James Clemens - Shadowfall

Tylar found this claim doubly odd. First, he was hardly fluent in Littick. And second, how did a thief from the Dell even recognize Littick, especially ancient Littick? “What did I say?” he asked, expecting no real answer.

“You were whispering. It was hard to make out.”

“Yet you’re sure it was Littick.”

“Of course. What I did make out was clear enough. You kept saying, ‘Agee wan clyy nee wan dred ghawl.’ Over and over again.”

Tylar pinched his brow. “What does that mean?”

Rogger pulled on his beard in thought. “It’s nonsensical.”

“Then it’s probably nothing. Dream babble, nothing more.”

Rogger seemed not to hear him. “ ‘Agee wan clyy’… break the bone. ‘Nee wan dred ghawl’… and free the dark spirit.”

Tylar waved the words away. “As I was saying, dream babble.”

“Then again,” Rogger continued, “ clyy could mean body, rather than bone. Depends on the emphasis.” The thief sighed. “And you were whispering.”

“How do you know Littick so well?”

Rogger dropped his hand from his beard. “Because I once taught it.”

Before Tylar could inquire about such an oddity, voices arose from the hall, right outside the door. The peal of bells had covered the sound of approach.

Both men turned as the door was yanked open.

Castillion guards filled the hall, including the captain who had spat at Tylar days ago and named him Godslayer. The dungeonkeep backed aside to let in two others: one cowled in a bloodred robe that glowed ruddily in the darkness, rich in Graces, and one dressed formally in gray with silver rings on each finger and ear.

A soothmancer and an adjudicator.

Their eyes fell on Tylar.

The gray figure stepped forward. “Tylar de Noche, you are to present yourself to the Summer Mount Court to be soothed and judged.”

Guards sidled in with swords drawn. The captain followed, carrying clanking iron manacles for wrist and ankle.

Rogger backed aside, mumbling, “It seems your friend’s cloak was thinner than even he supposed.”

Tylar did not fight his manacles, even when they were snapped too tightly, pinching. Perryl was leaving as soon as the deathwatch had ended. These others must have come for him as soon as he boarded the flippercraft and was away. So much for respecting the command of a Shadowknight.

Poked in the back by the point of a sword, he was led out of the cell.

“Bring the pilgrim god-sinner,” the soothmancer commanded from under the cowl of his red robe. “His guilt is as plain as the brands on his flesh. On this mournful night, we will cleanse our house of all who have blasphemed. The way must be pure to grieve the loss of the Brightness of the Isles.”

The adjudicator nodded and waved to the guards.

There were no additional manacles, so Rogger was simply grabbed and hauled.

They were led roughly down the rows of cells and up the long winding stairs into the central keep of Summer Mount, rising out of the dank darkness of the island’s natural stone and into the sunbaked brick and tapestried walls of the castillion. The odors of piss and blood were replaced by the scent of braziers smoking with incenses: sweetwood, dried clove, and sprigs of thistledown.

The scents of the isles… in memory of Meeryn.

The deeper into the castillion they traveled, the more cloying the odor became. Braziers burned everywhere, as if death and grief could be smoked out and away. Every mirror they passed was shattered to hide the faces of those mourning. Black drapes covered windows to hold back the sun.

And over it all, bells rang and rang. Children dressed in black finery ran the halls, even among the guards, carrying small cymbals, clanging away, meant to chase away ghosts. It was supposed to be an act of grief, but spatters of laughter trailed the wake of the little ones. Death was not their concern, not even the death of their god.

More somber figures stood at doorways, bearing witness to the procession through the castillion. Tylar was cursed, spat at. Many carried silver bells, ringing them violently toward him as if trying to beat him with the noise.

At last, they reached the doors that led into the central court. They were flung wide, and Tylar and Rogger were led into the spacious hall beyond. The heavy doors closed behind them, rows of guards falling into place. The great hall, muffled from the bells beyond, seemed deadly silent.

Tylar stared at the court. It was plainly adorned, unlike some gods’ courts. The walls were painted white, simply decorated with frescoes of twining vines and small purple flowers. Eight windows, thickly draped in black, lined one wall, facing the sea.

Aligned against the opposite wall stood seven figures, draped like the windows. They might have been statues, except for slight movements, the turn of a head, the shift of an arm. Tylar guessed who they were. The Hands to Meeryn, men and women in service to the late god, numbered eight, one for each bodily humour. But only seven stood here now. One was missing.

Rogger noted them, too, and whispered under his breath, “They’ll all need a new trade now.”

Tylar remained focused ahead. A high bench crossed the breadth of the court. Only two figures sat there, dressed in gray like their fellow adjudicator. Past their shoulders, a tall seat rose. Meeryn’s throne, empty now, but seeming to bear her presence still.

The group was led before the high bench. The adjudicator who had collected Tylar from the dungeons climbed the steps and took his seat with the other two adjudicators. An old woman sat in the center, hard-eyed and stoic.

“Tylar de Noche,” she said. “You know why you are brought before this court. To be soothed and judged for the death of Meeryn, the Brightness and Light of the Summering Isles.” Her voice cracked slightly upon naming her god. “How do you speak?”

Thrust forward, Tylar stumbled toward the lone chair. Painted red, it stood before the high bench. He knew the procedure well enough, having attended such trials before from both sides. “I swear to all assembled here that I had no hand in the death of the god Meeryn. I am innocent.”

“So you have claimed before,” the other adjudicator said. He appeared even older than the woman, heavy with weight and age, sagging in his seat. “The honorable Perryl ser Corriscan has informed us of your past and your fall from grace. He also vouched for you, asking for a stay in this court until the matter could be attended in Tashijan.”

“The Shadowknights have always served the gods and the realms,” Tylar pressed, hoping that Perryl’s request might still be honored. “I would bow to the Courts of Tashijan in this matter.”

“As you have once before,” the adjudicator that brought him here said. “They let you live when you should have been slain for murder so foul. If they had attended their duties without sympathy to one of their own, Meeryn might still live.”

Tylar held back a groan. They thought Tashijan had been lenient upon him. If anything, the opposite was true. But his word would not be believed. The folk here had no faith in far-off Tashijan.

He tried another tactic. “A court of this import must be attended by those of the Order.” Shadowknights were required to be present at trials of murder or serious offense.

“Then it’s good fortune I returned from the outer islands this very night,” a new voice interrupted. Shadows shifted near the back wall and a figure unfolded from the darkness, revealing himself. A Shadowknight. Cloaked and featureless behind his masklin. “My name is Darjon ser Hightower, the last of those sworn to Meeryn, the last still living. And before I see my duty done among these islands, I will see her avenged. So fear not, the Order is represented here.”