James Clemens - Shadowfall

“He took one of our windmares,” Kathryn said, remembering the man’s urgency. He had needed speed to return to Chrismferry, borrowing an air-graced horse.

“And he rode in on the same,” Gerrod commented. “One by the name of Swifttail. This detail, of course, the stableman happened to note. He might miss a man’s name, but such a blessed bit of horseflesh would not escape his eye.”

“And how does this help us?”

Gerrod stepped to the table and picked at a piece of hard cheese left from her midday meal. He raised a brow inquiringly, asking permission.

“It seems what you bought in gold I must pay in cheese,” Kathryn said.

He cut a chunk and gingerly used his armored fingers to nibble at its edge. He washed it down with his wine, sighing contentedly, then continued. “It is lucky that Swifttail’s heritage was well-known to our stableman. His knowledge of all the First Land’s horseflesh is quite extensive. He spent most of a morning reciting Swifttail’s lineage.”

“And where does this lineage lead us?”

“To a stable as distinguished as our own. A private stable.”

“In Chrismferry.”

“Indeed… at the Conclave of Chrismferry to be exact.”

“The school?” The Conclave was the oldest and most illustrious of Myrillia’s institutes of training for young handmaidens and — men. Many of the Council of Masters had once taught there or still consulted.

“And the Conclave has only one healer in residence,” Gerrod said. “A fellow by the name of Paltry. I did some investigation and found he matched young Penni’s description of Castellan Mirra’s night visitor: black haired, fair of features.”

Kathryn narrowed one eye. “Healer Paltry. Why does that name sound familiar?”

“He also serves as the private physik to the High Wing of Chrism. You may remember hearing how the man saved several of his Hands from the pox scourge that struck the city two years ago.”

Kathryn nodded. “Of course. And now you think it was this healer who brought the bloodied swath to Castellan Mirra.”

“I am confident he is the one.”

“But why? To what end?”

“That’s something that will require further investigation in Chrismferry.”

“I can send a cadre of knights-”

“And alert all of Tashijan, including Warden Fields.” The name was spoken with a thick scowl. Fields had been instituting changes throughout the Citadel, not all well received. He had trimmed control of the Council of Masters, giving Master Hesharian powers to dictate without a quorum from the rest of the council. Power was concentrating into fewer and fewer hands, and all of those under the thumb of Argent ser Fields.

“What do you propose then?” Kathryn asked.

“There is an early-morning flippercraft headed to Chrismferry. I hope to be aboard it. I’ll make an excuse of needing to consult the libraries in the city. Once there, I can make some discreet inquiries, see if I can trace the source and reason for this strange visitation by Healer Paltry.”

Kathryn shook her head. “I don’t want you to go alone. You’ll need an escort.”

“I can fend for myself. And I am armored.” He tapped a fist on his thigh with a clank.

“No.” A firm tone entered her voice. “I want a sword at your side and someone who knows how to use it. You’ll take Perryl with you. To lessen suspicion, I can send him as courier to the court at Chrismferry. As castellan, I have some authority.”

“At least for the moment,” Gerrod countered dourly.

She sighed and glanced to the door, sensing the tracker and beast at her threshold. “He keeps me on a short enough tether as it is. And once Tylar is captured”-her voice caught in her throat-“or killed, my use to the warden will end.”

“I’m not so sure,” Gerrod said more softly. “He eyes you most salaciously at times. I think his plans for you don’t end with Tylar’s capture.”

Kathryn remembered Argent’s talk in his chambers, a hint at some possible union between them. For the good of Tashijan… and in turn for all of Myrillia. Such had been his rhetoric these past days as new laws were posted to doors and common rooms, justifying the concentration of power. And she was no exception.

“Perhaps Perryl should stay at your side,” Gerrod said.

Kathryn rested her hand on the diamond pommel of her sword. “I have a blade… and know how to use it.”

Gerrod reached and took her hand from her sword. “Still, beware. Trust no one, not even your fellow knights. Shadowcloaks are good at hiding one’s heart as well as form.”

She reached and hugged him. “You should take the same advice in Chrismferry. It seems something foul is at work there… something that struck at the heart of Tashijan.”

“Not just Tashijan,” Gerrod mumbled and broke the embrace. He raised his helmet. “Perhaps its reach extended as far as the Summering Isles.”

Kathryn studied the bronze figure. “The slaying of Meeryn? You think it’s all tied together?”

“A master’s first lesson is to be suspicious of a chain of circumstance. Something stirs beneath all this. It hides behind many faces, but wears only one.”

Kathryn felt the chill of certainty in his words.

“Hopefully I’ll learn more from Healer Paltry.” Gerrod bowed his head. “Step carefully, Kathryn.”

“And you do the same.”

The bullhound growled, crouched at a cross passage ahead.

Kathryn stopped at an arm raised by Tracker Lorr. “Barrin smells something,” the wyldman said. “Stay here.”

Kathryn felt no fear. One bullhound or the other was always scenting something. It made for crossing from one end of Tashijan to the other a major undertaking, full of sudden stops and hissed warnings. But she had wanted to hand the courier message to Perryl herself. She carried it in the inner pocket of her shadowcloak, sealed with wax, imprinted with the castellan’s mark. She had spent the afternoon composing the letter, addressing it to the one person she most trusted in Chrismferry. He would be able to assist Perryl and Gerrod in their inquiries.

Kathryn glanced to the bit of sky shining through a high window. The sun was close to setting already. At this rate, by the time she got the letter into Perryl’s hands, he would miss the dawn flippercraft.

Behind her, the hulking mass of the other bullhound filled half the corridor. Hern kept watch on their trail. How they could smell anything beyond the rangy reek of their own pelts and fetid breath was a mystery.

Lorr moved to Barrin’s side. The tracker’s amber eyes narrowed. His loose hair was secured behind his ears with a strap of leather. He had a pair of blades out, one in each hand. Kathryn had seen him impale a rat at a hundred paces, a tidbit of fresh meat for his companions. He scouted the crossing of passages.

Kathryn leaned against a wall. There was no use protesting such caution. Tracker Lorr had been given his duty by Warden Fields. He would brook no other authority.

He waved her forward. “Clear.” Lorr sniffed the air. Bred to be a tracker in the ancient forests of Idlewyld, he had been blessed with Grace, his senses of smell heightened by air, his skill at woodlore gifted by loam. He cocked his head high, his profile clearly showing the slight protuberance of the lower half of his face as he scented the air.

“There’s an old trail of blood through here,” he said. “I would’ve missed it if not for Barrin here. Someone was killed nearby. Murder, I’d say, from the tang of fear in the air.”

Kathryn moved to his side. “How old is the trail?”

“No older than the turn of one moon.” He glanced back at her.

Kathryn studied the crossroad of corridors. Her first worry was for Castellan Mirra. “Are you certain?”