James Clemens - Shadowfall

“And that was all Castellan Mirra could tell you?” Gerrod asked.

There was no need to answer. It was the fourth time that question had been asked. But Kathryn nodded anyway.

Gerrod stabbed a fork into a chunk of meat. As usual, he wore his bronze armor, shedding only his helmet, indicating a level of comfort and familiarity with his dining companion. Though no older than Kathryn, he was as bald as his helmet, his scalp tattooed with symbols of his fifteen masterfields. His skin was pale to the point of translucency, even his lips. Only his eyes remained a rich brown, a match to his bronze armor.

The soft whir of his armor’s mekanicals was loud in the silence as he brought the forkful to his lips. The armor sustained his frail form. After showing promise as a boy, he had been ripened with alchemies of air and fire to ready his mind for his studies, but he had been pushed too far. Mastering fifteen disciplines had cost him the strength of bone and muscle, leaving him dependent on the armor to move his limbs.

“I can’t bring this to the Council of Masters,” Gerrod said. “Not without proof. Especially with accusations involving Argent ser Fields.” This last was said with a sad shake of his head. “It seems unbelievable, unfathomable.”

“Castellan Mirra seemed certain of her claim.”

Gerrod’s brow furrowed into pale lines. “And the old castellan definitely is not a person prone to fits of fancy.”

“As it was, she was loath to inform us of even this. She wished to consult with those still loyal to Ser Henri before explaining more. I think she told Perryl and me only because of our ties to… to Tylar. She is convinced he is of some importance to the struggles here and abroad. Whether he is a willing player or not, she was not sure.”

Gerrod sighed, wheezing like his armor. “And you’ve taken me into your counsel, spreading the word. Do you think this is wise? I did not know Tylar.”

Kathryn reached forward to touch his bronze hand. “If I can’t trust you, then who within the walls of Tashijan can I trust?”

His metal glove cleaved open like a clam, exposing the skeletal fingers within. She did not flinch from touching them. A small smile formed on his lips. Like all Masters of Discipline, he had forsworn women, but that did not keep him from loving. Kathryn knew his feelings for her and hers for him.

Five years ago, after Tylar’s trial and banishment, something had broken inside Kathryn. She had retreated for a year into the monastic levels of Tashijan, to the underground lair of the masters with its libraries, illuminariums, and alchemy laboratories. There, she lost herself in study and meditation, burying herself under the keep as surely as in a grave.

And she would still be there if it hadn’t been for Gerrod. Newly arrived to Tashijan and blind to her past, his eyes had not looked upon her with accusation for her damning testimony against Tylar, nor did they glance away with sad sympathy for her loss.

Gerrod simply saw her.

Over the next months, he drew her out with his wit and plain wisdoms. You’re too much a flower to hide from the sun… leave such places to mold and mushrooms. He helped build back her strength, find her center once again. It was holding this same hand that she left the subterranean levels of the masters and returned to the Order of the Shadowknights above, where she resumed her place as a knight. Though they could never be together, they were forever more than friends.

And it was enough for both of them.

A knock at the door interrupted. Kathryn stood as Gerrod’s armor snapped back over his fingers. “Who is it?” Gerrod called out.

“It’s Perryl, Master Rothkild!”

Kathryn hurried to the door as Gerrod climbed to his feet with a whirring protest from his mekanicals. He snapped his hinged helmet back over his head.

She opened the door, and Perryl hurried in. Like most knights, he had shed his shadowcloak while within the main keep and wore plain black breeches, boots, and a gray shirt, buttoned formally. He had oiled and combed his straw hair straight back as was custom for a Ninthlander. Free of his knight’s wear, Kathryn was shocked by his boyish appearance. It was easy to forget how young he was, so new to the cloak.

“The count is almost finished,” he said in a rush of breath. “They expect to announce the new warden in the next quarter ring.”

“So soon?” Kathryn asked. It was still well from midnight, the expected time for such a pronouncement. All ballot stones had been cast with the ringing of the eighth bell. It should have taken until the middle of the night for all the stones to have been tallied.

“That’s why I hurried here. Word is that the vote was so overwhelming that the outcome was plain from the first spill of the stones.”

Kathryn wore a worried expression. There had been five main candidates for the seat of Tashijan, each represented by a different colored stone: red, green, blue, yellow, and white. During the secret ballot, Kathryn had chosen none of them, selecting instead a black stone, a vote against all the candidates.

“What stone leads?” Gerrod asked, though there could be only one answer.

“White,” Perryl confirmed. “Ser Fields’s color. Word whispering from the council hall is that the other colors were but a few daubs against a sea of white. No count will be necessary to declare the victor.”

“Then it’s over,” Kathryn whispered. She faced the others. “We should bring the news to Castellan Mirra. See what she has to say.”

As a group, they vacated Gerrod’s rooms and climbed out of the Masterlevels buried under the central keep of Tashijan. The floors above, the Citadel as it was called, were the domain of the Order of the Shadowknight. The Citadel and the Masterlevel composed the two halves of Tashijan, one above-ground, the other below. And the loftier the level in the Citadel, the more esteemed the residents. A castellan was second only to the warden. That meant a climb of twenty-two flights to reach Castellan Mirra’s hermitage.

They climbed in silence, lost to their own thoughts and worries. But they were not alone. Young squires and pages sprinted up and down the central staircase as it wound through the heart of the keep, voices sharp with excitement. A few knights marched the same steps, mostly heading down toward the Grand Court. Word of the early pronouncement had spread quickly.

Kathryn nodded to her brothers and sisters as they passed.

“Have you heard?” one called to her. “Argent’s color rides high. Looks like ol’ One Eye will be leading us from here!”

Kathryn attempted a smile, but it felt crooked on her face. Then the other knight was gone, vanishing around a turn of the stairs.

They climbed the rest of the way up to the proper level and crossed down the resident halls of those who ruled Tashijan. By morning, there would be new occupants in all of these rooms as Argent ser Fields picked those who would work beside him. A new warden meant an entire upheaval for those in power. Kathryn glanced to the doorway that led to Ser Henri’s private rooms, the Warden’s Eyrie, as it was called. Soon it, too, would have a new resident, an eagle replaced by a blood vulture.

Perryl reached Castellan Mirra’s door first and knocked. The sound was unnaturally loud in the stone hallway. They waited for a response, but there was none.

“Perhaps she’s already heard,” Gerrod said. “As castellan, she’ll have to make an appearance at the Grand Court when the pronouncement is made.”

“Or perhaps she’s asleep,” Perryl added. “Her hearing is not as keen these last years.”

“Try again,” Kathryn urged.

Gerrod shifted past Perryl and knocked an armored fist on the door. Though he didn’t pound hard, the strike of bronze on wood startled Kathryn with its clangor. Even the stone deaf could not fail to hear his hail.