wandering Wyr-lord was collecting alchemies and Grace-tainted herbs and stumbled into a hinter-village down in the Eighth Land. He discovered an old piece of hide, tacked in an elder’s home, a revered talisman. Upon the hide, inked in a blood that was rich in wild Graces, were words written in ancient Littick. None could read it, not even the elder, though he recognized it as God’s Tongue. The Wyr-lord deciphered it easily enough, but more importantly he read the sigil at the bottom, the mark of their long-lost rogue.”
“This sigil?” Dart asked. “It was his name?”
Krevan glanced to her, studied her a moment, then nodded.
Dart swallowed. When younger, she had wondered about her mother and father, fabricated elaborate stories for why she had been abandoned at the doorstep of a school in Chrismferry. Only after learning her true heritage did she allow those dreams to die away, strangled by the horror of the truth. Since then, she had tried not to dwell upon it. Easier to be lost in her training and duties than face her blasted birthright.
But now…
Krevan crossed to the cold hearth, dipped a finger in ash, and scrawled two Littick symbols on the stone wall.
Rogger stepped closer. “Keorn,” he read aloud with a frown.
Dart mouthed the name silently herself. The weight of it added substance to what was once only vague shadow. Her father. She held back a shudder-sensing that it might shake her apart.
Rogger turned his back on the markings. “It is rare for a rogue to hold his name. Usually the ravings burn away such memories. Even some of our esteemed Hundred-like the Huntress-had forgotten their names by the time they settled, lost in the burn of their initial ravings. Could this rogue simply have made up this name?”
Krevan shook his head. “Sometimes the memories will back up out of the past. But the Wyr believed it was more than that, that this one had always known his name. It went along with their belief that there was something exceptional about this rogue who birthed a daughter. It was why they approached the Black Flaggers. The trail was cold, much time had passed, and the Wyr were desperate.”
“And your rapacious guild is everywhere, from sea to mountain,” Rogger said. “Fingers and toes into all matter of trade. Who better to aid in this quest?”
“Why didn’t you warn us of this?” Tylar asked.
“At first, I was not sure where it would lead. To bind the deal required my sworn word. And even when I learned and suspected more, you were under the eye of the Wyr.”
“Eylan…” Tylar mumbled.
“Do not be so simple. The Wyr have more than just the one pair of eyes on you. Of that you can be certain. Any word sent to you would reach the Wyr.”
“So gold bought your tongue,” Rogger muttered with a scowl.
“No. Something more valuable than gold.”
“And what might that be?”
“Revelations,” Krevan said. “The Wyr promised that if I brought the skull to them they would tell me much more about the Cabal, the rogue, and the girl.”
The pirate’s eyes settled again upon Dart.
“How do you know you aren’t being played the fool?” Rogger asked. “Paid to fetch the skull with false promises.”
“Because they laid down a payment in advance. A tithing of secret knowledge. They knew more than just the name of the rogue who sired Dart. They told me who he was.”
“What do you mean?”
“You are aware of how the gods had relationships before they were sundered and their world broken. Before they arrived on the shores of Myrillia. Old pacts, old enmities. Remnants of the God War that sundered their kingdom.”
His listeners nodded. Even Dart had heard of such rumored relationships, like between Fyla and the murdered god Meeryn. The two gods had once been lovers before becoming locked into their Myrillian god-realms, doomed to be forever near, yet forever apart.
“The Wyr learned a secret about Dart’s father, one kept for the past four millennia. After Dart was born, her mother, near to raving and desperate to save her child, revealed her father’s true heritage.”
“And what might that be?”
Krevan turned full upon Tylar. “Keorn was Chrism’s son. Born before the Sundering.”
As the words struck her, Dart felt her vision narrow. The blood drained to her heels. She felt a scream building somewhere deep inside her. It was Chrism who had forged Rivenscryr. It was he who wielded the Godsword and shattered the kingdom of the gods, bringing ruin and chaos to Myrillia.
Rogger stood wide-eyed. “That would make…”
Tylar finished his thought. “Dart is Chrism’s granddaughter.”
Off by the hearth, Kathryn watched the small group tumble out of Dart’s garret. They all looked ashen, except for Krevan, whose countenance had, if anything, grown even darker.
Barrin lifted his head from a paw and disturbed the young wyld tracker who had been half-slumbering against his side. Laurelle stood up from her fireside chair.
“The skull is where?” the pirate boomed as he crossed into the room.
“Still down in Gerrod’s study,” Tylar said, following on his heels.
“We must fetch it.”
Tylar shook his head. “Argent has closed off the Masterlevels. He has fires blazing across all the lower tower floors. We dare not breach the cellars. For now, the skull is secure in Gerrod’s rooms.”
“Secure? In levels overrun by daemon knights? Someone might sense the taint of seersong in the bone, hunt it down. If we lose the skull, we lose any leverage to pry additional secrets from the Wyr.”
“Plus the Cabal might use the skull against us,” Rogger argued, siding with Krevan.
“We must attempt it!” the pirate insisted.
Kathryn stepped toward them. What new turmoil was this?
Tylar noted her approach and motioned her to his side, plainly expecting her support. She came, prepared to give it, then rankled at such assumptions. They were long past such easy alliances. Still, she was as irritated by her reaction as much as by Tylar’s.
“What is this all about?” she asked coldly.
“Krevan wishes to make an assault upon the Masterlevels. To retrieve the rogue’s skull. It seems it may be more important than just a cursed talisman. But to breach the cellars may lay all of Tashijan open to what gathers below. Even Gerrod-” Tylar glanced around the room. “Where’s the master?”
“Off to do your bidding. Gathering masters to repair the flippercraft.”
Tylar nodded. “That’s what we must do first. Secure the towers. Prepare for this siege. Then we can worry about an assault below.”
Kathryn turned to Krevan and Rogger. “This skull-I would hear its story in full, but tell me first, how calamitous would it be to have it fall into the clutches of the Cabal?”
“Ruin across all levels,” Krevan said. He turned to Tylar. “The Wyr have no allegiances. They would trade their secrets just as well to the Cabal.”
“And remember the ilk-beasts back in Chrismferry,” Rogger said. “The curse remains strong in those bones. If whoever created those daemons is down there with them…”
“She is,” Kathyrn answered, drawing their attention back to her.
Tylar frowned. “Kathryn?”
“Lorr awoke for a short time.” She explained all she had learned, of a deception that spanned decades, riddled throughout the tower’s history. “Castellan Mirra is down there. She has been plying treachery for decades, weakening Tashijan from on high, while corrupting its roots in secret. I’m sure even now she’s gathering a wealth of Grace from the masters’ alchemical labs, a well of power to taint and forge into dire weapons against us. Such malignant cunning will expose the skull, find recourse to use it.”
Kathryn noted Tylar had clutched the back of a chair as she related Lorr’s story. She read the growing horror in his face as he recalibrated the vast web of lies that had trapped them all here. Just as she had done earlier. She also saw the certainty firming in the gray storm of his eyes.
“Then we have no choice,” he said. “The skull must be retrieved.”
