the broken holes. “Strike with the Godsword!”
Tylar ran at the writhing naethryn. He dragged Rivenscryr from its sheath and lifted it high, cradling its hilt in both fists.
One strike. That would be all he had.
Tylar tapped the last of the Grace in Kathryn’s cloak. With a will borne of blood and shadow, Tylar leaped at the naethryn. Chrism’s legs attempted to kick him away. Tylar twisted in midair. A spur caught him in the thigh, but it was too late.
Tylar struck the monster and drove the blade clean through the monster’s chest, through the heart of the naethryn.
Chrism racked, throwing Tylar back.
He tumbled away, hitting the stone hard.
A wail shattered through the room. Torches were blown out. Darkness fell. Tylar scrambled backward.
But glow pods quickly rose from the many holes and cracks in the floor. It was one of those same pods that Tylar had spotted in the river’s current earlier.
Light returned.
Chrism still hung among the weeds, panting heavily, wrapped tight in vines. The beast no longer fought. The sword hilt rested square in the center of the chest.
His fiery black eyes sought Tylar, then Fyla.
“Meeryn’s lover,” Chrism spat, blood flowing from his lips.
Fyla remained silent. She stood naked, resting atop one of her weed pads.
Instead, Tylar, gaining his feet, spoke. His left thigh was on fire, but he ignored it. “It is not only man that will hold this line,” he said coldly and certainly. “We are not alone. Bring this war if you will, but it will not be only a War of Gods… but a War of Gods and Man.”
Chrism writhed again, but the weeds dug deeper into his flesh. “You have not slain me. Rivenscryr cannot harm me.”
“But it can rend your flesh,” Fyla said calmly. A tiny tendril of weed spiraled out, glowing with Grace. It reached across Chrism’s shoulder.
Chrism’s eyes widened with fear.
The fragile sprout touched the tip of the hilt.
Fires blasted outward from the impaled sword. Flesh seared and blackened. Chrism arched backward, screaming flames. His body blazed among the weeds.
Tylar watched as flesh turned to ash, falling fully away, revealing the full extent of the black naethryn. It was the form of a mighty wyrm, clawed and horned. It screamed one last time; then shape without substance dissolved, collapsing in on itself.
With a mighty clap of thunder, it was gone.
The sword tumbled from on high and clattered against the floor. It bounced and rattled, then settled to the stones.
Tylar walked up to it. The blade was still present. It had not vanished. He stared from the intact sword, to Fyla, frowning.
Her weedy pad carried her closer, dropping to the stone.
“The naethryn spoke the truth,” she said.
Tylar bent and retrieved the sword. He stared at the blade. “It did not kill him.”
“No, but he has been banished back to the naether. Without his toehold in flesh here, he could not remain in our world. And with Chrism’s body destroyed, his naethryn will never find a host that will allow him to take such perfect form again. It is a blow that the Cabal will find hard to recover from.”
Tylar stared at the flowing weed, wondering at her arrival. “How..?”
“The raven you sent upon departing Tashijan reached me, calling me to Chrismferry. I was already nearby, hugging the coast of the First Land, hoping to be of use.”
Tylar had forgotten the raven he had sent. Kathryn had sent hers to Yaellin, to alert him to meet them at the school. But his raven had been sent out to sea, to seek out Fyla.
“I had wanted you to come here only to support my claims,” Tylar said. “To speak on my behalf when I met with Chrism.”
She nodded. “But I have ears in many places. I heard of the battle as I was already flowing up the Tigre River from the coast. I came to lend my strength to this war.”
“And that you did.” Tylar held out Rivenscryr to Fyla, resting the blade across his palms. “This is the sword of the gods. You must take it.”
She raised a palm. “That was the past. Like you said to Chrism, this is no longer a war of gods alone. Man has as much stake here in Myrillia as any of us. More so, in fact. Rivenscryr now belongs to the world of man. It is yours to bear.”
“Why me?”
Fyla moved closer. She leaned out from her pad. This was not her realm. Weed and water were her home. Only the river channel allowed her to delve so far into the First Land.
She tenderly brushed Tylar’s lips, sighing between them, then pulled away. “Thank you. For Meeryn. For myself.”
Her pad lifted her up and began to slide away.
Tylar followed a step, lifting the blade. “Why me?”
She met his gaze, eyes shining with Grace, and answered him. “Because you were chosen. Because there is no other.” Her eyes glowed with sadness and sympathy. “Because you must.”
26
Dart raced down the high wing hall. sunlight blazed with the dawn of a new day. It seemed a full year had passed since that awful, bloody day, but it had been only a full moonpass. Twenty-eight days. Dart reached Laurelle’s door and knocked briskly. There was no immediate answer, so she knocked harder.
“Hold!” a shout answered her. “You’ll rattle the door right off its hinges!”
“What is taking you so long?” Dart squirmed in her new leather boots.
Pupp danced around her, matching her excitement.
Dart smoothed the lay of her velvet brown pants and snowy silk blouse. But it was the cloak she was most proud of. It was as black as any Shadowcloak and hung perfectly to her ankles. It was pinned at her throat by a black diamond.
Laurelle finally opened the door. Dart had to blink, taken aback. Laurelle was resplendent in a silver gown and a tiara of kryst jewels. Each jewel shone brilliantly against the ebony of her friend’s straight locks.
“There’s plenty of time,” Laurelle said, but even her cheeks were flushed.
“But you must be in your seat before the ceremony begins,” Dart said. “The other Hands have already left.”
Dart led the way down the hall to the back stair. The girls hurried, but a firm voice struck out behind them.
“Children! I’ll not have one of you tripping on a gown’s hem or a cloak’s edge. You’ll tumble all the way down to Tigre Hall.”
Dart slowed her step. “Sorry, Matron Shashyl.” She turned and curtsied to the portly woman. Dart had to hide a smile.
Thankfully Shashyl had been away from the keep when Chrism had ilked the guards and underfolk. She had been visiting her sick sister in Cobbleshores. She was spared, one of the few.
Matron Shashyl stepped to the door to the private stair and held it open. “Grace is not only found in humours,” she said sagely, “but also in the bearing of a young woman.”
