Yaellin touched Dart’s shoulder, attempting to reassure her.
With the entire upper city scouted by guards-both castillion forces and footmen brought up from the lower garrisons-it was no longer safe in the streets.
A handful of Shadowknights, in service to Chrism, haunted dark corners. But Kathryn and Yaellin had no trouble sidestepping or dispatching them. They were young, fresh to their cloaks. Still, it was lucky Chrism kept so few knights in residence, what with the city so close to Tashijan.
Kathryn looked grim as Rogger and Eylan descended the stone wall, the last of their group. Tylar knew her worry. He had also noted the patch worn by one of the knights, knocked senseless by Yaellin. It had been sewn to his inner cloak. A crimson circle bisected by a cross of flames.
The Fiery Cross.
Kathryn had grown silent since the discovery. Still, Tylar could read her fears. How far had the Cross spread? How deeply in collusion were they with all these dark happenings?
For now, Tashijan would have to wait.
Gerrod, who had been studying the gloomy myrrwood, turned to Yaellin. “You’re sure you can find your way back to where the blood ritual took place?”
The knight nodded and pointed.
Gerrod had proposed using this time, while attention was diverted to the search of the streets, to investigate Chrism’s sanctuary in the wood. His plan seemed wise. None would suspect they’d hole up in the dark woods, under Chrism’s very nose. Still, now faced with the myrrwood and knowing the corruption at its heart, doubts rose. It was plain in all their faces. Perhaps this wasn’t the safest place to hide.
But Gerrod was right. They needed to learn more about what had happened to Chrism before they confronted or exposed him. Knowledge was their best weapon.
Once gathered, the group set off into the wood, led by Yaellin.
Tylar paced Gerrod. The master’s armor whirred and one knee had begun to squeak. “What do you hope to find at that site?” Tylar asked.
“I don’t suppose to guess,” he answered slowly. “But from the story told, the blood ritual took place at the spot where Chrism first settled to this land. I think that’s significant.”
Tylar frowned. “Why?”
Like everyone else, Tylar knew the history of Chrism’s settlement of the first god-realm. In an attempt to end the ravings that plagued him, as all the gods suffered, Chrism had bled himself into the land, fully and completely, drained empty, attempting to end his life. But death did not come. Instead, as his living blood bonded to the region, he discovered peace from the ravenings. He was the first to find such solace, but word spread. Others quickly followed, staking out their own realms. Only the rogues remained unfettered, preferring madness to confinement to one realm. But even they found themselves eventually pushed and isolated among the many stretches of raw hinterland.
“Chrism was the first to settle,” Gerrod answered. “Yet at this site, he commits dark acts. He speaks of being free, of un-fettering himself from his own realm. Could such a thing be possible? Did Chrism break his bond to the land? Has he reverted back to a rogue? Is it madness or corruption? We must search this site for any answers.”
Tylar nodded. It was a chilling thought. Chrism gone rogue.
They continued the trek in silence. Winds shook the upper tree limbs. Dried leaves fell with whispery rattles, putting everyone on edge, making it seem like the forest itself gasped and wheezed. The darkness grew to a midnight gloom. The only light came from strange luminescent berries decorating thorny bushes and palm-sized butterflits resting among the branches.
After a time, Yaellin lifted an arm and waved them to an even quieter tread. “We skirt the Heartwood. Take care we don’t wake it.”
The knight led them around in a wide arc. Tylar caught glimpses of the massive bole of the tree, the heart of the wood, corrupted and ilked like the men and women who served Chrism. Very faintly, the rustle of dried wood… or bone… whispered from that direction.
No one spoke.
They slowly passed the Heartwood and continued farther into the myrrwood. A light rain began to patter the canopy, but few drops reached the ground. They might as well have been indoors.
“Not much farther,” Yaellin said.
They paused to take a short break. Bandages were checked. All of them bore wounds, except for Gerrod, who worked on the creaking joints of his armor.
Then they set off again, moving more slowly, eyes wary for any ilk-beasts still lurking here after the ritual. But the woods appeared empty. The hunt out in the streets still occupied Chrism’s minions.
But for how long?
“There!” Yaellin said.
He pointed toward a pair of stone pillars in the middle of a glade of massive trunks. The branches overhead wove together to form a massive raftered roof. A few drizzling streams wormed through the canopy and tinkled to small pools of rainwater.
They waited at the edge for Kathryn and Yaellin to make a complete circuit of the glade. All seemed quiet. A faint smell of old woodsmoke hung in the air. Tylar spotted a circle of fire pits, dug into the ground, gone cold.
Yaellin and Kathryn reappeared.
“No one’s about,” Kathryn said.
“I found some spoor,” Yaellin said with thick distaste. “Ilk-beast. But nothing fresher than two bells. I think we’re alone.”
“For the moment,” Kathryn said. “We’d best make a fast inspection, then find a less conspicuous place to ride out the storm and decide what course to pursue next.”
As if agreeing with her, thunder grumbled distantly.
Tylar led the others into the glade, aiming for the twin pillars. They were white granite, etched with yellow lichen, and half overgrown with vines that were now brown and dead.
Despite all that had occurred, Tylar could not help but feel a bit of reverence for this site. Here is where the present age of Myrillia had begun, the longest stretch of sustained order and relative peace. Chrism might be corrupted now, but his great sacrifice here four thousand years ago could neither be dismissed nor belittled.
Tylar walked around the pillars. Here Chrism had himself bound, cut at throat, groin, and wrist. He bled himself in despair, refusing the very madness that now consumed him. He sought an end, but instead found a beginning.
What had happened?
Gerrod knelt between the pillars. He dug up a handful of soil. Tylar twinged a bit at the violation of the sacred ground. Gerrod sniffed at the soil, then replaced it with a pat.
“Fresh loam,” Gerrod mumbled. “I don’t understand. I smell no corruption.”
Tylar heard the disappointment in his voice.
“Maybe if I had more time… my alchemy tools…” He straightened up with a creak. “Nothing’s here.”
“What did you hope to find?” Tylar asked.
“Proof for what we must claim. Who will believe Chrism is corrupt? You heard on the street. Those who saw the ilk-beasts believe we are their masters. We’re also blamed for the flippercraft’s crash and the subsequent damage to the lower holds of the castillion. But if we could’ve shown this spot to be corrupted…” He shook his head. “I’m sorry. I led you all out here for nothing.”
Kathryn laid a hand on his shoulder. “We needed to hide, to regroup. No harm is done.”
“I had hoped maybe the Godsword was here,” Gerrod continued, crestfallen. “If Yaellin could find no sign of it in the High Wing, maybe it had been sequestered here.”
“I searched here, too,” Yaellin said. “There is no sword.”
“Chrism must keep it with him,” Tylar said.
A new voice interrupted them, coming from around the edge of Kathryn’s cloak. “I… I don’t understand.”
Kathryn turned, revealing Dart. She stood near one of the pillars.
“What is it?” Tylar asked.
She pointed to the ground. “There’s a sword stuck in the dirt right there.”
