flesh:
Tylar eyed the sigil. It was ancient Littick. “Thief,” he read aloud. “I don’t understand. How did you end up in a dungeon on the Summering Isles, a thousand reaches from the Dell?”
Rogger finished his bowl and gingerly settled back against the wall, wincing from his whipping. “Because of you, now that I crank on it.”
“Me?”
Rogger lifted his arms and exposed the undersides. More Littick sigils lay burned into the thief’s skin, aligned in neat rows.
From his training as a Shadowknight, Tylar recognized them: all names of gods. “Balger’s punishment…” he mumbled, sickened.
“A pilgrimage,” Rogger conceded sourly.
It was a cruel judgment, and not unexpected coming from a god of Balger’s ilk. As punishment, Rogger had been marked and exiled, forced to travel from god-realm to god-realm, sentenced to collect a certain number of brands. Only after you were properly marked could you return to your home and family.
“How many gods were you assigned?”
Rogger sighed, lowering his arms. “Remember. It was against Balger I sinned.”
Tylar’s eyes grew wider. “He didn’t…”
“A full pilgrimage, no less.”
“ All the gods?”
“Every blessed one of them. All one hundred.”
Tylar finally understood why Rogger was imprisoned here. “And with Meeryn dead, you can’t complete your punishment.”
“Once I learned of her death, I tried to escape, but that’s hard to do when you’re standing between two guards, knocking on the damn gates to Meeryn’s castillion. They snatched me up, whipped me thrice for the rudeness, and tossed me in with you.”
“What’re they going to do with you?”
“The usual choices I imagine: hanging, garroting, impaling.”
They were the three standard punishments meted to a pilgrim who failed in his journeys and tried to settle somewhere else.
“I think I’ll go with hanging. Garroting is too slow, and as for impaling, I’d prefer not to have anything shoved up my arse.” He shifted uncomfortably. “ ’Course, I have a couple days to think about it. They’re still attending Her Highness up there, seeing if she’s truly dead.”
Tylar sat up straighter. “Is there hope?”
“Hope is for the rich. All we have is shite and piss. And speaking of that…” Rogger climbed and crossed to the pail that served as the room’s privy.
As the day wore on and his thievish companion stretched on the floor snoring, Tylar considered his companion’s words. Could Meeryn still be alive? If so, she could clear his name, attest to his honor, what little he still had left. But in his heart he knew better. He had seen the light fade from her eyes.
Voices echoed down the dank hall of the dungeon. Guards arguing, then the stamp of boots sounded on the stone floor. Tylar climbed to his feet, hearing them approach. Rogger continued to snore in his corner.
Shadowed faces appeared at the small barred window. “Open it!” a familiar voice ordered.
The bar was slipped with a scrape of wood, and the door swung open.
A cloaked and masked figure filled the threshold.
“Perryl,” Tylar said, trying his best to stand tall when naked and covered in filth. Healed of his hunched back, Tylar now stood a fingerbreadth taller than his former squire. He kept his arms folded, not in defiance but to half- hide the black palm print, Meeryn’s mark, that rested in the center of his chest.
Perryl’s eyes narrowed at his condition and turned to the dungeonkeep at his side. “I thought I left orders for the prisoner to be treated with care.”
“Aye we have, ser knight. We’ve not beaten him once.”
Perryl pointed to Tylar, his eyes never leaving the guard. “Give him your shirt and breeches.”
“Ser!”
“Do you defy the word of a blessed knight?” A hand settled to the diamond pommel of his sword, aglow in the sooty torchlight.
“No, ser… right away, ser.” The dungeonkeep hurriedly stripped down to his underclothes and passed the outerwear to Tylar.
“I think I was less soiled when I was naked,” Tylar grumbled as he pulled the sweat-stained jerkin over his head, but it did feel better to have some clothes on his body.
His former squire waved away the dungeon guard and waited until he was gone. Rogger had grumbled at the commotion, then curled away and was already snoring again.
Alone and private, Perryl freed his masklin, exposing a worried face. He eyed Tylar up and down, the glint of Grace bright in his gaze.
Tylar crossed his arms again. “I heard there was a deathwatch.”
Perryl nodded and paced the floor, parts of him slipping into and out of shadow as his cloak reflected its owner’s agitation. “Seven days. It ends this night, when the lesser moon’s face touches the greater moon.”
“And there is no hope of her reviving.”
Perryl shook his head. “Her heart is gone. The finest alchemists have tested her remaining fluids. There are no signs of Grace in any of her humours. She is as empty as any man or woman. Even decay and corruption have set in, bloating her body.”
“Then she is truly dead.”
Perryl stopped his pacing and stared hard at Tylar. “This story of some Darkly Graced beast… you swear this is the truth?”
“Yes, but I have nothing left to swear upon except the filthy body I’m wearing.”
“An unbroken body.” A twinge of suspicion laced Perryl’s words.
“Unbroken and marked.” Tylar parted his jerkin enough to expose the black fingers on his chest. “This is not a curse. Meeryn blessed me for some reason known only to her.”
“But why?” Perryl began to pace again. “It’s all impossible.”
“As impossible as a slain god?”
Tylar read the dismay in the other’s eyes. For four thousand years, ever since the time of the Sundering, none of the Hundred had ever died. Every child knew the history of Myrillia, of the madness and destruction that followed the arrival of gods to this world. It lasted three centuries until the god Chrism chose the first god-realm and imbued his Graces into the region, sharing his powers to bring order out of chaos. Other gods followed, settling various lands, bringing to bear their unique Graces.
Thus the Nine Lands were formed.
Beyond these god-realms lay only the hinterlands, spaces wild and ungoverned, where rogue gods still roamed, as untamed as their lands. Occasional rumors and stories spoke of the death of gods out there, stories of great hinter-kings who slew maddened rogues, raving creatures of dark power.
But never had one of the Hundred been slain… until now.
Perryl stared up at the lone window. Night fast approached. “Already the Isles have judged you. The word godslayer rings through the streets. Only my cloak protects you from the gallows or worse.”
“And I thank you for that.”
Perryl turned back to Tylar. “But that protection cannot last forever. A single knight’s cloak is only so thick. As the sun sets, I will board a flippercraft headed to Tashijan, to seek the counsel of the full Order on your behalf.”
“You waste Grace on such an effort,” Tylar scoffed. “The Order has no love for a fallen knight, especially me.”
“I know of your past crime. Selling repostilaries to the Gray Trade, lining your pocket with gold marches. All preposterous lies.”
Tylar shook his head. “The accusations were true.”
Perryl blinked, looking a surprised boy again. “What? How…?”
