James Clemens - Shadowfall

“A net that will surely drown our godslayer,” Mirra said. “That must not happen. He must be protected.”

“Why?” Perryl asked, as surprised as Kathryn.

“Tylar is not guilty,” Mirra said with rasping authority.

Kathryn stepped closer, unable to hide her shock. “I don’t understand. He fled his accusers, he called forth a daemon… pirates shield him. Are these the actions of an innocent man?”

Mirra shifted in her seat. Her eyes locked on Kathryn’s. “They are the actions of a man accustomed to betrayal and false accusations.”

Kathryn went cold inside. “What are you saying?”

Mirra settled back to her chair. It was a long time before she spoke, and when she did her tongue was slow with regret. “There are words I fear to share… but I see no other course. I am too old for

this burden alone. It broke Ser Henri, and he was stronger than I.”

Kathryn crossed gazes with Perryl, but neither spoke, allowing Mirra the space to reveal what troubled her.

The old castellan fixed each of them with her sharp gaze, weighing their resolve. Her eyes settled on Kathryn, softening slightly. “Do you still love him?”

“Who?”

“Your former betrothed.”

Kathryn’s brows pinched. “Tylar… I… no, of course not. That was buried long ago.”

Mirra turned away and whispered to the flames, “What’s buried is not always lost…” She stared into the fire for several breaths before speaking again. “What I tell you next is no kindness. In many ways, it is a cruelty that shames me, and worse still, shames the memory of Ser Henri.”

“Nothing can make me think ill of Ser Henri,” Kathryn said. In many ways, the old warden had been the father she never knew. She had been born to and abandoned by a sell-wench on the streets of Kirkalvan.

Mirra seemed deaf to her. “Shame no longer matters. Time runs too short for pride. I tell you these words now on the eve of the winnowing, on the last day I will wear the emblem of the castellan.” Mirra fingered the diamond seal pinned under her chin. “By midnight, a new warden will be chosen and, as you well know, the outcome is almost certain.”

Though Perryl looked confused, Kathryn understood. As of the past two days, the faction supporting Argent ser Fields had become firmly entrenched in the lead, pinning down a majority through old ties, pacts, and bonds. He was a fit leader and a strong spokesman, having served on many and varied boards. Even Kathryn had chosen to cast her ballot stone in his direction.

“What does any of this have to do with Tylar?”

Mirra’s eyes took on a faraway glaze that was both tired and angry. “Half a decade ago, your betrothed had been a minor piece in a larger game, tossed aside after he was no longer of use. And while Tylar was not entirely blameless for his actions, neither was he guilty of the bloody crimes for which he was accused. He set in motion-blindly though it might have been-a series of events that almost brought down Ser Henri. To preserve the Order of Tashijan, to protect it from darker forces, Tylar had to be sacrificed.”

Kathryn’s legs went weak with her words. As thunder echoed through the castle walls, she found herself leaning on a table for support. “Then the murder of the cobbler’s family…?”

Mirra shook her head. “Their blood does not stain his hands.”

Kathryn felt the room’s walls close in. Darkness oiled the corners of her vision. Innocent.. he was innocent…

Mirra sighed. “Now, I don’t understand Tylar’s role in this new gambit. Was it mere chance, a twist of fate, or are there darker currents at play? In any case, it proves even a broken pawn can arise again and shake the board, rattle the play of the game.”

Kathryn shook her head, trying to clear her mind. “What game are you talking about?” Anger flared, hardening her tone. “Tell me!”

Mirra remained unmoved, a stone against Kathryn’s fury. “Even I don’t know all the plots and contrivances. I doubt even Ser Henri knew, and he was the wisest of us all. But he believed the struggle waged behind the walls of Tashijan was only an echo of a larger war brewing outside.”

“Then start here first,” Kathryn said.

“For the past decade, Ser Henri has fought to weed out a secretive faction within the Order. A faction that calls itself the Fiery Cross.”

Kathryn glanced to Perryl, then back to Mirra. Rumors of such a group had been bantered about for as long as Kathryn could remember: secret rites performed in the dead of night, hidden passages and chambers built into the walls, rogue members of the Order practicing the Dark Graces. But it was considered more myth than reality.

Mirra nodded. “They exist and have grown stronger and more open. Their goal: to turn the Order into more than servants to the gods and arbiters of peace. They seek to mold the Shadowknights into a warrior force, mercenaries for hire, assassins for those with enough coin.”

“But that goes against all our oaths,” Perryl said sternly.

“Oaths can be changed,” Mirra answered simply and added cryptically, “as they have been in the distant past.”

Kathryn found her legs and moved to the hearth’s edge, needing the warmth. “And Tylar became embroiled in this struggle?”

“He was caught between the Order and the Cross, blind to the forces around him, and crushed. The murder of the cobbler’s family was laid at his feet, and in order to prove his innocence, Ser Henri would have had to expose agents loyal to him who had infiltrated the Cross, risking even more deaths. So Tylar was sentenced to banishment and slavery. All Ser Henri could do was beseech the overseer of the trial to keep your betrothed from the gallows, sparing his death.”

Kathryn laid a palm on her belly. Not all had been so generously spared… She lowered her hand, swallowing down the rage that burned through her. “Then who murdered the cobbler family?”

Mirra’s voice dropped to a whisper. “The same person who murdered Ser Henri.”

Perryl fell back. “It cannot be…”

Ser Henri’s death was the cause of much speculation and rumor. His body had been found on the tower stair, his face locked in pain and horror, each finger burned and blackened to the knuckle. But murder? Ser Henri dabbled in alchemies, often dealing with volatile mixtures. An experiment gone awry was the Council of Masters’ judgment on the death, though they still left the inquiry open.

Kathryn bit back her shock, fingers clenching. “Is what you say true?”

The castellan continued her vigil upon the flames. Tears shone in her eyes. “The murder cannot be proven, but I know the truth nonetheless.”

“Who was behind it?” she asked.

Mirra pulled her ermine cloak tighter around her thin form. “It was the head of the Fiery Cross… either upon his order or by his own hand. I’m sure of it.”

“And does this monster have a name?”

Again the barely perceptible nod. “Ser Henri had his suspicions, nothing that could be proven.”

Kathryn refused to accept defeat so easily. “Who was it?”

The old castellan’s next words were frail with despair. “The next warden of Tashijan… Argent ser Fields.”

Kathryn shared her evening dinner with Gerrod Rothkild. It was a somber meal of diced boar in potatoes and turnips, whetted with a poor vintage red wine. They partook their meal in Gerrod’s quarters in the master’s wing of Tashijan.

He kept his room as orderly as his own mind: a small hearth aglow with coals, plain and heavy woolen drapes over slit windows, and simple furnishings of greenwood and hammered copper. The only adornments were fanciful iron braziers in shapes of woodland creatures-eagle, skreewyrm, wolfkit, and tyger-at each corner of the room, cardinal points of a compass. Even these had their practical uses, simmering now with sweet myrrh to scent the air, though more often they burned rare alchemies to focus the mind and thoughts.