemens - Shadowfall

“Warden Fields,” Kathryn said icily.

“Castellan Vail,” he answered with as much warmth. His one good eye settled to Dart. Pupp gave the man a wide berth.

“My new page,” Kathryn said and patted the open seat next to her.

The man nodded. His interest glazed over, and he turned away.

Dart fell into her seat, sitting straight, clutching the front edge of the bench.

She stared across to the other side of the hall. Nobles throughout the First Land and beyond had come to attend, as had Hands from realms throughout Myrillia. Each god had sent at least one Hand. Most gods from the First Land had sent all their handservants.

As Dart gawked, she spotted a face staring back at her. Her brow crinkled with recognition. It was one of her fellow thirdfloorers from the Conclave. A dark boy. His bronzed face was easy to pick out among the older, paler Hands of his retinue. She had never learned his name. He had been chosen the same night as Dart and Laurelle, chosen by Jessup of Oldenbrook, a distinguished house of the First Land. But Dart also remembered how he had spoken up for her when the others had ridiculed her.

His eyes met hers. He nodded.

She was surprised to feel heat suffuse her face.

A trumpet sounded, startling her back around.

Drums beat at the rear of the room.

Folk throughout the hall stood. Dart rose with the tide.

Doors opened at the back, and a march of castillion guards entered Tigre Hall. Stepping in beat to the drums, they crossed down the center aisle, taking up stations to either side, forming an alley. Swords were raised, forming an archway.

Another trumpet blasted-and he appeared, stepping into the hall.

Kathryn stiffened at Dart’s side. Tylar strode down the tunnel of swords. His black hair had been oiled straight back. His face had been shaved to polished smoothness. As he marched, his gray eyes shone with the storm inside him. This was not a role he cared to play. He wore a solid outfit of black: boots, pants, shirt, and cloak. The only color was the silver scabbard worn at the waist.

It bore the Godsword.

Rivenscryr.

He marched down the long aisle toward the chair that awaited him. Since that bloody day, ravens had been flying throughout Myrillia. The skies were thick with their wings. Gods were consulted across the Nine Lands. It was decided that Chrismferry could not be left fallow after the slaying of Chrism. It was the city around which all of Myrillia turned.

A regent was needed.

Someone with Grace to share, to keep commerce flowing.

Still bearing Meeryn’s blessings, Tylar had been chosen.

He strode up to the tall myrrwood seat, faced the crowd, and pulled forth Rivenscryr.

He had no choice.

At the end, the godslayer had become a god.

Tylar stood by the central brazier in the High Wing.

“It’s about time you returned these,” Rogger said and strapped on his belt of daggers. “I expect I’ll be needing them.”

“Are you leaving already?” Tylar asked. “The sun’s almost setting.”

He snugged the belt. “That’s the beginning of a new day for a thief.”

Tylar clapped him on the shoulder. “Watch yourself. Where will you head first?”

Rogger touched the side of his nose. “Perhaps I’d best leave my path unknown for now.”

Tylar nodded. He clasped Rogger in a firm embrace. The thief was heading off to investigate how far the Cabal’s corruption had spread in other god’s households. He would be traveling under the guise of his interrupted pilgrimage. In fact, he wore a fresh brand, Chrism’s sigil, on his backside. “Seemed the best place,” Rogger had commented.

“When will I hear from you?” Tylar asked now as they both separated.

“When you least expect it,” Rogger said with a wink. “I’ll send word through Krevan and the Black Flaggers.”

With a final few words of parting, the two separated. Rogger headed away. Tylar turned to face his next obstacle.

The doors to Chrism’s rooms.

As regent, they were now his rooms. But he was not sure he was ready to step through those doors. He glanced over his shoulder. Beyond the windows, the sun descended into the flow of the Tigre River, painting the skies in rosy hues and violet splashes.

A brilliant sunset.

But Tylar knew most of the beauty came from the pall of smoke that continued to steam from the smoldering myrrwood forest. The fires had yet to die away fully. Deep embers still glowed, buried among the piles of ashes. A forest that lived for four thousand years did not expire easily.

A door closed to the left, drawing his attention.

Kathryn stepped through it. Both of them froze, caught by surprise.

“Kathryn…” he finally choked out.

For the past many days, they had been missing each other, each busy with a thousand details and questions, drawn in opposite directions. He fell more and more into his duties here. Her attentions were drawn to Tashijan.

Or was it simply that they were each avoiding the other, unsure what to do? How to face a past… and a future?

“I… I was just picking up something Dart left in Laurelle’s room.” Kathryn nodded to the room she just left. “We head out for Tashijan in the morning.”

“So soon?” It was like everyone was fleeing from his side.

“There is much to settle at Tashijan,” Kathryn said. “Argent has already headed back. He hurries to firm those still loyal to him. After he passed the soothmancer’s test, clearing his name of any of the bloodiness that occurred at the Citadel, he seeks to reestablish his position.”

“Argent still refuses to step down? Even after he admits to employing a cursed sword?”

Kathryn shook her head. “There is still enough support for him both among the Fiery Cross members and the Council to keep his seat.”

“And what of the Fiery Cross?” Tylar asked. He drew her closer to the golden doors, away from direct sight.

Kathryn frowned. “I don’t know how Argent passed his soothing, but I know what I saw. Perhaps he knows nothing about the dead knight and the bloody sacrifice, but someone in the Fiery Cross does. There is foulness afoot, and I will root it out.”

Tylar’s brow crinkled with concern. Perryl still remained missing, vanished from his room. “And what of Dart? Is it safe to bring her into such a house?”

“I don’t think your house is any safer,” Kathryn said with a glint of irritation. “I’m not sure all the gods are as satisfied as they claim with your regency. And we don’t know where the Cabal will strike next, but your neck is sticking out there.”

Tylar nodded, conceding the point. He had his own house to clean. Stray ilk-beasts were still showing up throughout the city, having escaped to the gardens during the aftermath of the battle. And any face could hide a Cabalist.

“I’ll keep the girl safe,” Kathryn assured him.

Words suddenly died between them. Kathryn seemed to be waiting for something from him. Her eyes drifted down and away.

“I must go,” she finally mumbled.

A part of him wanted to ask her to stay. But how could he? She was needed at Tashijan. There were few over there he could truly trust, and as castellan, she could do the most good. And what could he offer to make her stay? The discomfort between them, born of old bitterness and guilt, only seemed to worsen with time spent in each other’s company.

Neither had the words to heal… if it could ever be done.

It was too complicated, too wounded, too bloodied.

He nodded. “Travel safe.”

She hesitated, glancing up at him, a breath away from saying something else.

A neighboring door opened to the right. Delia stepped out. Her eyes widened to find Kathryn and Tylar huddled together.