James Clemens - Shadowfall

Kathryn crossed to the stone railing that circled this level. She stared down toward the floor far below. An arc of eight seats, hewed from the granite itself, stood before a deep central pit, the Hearthstone. Flames licked upward out of this stone well, smoking with alchemies and lighting the seats in a ruddy glow. Various leaders of the Order and Discipline already sat in their seats, leaning toward one another in whispered conversations.

“She’s not here,” Perryl said.

Kathryn’s fingers tightened on the balustrade. Ser Henri’s old seat, the tallest, stood vacant, as did the one to its right, the castellan’s chair.

“What now?”

Kathryn imagined much of the whispering below centered on that empty chair. She searched the lower levels of the court, the tiers reserved for the masters. It did not take long to spot Gerrod down there. His bronze armor stood out among the robes. He was gazing up at Kathryn. He shook his head.

Around the nearer tiers, the various knights, pages, and squires took their seats. As in Tashijan itself, the upper levels were their domain.

“We should get as close as possible,” Perryl said. “Watch for any sign of the castellan.”

Kathryn nodded and led the way down into the thick of her fellow knights. She found two seats just above the masters’ tiers. She hurried to them.

Following their passage, Gerrod climbed upward and traded spaces to occupy a seat directly beneath them. He stood, his head at their toes. “I’ve listened upon the masters and knights. No one knows what keeps Castellan Mirra away. But they’ve agreed they can wait no longer.”

Kathryn glanced behind. Most of the crowd had shuffled in and seats were packed up to the edge of the domed roof. A majority of knights, like Kathryn herself, wore their shadowcloaks, casting vast swaths of darkness over the tiers.

Gerrod continued. “There is no law requiring the castellan to be present at the ceremonies. Most seem settled that she has taken ill. They plan on proceeding as soon as-”

His words were cut off as the deafening reverberation of the Shield Gong echoed off the roof and across the open space, silencing all in a breath. Its voice also traveled along a series of echo tunnels behind the gong, to be heard throughout all of Tashijan, above and below.

“So it begins,” Gerrod mumbled as he took his seat.

Kathryn sat straighter, tense.

The head of the Council of Masters stood from his seat to the left of Ser Henri’s old chair. Master Hesharian was as wide as he was wise, his girth swelling the brown robe of his standing. Firelight shone upon his bald pate, tattooed like Gerrod’s own. He bore eleven disciplines, second only to Gerrod in number.

His voice boomed across the hall, carried upon the natural acoustics of the amphitheater and accentuated by the Graces smoking from the Hearthstone pit. “We are gathered here where ancient kings once stood to carry on the traditions of Tashijan, to raise high one of our own to lead us.”

Murmurs of excitement met his words.

“We stand upon the cusp between the old and the new, the past and the future. As throughout time, stones have been cast and counted.” He nodded to the circle of seats on the lowest level, the Council of Masters, who had tallied the ballots. “And a new warden will rise this night!”

Clapping met his words. Calls for a name were raised as was tradition and spread throughout the galleries. Master Hesharian simply stood, bathed in the cheering and chanting. Finally he raised an arm, and the swell died down.

“A name you ask for! A name you will hear!” He raised his other arm high. “Stand and greet your new warden.”

As one, the crowd gained their feet. Kathryn did so reluctantly.

Master Hesharian searched the tiers, though clearly he had to know where the victor sat. He pointed an arm. “There stands the one cast in stone by your own hands! Warden Argent ser Fields! ”

Cheers erupted before the announcement was past Hesharian’s lips. Argent’s name was shouted and chanted. And a few among the crowd, those already into their cups, called out, “One Eye! One Eye! One Eye

…”

Flogged by the pounding enthusiasm of his brethren, Argent ser Fields climbed down out of the knights’ tiers and past the masters’ levels to finally reach the floor, greeted by hand and a kiss upon each cheek by Master Hesharian. He was led to the center chair. He acknowledged the warm reception humbly and with a generous smile.

Argent ser Fields was two decades older than Kathryn, but he could pass for her younger brother. His deep auburn hair, worn long to the shoulder, bore not a hint of gray. And age had done nothing to his strength or skill. For as long as Kathryn had been at Tashijan, he had not been bested at swords or daggers. But that was only half the man. His face was hard, but more often than not, softened by good humor. He was known to be generous with his well wishes, yet justly firm in rebuke when affronted. As such, he had earned the respect of all, master and knight alike.

The only blemish to his striking figure was the patch worn over his left eye, a small plate of bone taken from the skull of a raving hinter-king, the same fiend who had blinded him during tortures meant to loosen the knight’s tongue. The flaming poker had taken the sight from his eye, but it never weakened his will. Freeing himself, he eventually slew the king and opened the way for victory during the Bramblebrier Campaign.

Kathryn stared at him, wondering if this same hero could truly be the head of the Fiery Cross, Ser Henri’s murderer. She began to wonder if Castellan Mirra was mistaken. Just this morning, Kathryn herself had been planning to cast a white stone in his favor.

Argent ser Fields raised a hand to quiet the crowd, but they were slow to respond. He kept his arm raised, patient, still smiling. Finally the crowd broke to his will, and quiet spread over the hall.

Argent stood straighter, lowering his arm. His smile faded to a more serious and austere countenance. “I accept this mantle with a heavy heart. For it is tragedy that brought me to stand before you, opened this seat that I must take. But take it I will!”

Clapping met his words, but he waved for silence.

“Troubled times face Tashijan, the Nine Lands, and all of Myrillia. Strange and dire tidings rise both from our neighbors and from afar. Rumors of skirmishes and raids along the fringes of the hinterlands. A surge in the practice of Dark Graces. And now one of the Hundred slain in the south.”

Argent shook his head. “We stand at a moment in history like no other. And Tashijan must be the beacon that rallies all. We must be at our strongest, at our most united. We will be the light to lead the way! The flame in the darkness!”

More clapping and cheers met his words. It was what they all wanted to hear, an end of the uncertainty, a firm path to follow.

Still, for Kathryn, those same words trailed an icy path through her: a light to lead the way… the flame in the darkness. The imagery was too strong to be mere chance. Were they hints of his ties to the Fiery Cross?

She noted Gerrod glancing back at her. The same worries had not escaped him.

Argent continued, booming over the clapping, “Tashijan will be a new beacon to the future! We cannot, will not fail!”

The crowd stamped boots and pulled swords. Argent’s name was shouted to the roof. He settled back to the seat, hands on the granite armrests. He waited for the crowd to tire itself.

Gerrod twisted toward her. She leaned in closer. “He has won them surely,” Gerrod said. “Both heart and mind. Even if what Castellan Mirra stated is true, there may be nothing we can do about it. It may be too late.”

Kathryn refused to accept that. She stared down at the man sitting in Ser Henri’s seat. Around her, the crowd slowly settled.