“I had my reasons. But I did not kill that family of cobblers on Esterberry Street.”
“Your sword was found there.”
Tylar faced Perryl. “Do I look a child killer to you any more than a godslayer?”
“No, but then again, I never imagined you a trafficker in repostilaries.”
Tylar turned his back on the Shadowknight. With even that one crime, he had broken his knightly vows. It was reason enough to have been stripped of his Graces and cast out of the Order, but the crime of murder carried a heavier sentence: to be broken on the wheel, then sold into slavery.
“The caste of Gray Traders at Akkabak Harbor knew I was about to expose them. They sought to discredit me.” He glanced back to Perryl. “And they succeeded.”
“So you claimed before the adjudicators, but the soothmancers said you spoke falsely.”
He lowered his head.
“And they were not the only ones,” Perryl whispered. “Kathryn-”
Tylar swung around sharply. “Do not speak her name in my presence, Perryl. I warn you.”
The young knight did not back down. “She said you were gone from your bed that night and returned bloody to the sheets. And when asked if she believed your claims of innocence, she denied you, a fellow Shadowknight and her own betrothed.”
Tylar hardened. “I will not speak any more of this. I’ve paid for my crimes and won my freedom in the rings as was my right.”
“And what of the slaughter you’re accused of now?”
“I expect no fairer justice in this matter. I know how it must appear, so let them have me.”
“I can’t.” Perryl balled a gloved fist. “A god has been slain, not some cobbler’s family. If for no other reason than to find out how you succeeded in bringing down one of the Hundred, the Order will intervene. The truth will be known.”
“I have no faith in the Order.”
“Then have faith in me.”
Tylar saw the pain in the other’s eyes. He touched the man’s elbow. “You’ve soiled your cloak enough already, Perryl. Stay away before you’re dragged down with me.”
Perryl refused to move. “There is much you don’t know. As I warned you on the streets, these are dark and perilous times.” The young man sighed. “Have you heard about Ser Henri?”
“What of the old man?” Tylar asked cautiously.
Henri ser Gardlen was the warden of the Order, the leader of Tashijan for as long as Tylar could remember. He ruled the Order and its council with a firm but even hand. It was only through Ser Henri’s intervention that Tylar had not been hanged for his crimes.
“He died… most strangely and suddenly.”
“By all the Graces, how?”
“His body was found on the stairs leading up to his tower, his face a mask of horror, his fingertips burned to the first knuckle. Tashijan is keeping the details shuttered. When I left there a half-moon ago, the Order was still in chaos. Factions war behind closed doors, vying for the seat of succession. I can only hope matters have settled to deal with the tragedy here.”
Tylar stood, stunned.
“But that is not all. Strangeness abounds across all the lands. Over in the Fifth Land, Tristal of Idlewyld has gone into seclusion on his peak, cutting off all Graces to his sworn knights. Talk is that he raves. Ulf of Ice Eyrie has frozen his entire castillion, locking his court in hoarfrost. None can enter or leave. And across the Meerashe Deep, rumors abound of a mighty hinter-king rising on the Seventh Land, threatening to break out into the neighboring god-realms.”
Tylar shook his head. “I’ve heard none of this.”
“Few have. The tidings are scattered and scarce. Perhaps they are merely a spate of bad fortune, but now this.” He glanced to the doorway. “Ten days ago, Meeryn sent a raven to Tashijan and requested a blessed courier.”
“You?”
Perryl nodded. “It was my honor.”
Tylar touched his brow in thought. Once gods settled to a land, they were rooted to it, requiring intermediaries to carry their messages between them. Only the most important messages were born by the sworn couriers of the Order.
“I don’t know how Meeryn’s death ties to all this,” Perryl continued. “But I sense dark currents in the tides of the world. Something is stirring down deep, out of sight.”
“And you think it struck here? To silence Meeryn?”
“It seems an extraordinary coincidence that she summons a courier, and on the very day I step on this island, she is slain.” Perryl reached to Tylar, touching his hand. “If you spoke the truth about that awful night, then Meeryn blessed you for some reason, healed you with the last of her Grace. She must have championed you for some purpose.”
“I don’t know. Perhaps it was simply a final kindness for the man who comforted her during her last breath.” He remembered the swell of Grace into him. His fingers wandered unbidden to the center of his chest, where she had touched him.
“Did she say anything to you in those last moments?”
Tylar dropped his fingers and shook his head-then realized he was mistaken. “Wait.” He focused back to Perryl. “She did say one thing. But it made no sense.”
“What was it?”
He struggled to remember the exact pronunciation. “Riven… scryr.”
Perryl’s eyes pinched.
“Does that mean anything to you?”
Perryl shook his head. “I… I’ve never heard of such a name.” He backed a step, looking slightly paler. “But perhaps the scholars at Tashijan or in Chrismferry will know better. I should be going. There is much to arrange before I leave, much to ponder.”
As Perryl turned away, Tylar reached out to the edge of his friend’s cloak, but he dared not let his fingers soil it. The young Shadowknight fixed his masklin in place and studied his former teacher. “Be safe, ser.”
Tylar let his arm drop. “And you,” he mumbled.
“Until our cloaks touch again,” Perryl said, then vanished away.
These last words were a common farewell among knights. Tylar turned to face his dank cell with its steaming chamber pot and snoring guest. Even fit and hale again, he felt like no knight.
The door slammed behind him, and the bar was shoved in place. The dungeonkeep grumbled something about his clothes, but he didn’t dare ask for them back. Tylar wondered how long such protection would last once Perryl was gone.
Rogger groaned and rolled to face Tylar. “Talkative fellow, that tall dark one.” The thief must have been feigning sleep the entire time. “A friend of yours?”
Tylar settled to the mound of lice-ridden straw that was his bed. “Once… and maybe still.”
Rogger sat up. “He had much to say… and little else of real worth to offer.”
“What do you mean?” Tylar’s attention drew sharply toward the bearded and branded fellow. He spoke more keenly than earlier. Even his manner seemed more refined.
“As a pilgrim, I’ve journeyed far and wide. I’ve heard, too, of the dark tidings of which the young knight spoke. And not only in halls and castillions through which your once-and-maybe-again friend walked, but in those many places where the sun doesn’t shine as bright.”
His speech suddenly thickened again, his manner roughened, hunching a bit. “Th’art many a low tongue that’ll wag to a whipped dog that won’t speak to a lordling or maid.”
Tylar knew this true enough himself. The underfolk kept many secrets unto themselves.
“Then again,” Rogger continued, “there are many in high towers who speak freely at their castillion door, blind to the ragged pilgrim on their doorstep.” A sly glint blew bright in his eye. “Or on the floor of a cell.”
It seemed sleep was not the only thing this thief had been feigning. There was more to the man than first impressed. “Who are you?” Tylar asked.
