cellars!”
Tylar hurried forward. While he had questioned the boy Brant, he had sent Kathryn ahead to meet with Argent, to lay the foundation for their request. She was supposed to have softened him by the time Tylar arrived.
Plainly that was not the case.
“Why didn’t you tell me about this skull when it was first brought here?” Argent boomed. “Such a darkly Graced item threatens all of us!”
Tylar reached the door and stopped at the threshold. Two knights drifted out of alcoves to either side, ready to hold him off, but when they spotted his bared face, they recognized him and hesitated.
Inside, Kathryn stepped to the scarred table that stretched the length of the room. It was across this same board that countless strategies had been construed and treaties signed, sometimes in blood. Around the room rose the ancient Stacks, massive scaffolding and shelves, buttressed by ladders, where maps of all the Nine Lands were stored, going back millennia, some said even before the Sundering. A more current chart of Tashijan had been tacked to the broad table with daggers. Additional rolled sheaves littered the top, all but forgotten during the heated exchange.
Kathryn continued. “We didn’t understand the full power of the skull until Master Rothkild examined it and discovered the cursed Grace locked within its bones.” She leaned on the table, palms down. “Either way, now is not the time to cast blame. Best we retrieve the skull before the force below becomes entrenched or discovers such a powerful talisman within their grasp.”
Argent scowled at her. “Who would lead such a sortie?”
Tylar stepped across the threshold. “I would.”
All eyes turned to him.
“I will take a small force below, armed with sword and flame. We’ll assault Master Rothkild’s study and be out in half a bell.”
Argent straightened, his one eye narrowing.
Beyond him, the fieldroom overlooked the tourney fields at the foot of Stormwatch, but for now the great windows were shuttered tight against the blizzard, except for one narrow pane. Movement beyond revealed a knight under a heavy cloak, posted on the small balcony to maintain a watch on the whirling storm that trapped them here.
To either side, the innermost circle of Tashijan lined the table: knights of the highest station, including Swordmaster Yuril, heads of house and livery, like Keeper Ryngold, and several members of the Council of Masters, the last bolstered by the wide girth of Hesharian.
Argent finally spoke. “We thank you for your offer, regent, but surely one of your stature should best be kept with our other guests high in the tower, where you can be protected. Such a raid, if permitted, would best be carried out by knights of the Order.”
“As I recall, I was invited here to be so included in said Order, to be granted cloak and sword. Or was the offer merely feigned?”
The warden’s lips thinned to sharp, unforgiving lines.
“Also,” Tylar continued, “we know the skull, tainted by seersong, can twist Grace to its will. I’ve already proven my resistance to its corruption, so who better to lead?”
Kathryn cast Tylar a withering look. She had not wanted to further split their towers with petty bickering. And here they were, already baring teeth like dogs. While Tylar recognized the wisdom in her cause, Argent seemed to draw the bile from him like no other. And from the flint in the other’s eye, there was little hope of a peaceful settlement here.
The impasse was broken by a most unexpected ally.
A figure stepped out of the shadow of Hesharian’s moon. “I believe the regent speaks wisely, and his design should be considered.” It was the elderly visitor from Ghazal.
Argent swung toward him.
But the aged figure seemed unfazed, his eyes perhaps too clouded to note the fire in the warden’s. Tylar guessed the fortitude arose more from a steely disinterest in the warden.
Ignoring even a pinch on his sleeve by Master Hesharian, he continued, “Such a talisman, removed from below, may serve to protect us. Dark Grace is woven tightly around us-from the storm without and the daemons below. If we masters could find a way to tap in to the seersong, perhaps we could forge a weapon against the forces that gather. To turn their Grace against them.”
A calculating glint of understanding reflected in Argent’s eye. “Get them to dance to our song.”
Hesharian chimed in, now that he risked nothing by taking a position. “Wise all around. It is good fortune that I had summoned Master Orquell to attend here.”
The ancient mage seemed little moved. He kept his focus on the warden. “And with such a ward against black Grace in our hands, who knows what other black acts might be reversed?”
Argent met the other’s gaze. Tylar knew the Ghazalian master had been summoned in an attempt to break the dark spell that had frozen Argent’s swordsworn brother to stone. Here the master offered one more argument for securing the skull, one with a more personal stake for the warden.
Tylar knew the matter was settled before the warden turned back to him.
“You believe you can get below and back again with the skull?” Argent asked.
“If we are delayed no longer.”
Argent’s eye narrowed. “I’ll send you with enough knights to guard the door below, to keep a fire blazing. You’ll have a single bell. Longer than that, we’ll know you’re corrupted. The way will be sealed.”
It was as much of a concession as Tylar could hope for from the warden. He stared at Argent in his one eye and nodded.
Kathryn turned from the table. Tylar was the only one to note her relieved sigh. She followed him back to the door and out.
Behind them, Argent barked orders, staging his end of the assault.
They would have only a moment of privacy.
Kathryn stopped him halfway toward the stair. “Be careful. I don’t trust that new master.”
He nodded. “We’ll have to worry about that after I retrieve the skull.”
In a lower voice, she asked, “What of the boy? Was he able to cast any light upon the skull’s origin?”
“More than you could imagine.” He didn’t have time to go into his story at length, and he feared speaking of the boy’s black stone, gifted to him by the very god whose skull lay below. “He’s coming with us.”
Thinking upon it, he was glad he had not been more stubborn about permitting him to come. Best to bring the skull and stone together well out of sight of that strange master.
Kathryn looked on inquiringly, but trusted him enough not to press. He squeezed her arm. “I must go.”
For a moment, their eyes met. A flicker of something conflicted flashed across her features. But before he could pin it down, it vanished, replaced with worry and the weight of their situation.
“Come back,” she said.
He let go of her arm. “I will.”
He set off, hoping it was a promise he could keep.
Brant shifted back as the heavy iron bar was lifted from the gate. It was the last of three. The wyrmwood gate itself was constructed of massive planks, woven like cloth under an alchemy of Grace and banded in more iron. Rogger had explained its history, how it was placed at the threshold to the Masterlevels shortly after the founding of Tashijan.
“Some said to keep any wild Grace from escaping the master’s subterranean dungeons…others because the knights had not truly trusted those first masters, men who dabbled with the Grace of gods. The knights were ready to bottle them up if necessary. And maybe they weren’t half wrong. Look where we are now.”
But all had gone silent by the time the last bar was shoved free.
Everyone held their breath.
Giant braziers flanked both sides, roaring with fire. Torches as thick around as Dralmarfillneer’s thigh encircled the walls and continued down the tall halls, all the way to the great doors that led from Stormwatch into the outer bailey.
Brant wiped his brow on his sleeve. The very air steamed from the many flames. But he did not
