James Clemens - Shadowfall

“It’s back this way,” he said, letting his arm drop.

She followed him from a couple steps away. He smelled of the plants he had been weeding, a spicy musk that bordered on sweet. She found herself moving closer, studying him. His back was broad, his shift clinging to his muscular shoulders. He could probably carry her all the way back to the terrace without raising any sweat on his brow.

She pushed such thoughts aside and turned her attention to the gardens around her, watching for any sign of the dark man. But the sun seemed to have warmed all menace from the Eldergarden. Pupp trailed them both, eyes fiery, a lightness to his step.

They continued down a maze of paths. The keeper spoke quietly, a comforting sound, relating details about various plants. “The jackawillows will be blooming in another moonpass,” he said, pointing to a small tree leaning over a pond, branches weeping to the water’s edge. Small buds hung from tiny stems, like the heads of drowsy children. “They open as large as fists and appear in every hue of a rain’s bow.”

He sighed.

By now, Dart had crept up even with him. She found his voice comforting.

“You never did tell me your name,” he said. “If I might be so bold.”

She considered lying but found she could not. “Dart,” she finally said.

“Ah, like the dartweed,” he said with a deep laugh. “I’ve punctured a finger or two on that thorny, yellow-headed invader.”

She bristled, reminded of the teasing back at her old school.

“You have to respect that weed,” he continued, oblivious. “It appears a tender, fragile shoot, but at its heart, it’s as tough as the strongest stranglevine and blooms despite adversity.”

He glanced over to her. Tall for her age, she stood only a couple fingers shorter than him. His voice cracked with wry amusement. “A fitting name, I’d say.”

Unbidden, a blush rose to her cheeks.

“Ah, here we are,” he said, turning away, saving her from embarrassing herself. He pointed a hand forward.

Dart spotted the familiar arch of ginger roses. Beyond the garden’s edge, up on the terrace, Laurelle stood at the rail… alongside Matron Shashyl. The matron wore a deep scowl as she searched the gardens below. With sudden trepidation, Dart realized how late she was. And in all the terror of the gardens, she had forgotten what lay ahead of her on this day.

“There you go, lass,” the groundskeeper said. “I hope to see you again sometime.”

Dart doubted that would ever happen. She would surely be cast out before the sun rose on the next day. She hurried forward. “Thank you,” she mumbled as she passed.

He followed her to the arch of roses. She hurried up the curving staircase, holding her skirt’s edge up to keep from tripping. Laurelle and Matron Shashyl had noticed her approach. They crossed to await her at the top of the steps.

“Child, do you know how long we’ve been waiting?” Matron Shashyl asked, fists on her wide hips. She grabbed Dart by the elbow and hauled her up the last step. “And on this day of all days!”

Laurelle hovered on her other side. “Dart, what happened to you?”

Her friend’s words drew the matron’s attention to the condition of her skirt. Its hem was stained and wet. Tiny rips frayed its edges.

“Is this how you care for items left in your charge?” Matron Shashyl shouted. “I should strip you bare right here and march you straight down to the laundress, have you explain to Mistress Tryssa how your clothes came to such a sorry state.”

Tears rose to Dart’s eyes. She hated to show such weakness, but the day had worn her too thin. First the broken repostilary down in the Cache, then the revelation that she was to meet Lord Chrism, and now the terror of the gardens. “Leave the girl be,” a familiar voice said behind her from the stairs. “She’s had a bad fright.”

Matron Shashyl’s grip on her elbow snatched tighter. Before Dart could turn, the matron dropped to her knees, tugging Dart with her. Dart fell amid a tumble of skirt. She landed on her hands.

Laurelle looked confused until the matron waved her down, too. With her brows knit together, she lowered slowly, careful of her own skirt.

Matron Shashyl bowed her head. “Lord Chrism.”

Laurelle’s eyes flew wide-then she, too, dropped her head, fingers folded at her bosom.

Dart, still on hands and knees, found herself unable to move. Horror dried the earlier tears. She knew that voice. Only now did she connect the man in the gardens to the face carved and sculpted throughout Chrismferry. Who would’ve expected the eldermost god of the Hundred to be found without his guards, walking the gardens?

A weary sigh sounded behind her. “Enough of this foolishness. Please stand.”

“Of course, Lord Chrism,” Matron Shashyl said, obeying him, but keeping her head bowed. She waved up Laurelle and Dart. “These are your two chosen handmaidens-in-waiting.”

Laurelle gained her feet smoothly, a flower rising toward the sun.

Dart, tangled in her skirts, had to crawl a bit, struggling.

A hand reached to her arm and helped her up. “There you go, lass.”

On her feet, Dart turned and stared up at the god she had mistaken for a groundskeeper. She remembered crashing into him, striking him with her knee. Her gaze tore away, unworthy, horrified at how she had treated him.

Lord Chrism lifted her chin to face him. “It seems my Oracle chose well indeed.”

“Are we still supposed to be panicking?” Rogger asked. “Because I’m getting sores on my arse from all this waiting.”

Tylar shrugged. He had no idea why they hadn’t been attacked yet. He and the thief, along with Delia, sat on a shadowed bench under a fold of sail and watched the seas.

The Grim Wash lay mired in the tangleweed, like a bottle-fly in a spider’s web. The slack sails fluttered weakly with the occasional gust of wind, as if trying to fly free. But escape was impossible.

Tylar stared at the entwining growth. The field of tangleweed undulated with the ocean swells, surrounding the ship in all directions. It took a spyglass to see the open water now.

Earlier in the day, they had crashed broadside into the edge of the choked patch. While they foundered there, the tangleweed flowed past the ship’s flanks, encircling the boat, its passage marked by a ghostly scritch-scratching against the planks, like drowning men clawing to board the ship. Captain Grayl had attempted to keep at least the keel clear by lowering a man on ropes with an ax, but with every chop, more weed writhed up from below. It was futile. The weed was relentless. Even the galley cook reported tendrils sprouting through the boards of the galley, twining inside.

With the ship mired, there was nothing the crew could do but watch the sun crest the sky and begin its slow fall toward the western horizon, baking the ship beneath it.

Eyes narrowed at Tylar. “We should just throw his arse over the rail,” he heard a sailor mumble to another. “Give the watery god what she wants.”

Tylar had heard similar rumblings all day. Only the captain’s goodwill protected him from attack. But how long would it last? Gold bought only so much loyalty, especially among the ilk that bartered with the Black Flaggers.

As the day wore on, the heat continued to rise, damp and salty, smelling of wet weed. It didn’t help the crew’s temperament. The occasional gusts brought a bit of movement to the air, stemming the heavy heat and wafting upon them a sweetness from the fields of blooming spore heads. The thorny flowered stalks pushed above the roll of weed, jostled sluggishly by the current. They looked like white-haired old men, skeletally thin, shaking their heads at the sorry state of the wooden intruder into their midst. But these flower-headed men remained their only companions. The weed hid all else below.