James Clemens: Hinterland

Kyllan hurried toward them, his own sword raised.

Behind them, a small cheer rose from the guards outside the shop, announcing their own victory over the winged ilk-beast.

Delia stepped to Tylar’s side. “Your blade…”

As expected, Tylar held only a hilt in his hand. The sword’s blade was gone. Not melted away. Vanished. It was the curse of the Godsword. The blade was allowed only one blessed strike, then it vanished, needing to be whetted back into existence by a rare source: the blood of an unsundered god.

But for the moment such a rebirth would have to wait.

Tylar turned to Rogger. “We have to get that skull of yours out of Chrismferry as quickly as possible.”

“Why’s that?”

“Someone knows you brought it here. The attack was not random.” Tylar explained about Kreel. “They had to be after the skull.”

Rogger blanched. “But how did they discern my arrival so quickly? I’ve just touched soil for the first time in days.”

“I don’t know.”

Tylar glanced at Delia. As a servant to the gods for many years, she had been schooled in all matters of Grace, far better than either of them. But she merely shook her head. This was beyond even her knowledge. Only one place could possibly unravel this mystery.

“We need to get the skull to Tashijan,” Tylar said. “For study, for answers.”

Rogger’s brows drew together warily.

Tashijan, while home to the Order of Shadowknights and the esteemed Council of Masters, remained a place of divided loyalties. The warden, Argent ser Fields, still bore strong animosities toward Tylar’s regency and for the man himself. But they had fierce allies there also: Kathryn ser Vail, the castellan of Tashijan, and Gerrod Rothkild, one of the most learned of the subterranean masters. The skull would be safe in their care, behind the towering walls of Tashijan.

But how to get it there?

“I must travel to Tashijan myself in seven days’ time,” Tylar said. “To regain my knighthood and my place among the Order. But I fear waiting so long before investigating the meaning of this cursed skull. It would be well to have answers by the time I reached there.”

“I can travel overland,” Rogger said. “I still have many friends in shadowed corners. Best I disappear again. Let no one know my path except my own ears. I can send a note by raven once behind those stout walls.”

Tylar nodded. “And we’ll meet again in seven days.”

Rogger still hesitated. “My whole story will have to wait ’til then. It is too long to tell as the night wanes. But I must tell you of one other concern.”

Tylar nodded for him to continue, but Rogger drew him aside first, away from Kyllan, even away from Delia again.

“What is it?” Tylar asked once they were alone.

“The skull…I told you I found it in Saysh Mal, but what I didn’t have time to tell was that someone else sought the skull. Someone only a step behind my own.”

“Who was it?”

“That’s just it. It makes no sense.”

“Who?”

“I only saw his face from a distance. At night. A shadowy face painted in ash.”

“One of the Black Flaggers?” Such was the custom among the pirates and brigands who trafficked in all matters that shunned the light of day. They blackened their faces with ash to hide their features.

Rogger nodded. “I was able to capture a message, one sent by wing, but it was cursed. Burned in my fingers before I could read it fully. All I had time to discern was to whom it was addressed.”

Tylar waited.

“The letter had been intended for Krevan.”

Tylar was stung by the words. Krevan was one of their closest allies. A former shadowknight-the famous Raven ser Kay of old-he had been fiercely loyal to Tylar and their cause to free Chrismferry. But the knight had vanished after the Battle of Myrrwood, disappearing back into obscurity. Tylar had suspected he had returned to his role as leader of the Black Flaggers. But what new subterfuge was this? Why would Krevan be looking for the skull, too?

Judging by Rogger’s expression, he had no answers either.

Tylar ached to hear Rogger’s full story, but such tales would have to wait.

“How long will it take you to reach Tashijan?” Tylar asked.

“Two days-if I follow the most circumspect route.”

“I will send a raven to Kathryn to tell her to expect you then.”

“Maybe it would be best if I just surprise her,” Rogger said with a raised brow. “Ravens have a way of being lured astray.”

Tylar quickly gathered everyone outside the shop. He turned to Rogger for one last word, but the thief was already gone, vanished into the Blight without even a farewell.

Tylar shook his head as Delia slipped to his side.

“Will he be safe?” Delia asked, worried for their friend.

Tylar took her hand. Once again he had no answer. And a greater fear loomed in his heart. Would Rogger be any safer once he reached Tashijan?

Would any of them?

Dart hurried down the spiraling flight of stairs. The fourth morning bell had already rung, echoing through the throat of Stormwatch Tower. As she ran, she hiked the edge of her cloak to keep from tripping.

Mustn’t be late…not again.

Pupp kept pace with her. Her ghostly companion trotted and bounded ahead down the steps, his fiery tongue lolling in the excitement of it all. His form passed through legs and cloaks, unimpeded and unsensed. Nobody could see Pupp, and only stone was solid enough to block his passage.

Dart was not so lucky.

At this hour, the central stair was crowded, thwarting her progress. Messengers dashed about in blue livery, burdened with clutched scrolls or shouldered satchels, as frantic to climb as Dart was to descend. The occasional Masters, their bald and tattooed heads bowed together, moved more sedately, rocks in the flowing stream of activity.

But most of those who shared the stairs were of Dart’s own caste: pages in their half cloaks, squires in their hoods, and towering over all, a jumbling crowd of full-blessed shadowknights. Dart’s brethren marched the stairs in all manner of moods. Some were cloaked and buried in matters that weighted their shoulders; others wore bits of bright colors, enjoying the freedom here. Only in Tashijan could knights walk bare-faced, free of their black cloaks and muffling masklins.

Here was their home.

And it had been Dart’s for going on a full turn of seasons.

Laughter and whispers, shouts and curses, accompanied Dart down the tower toward the practice yard. With the retinue from Chrismferry due in another four days and the festivities to follow, knights had been gathering back home, packing the place full. Even the outlying sections of the sprawling Citadel, long abandoned, had been reoccupied, swelling the ranks.

Along with the bustle came a thousand requests, suggestions, complaints, threats, and bribes, all rising like smoke to the castellan’s private hermitage at the top of the tower. And since Dart served as page to Castellan Vail, her duties had also multiplied, leaving little time for routine.

Like her training practice.

She carried a wooden sword tied to her waist. It was a far cry from the handsome swords of the truly knighted, those rare blades adorned with the black diamonds on their pommels. Still, hers was long enough to bump against her side and threaten to trip her at every step.

At last she reached the bottom of the wide stairs and broke into the cavernous hall beyond. She kept near the wall, skirting the milling crowds in the center.

“Hothbrin!”

She almost didn’t recognize the barked name, not even after a full year here. Then again, it was not really her name. Born an orphan, she had no surname. Only Dart, after the yellow and thorny dartweed that grew stubbornly between stones. Filling the void, Dart had borrowed her friend Laurelle’s family name, taking it on as a mark of their deep bond-though Laurelle was far away, back at Chrismferry, continuing to serve as the Hand of tears for the new regent, Tylar ser Noche.