James Clemens - Shadowfall

Argent remained seated, but he spoke again. “It seems there is an order of duty required of all new wardens. The naming of a new castellan to serve on my right side.”

There was a stirring of surprise through the Council of Masters. Such an important decision was usually made a few days after the Naming Ceremony.

Argent stood again. “We dare not delay. As the chair to my right is currently unoccupied, we should fill it this night, so we can be united from this day forward.”

Kathryn fought a sneer, struggling for a dispassionate expression. She searched the ring of masters. It was tradition for one of the Council to be picked. She wondered which had plied Argent enough to gain this coveted seat. Even Master Hesharian stirred his bulk uneasily. Though he already occupied the seat to Argent’s left, the right held more power.

Argent stared at the empty castellan’s seat for a long moment. “As we face a new time, it is time for a bold move on this first day of my service to Tashijan. We must not be blinded and ruled by the past and its conventions.”

He turned from the chair and faced the Council of Masters and its many hopeful faces. “If we are to be a beacon in the dark days ahead, let us look to a new path to the future.” His eyes drifted upward, past the ring of masters.

Kathryn tensed. What new treachery was afoot?

Argent’s eyes settled, turning her blood to ice. “I name my right hand this night. Rise and join me, my new castellan- Kathryn ser Vail!”

A hushed shock spread through the gallery. Kathryn felt herself falling back into her seat, but Perryl’s hand clutched her elbow, holding her steady.

“I don’t understand,” he whispered as tentative clapping arose and grew firmer. Her name was called out… then again and again.

She glanced down at Gerrod. His armored face was unreadable, but his eyes were bright with shock and worry.

She stared back toward the floor. Argent fixed her with a steely, one-eyed stare. There was no enmity there, only open invitation. He lifted his arm and beckoned.

“You must go,” Perryl urged at her shoulder.

Around her, others added the same encouragement, but more exuberantly. Kathryn found herself half-carried down the aisle to the stairs. Perryl followed, sheltering her as best he could. But once they reached the steps, she was on her own.

On numb legs, she mounted the stairs and began the long descent toward the floor. Her welcome among the master’s level was polite, but not nearly as enthusiastic. The castellan position was always filled by one of their members. She felt like some thief slipping through them.

But for the moment, they were the least of her concern. She reached the central floor. She had stood here only twice before: first when she had been granted her cloak and sword, then when she had given testimony against Tylar.

This final memory gave her pause. Did any of this have to do with Tylar, with her connection to him?

Before she could ponder it further, Argent crossed and grasped her hand in his. He leaned in close as if to kiss her, but he merely whispered, “Welcome, Kathryn… or should I say, Castellan Vail. It seems we have much to discuss.”

He led her to the seat that neighbored his, still holding her hand. Once in position, he raised their joined arms to the roar of the gathering. She searched for her friends-Perryl and Gerrod. They were lost in the masses. She was alone.

Finally, he allowed her arm to drop, giving her hand a final squeeze. She felt something hard between their palms, something he held. It was left in her grip as his hand slipped from hers.

She stared down at it. It was a balloting stone. A black balloting stone.

Kathryn knew it was the same one she had cast earlier. But in the firelight, she noticed it had been defaced. Upon its dark surface was etched a perfect circle, bisected by two perpendicular lines, all painted a flaming crimson.

The symbol of the Fiery Cross.

“We’re being hunted.”

“Have you spotted sails?” Tylar asked as he hurried after Rogger up the ladder to the open deck. It was the fourth ship they’d ridden since leaving the Summering Isles-from a deepwhaler, to a sea barge, to a limping frigate-only one step ahead of their pursuers. They’d been three days aboard the Grim Wash, a wavecrasher out of Tempest Sound.

“Not a ship,” Rogger answered as he shoved through the hatch out to the stern castle of the ship.

“What do you mean?” Tylar asked, climbing after him.

Rogger didn’t answer as he led the way to the starboard rail. Tylar craned around. The wavecrasher’s crew scrambled in the rigging, working sail lines. The black-skinned captain of the Grim Wash stood by the great wheel, flanked by a pair of steersmen at the lesser wheels. All their faces were etched in stern lines.

“Haul your arses, ya blooding bastards!” the chief mate screamed across the middeck, rousing the sailors to a quicker pace.

“What’s happening?” Tylar asked.

“See for yourself.” Rogger pointed an arm out toward the empty seas behind the ship.

Tylar shaded his eyes against the achingly blue sky. Clouds scudded in vague smudges. Sunlight glared off the rolling seas. The waters of the Meerashe Deep lay empty. “I don’t understand what-”

Then he saw it. Words died as horror iced through him.

A wide wake surged toward them, a V-shaped churn of white water, cutting through the blue swells like a sword through a sow’s belly. It was still a full reach away, but it was rapidly closing the distance. A massive pale form hummocked up momentarily, breaching between the arms of the wake, corpse bright against the blue seas. Its surface flailed with fleshy appendages and tentacles. Then it was gone again, rolling below, leaving only the wake of its passage as it flowed below the surface.

“A miiodon,” Tylar gasped out at the impossibility.

“Jelly shark,” Rogger agreed, using the more common name.

“But they don’t hunt these cold waters.” From all Tylar had been taught, miiodons lived only in the equatorial seas, below even the Summering Isles. “What’s one doing all the way up here?”

“Maybe you’d best jump in and ask ’im,” Rogger said, tugging at his beard.

Tylar felt the deck buck slightly as the wavecrasher’s speed increased. New sails snapped into the steady breeze. He watched the crew’s frantic efforts, their eyes tight with fear. Their only hope lay in outrunning the beast. The Grim Wash was not outfitted with the Chilldaldrii ice harpoons necessary to defend against such an attack. The beast would tear the ship apart, snatching free what bits of flesh it could glean with its poisoned tentacles.

“She’s diving deep!” a cry called from the crow’s nest atop the center mast.

“Below!” shouted Captain Grayl, a black-skinned Eighth-lander whose shipping-guild tattoos were bright crimson on the nape of his bulging neck. The crew obeyed their captain without hesitation, sliding down ropes and leaping to the deck. Hatches crashed open as the evacuation commenced.

The captain waved off his two steersmen. “I’ll man the wheel. Try to keep her in the wind as long as possible.”

Rogger tugged Tylar toward the open hatch, but Tylar shook free of the old thief’s grip and marched toward Captain Grayl.

“What are you doing?” Rogger asked, heeling after Tylar.

The captain noted them. “Get below!” he shouted.

“You’ll need someone to guard your back,” Tylar said, sliding free the sword he had stolen from Darjon ser Hightower.

Grayl eyed the sword, then grunted. “It’s your hide.”

Rogger stepped to Tylar’s other side and nodded to the sword. “That’ll do you little good against a jelly shark. But what about that smoky beastie of yours? Mayhap it could defend the boat.”