Still, she remembered the touch of his hand on her cheek, the brush of lips on her throat, the whispered words in the dark, dreams and hopes for a future… together. A hand found her belly, rested a moment, then fell away, cold. There was one last betrayal even Tylar had never learned.
By all the Graces, he had to be guilty.
Castellan Mirra’s private hermitage lay in the north wing, overlooking the Old Garden and shaded by the twisted branches of the lone wyrmwood, a tree as old as Tashijan itself.
Kathryn found herself staring out the window, watching a tiny tick squirrel hopping from limb to limb among the dark, sodden leaves, searching for any nut yet unfallen. But already the spring buds hung from stems, heavy yet still folded. All the nuts had long since fallen. Still, Kathryn appreciated the creature’s dogged determination.
Especially in the rain.
The storm that had swept Perryl here had broken into a steady downpour, falling like a veil across the view.
Off to the side, Perryl continued relating the events and tragedies that had befallen the Summering Isles. Gerrod Rothkild had already left to gather the Council of Masters.
Two steps away, the castellan sat with her back to the window by the room’s hearth, wrapped in an old furred cloak edged in ragged ermine. Her feet rested almost in the hearth’s flames. Some said she was as old as the wyrmwood tree outside her window. But the passing of winters had not dulled her sharp intellect. She stared into the flames, nodding. Occasionally one finger would rise from her armrest with a rare question, asked in a firm, unwavering voice.
The crooked finger lifted again. “Boy, tell me about this Darjon ser Hightower, the one who sent the raven messenger.”
Perryl, clearly irked by the condescending manner of Mirra, glanced to Kathryn, drawing her attention.
Kathryn’s frown deepened, warning him to simply answer her question. One did not cross Castellan Mirra, especially when she was in such a harsh mood. She had almost refused to see them. The death of Ser Henri had struck the old castellan hard. She had retreated to her hermitage, leaving Tashijan to rule itself until the night’s ballot stones were cast and a new warden was chosen.
Perryl continued. “Ser Hightower is well respected, Your Graced. He was second in command at the Summer Mount.”
“Yet he wasn’t at Meeryn’s side when she was murdered.”
“No. Duty had called him to another isle on that dreadful night.”
Mirra nodded, studying the dance of flames in the hearth. “And now he seeks vengeance.”
“He leads a contingent of castillion guards aboard a fleet of corsairs. They scour the southern seas for Tylar’s track. They believe he’s escaped into the Deep.”
Kathryn spoke softly. “If he’s reached the open ocean, then there is no telling where he might head. All the Nine Lands will be open to hide him.”
“But he will be welcome among none of them,” Perryl said. “Word has spread among the Hundred. All the god-realms know of his crime.”
“He could always flee to one of the hinterlands,” Kathryn contended. “He could hide forever in one of those godless lands.”
“Perhaps,” Mirra said. “But even within the hinterlands, there are gods.”
“Mere rogues,” Kathryn answered. “Vile creatures, maddened and raving.”
Mirra stared into the hearth. “Such were our own Hundred… before they settled the various realms so many millennia ago.”
Kathryn cocked an eyebrow. What is the castellan implying? There seems some hidden meaning hinted here.
Silence settled around the room.
“Tylar must be found,” the old castellan finally stated, as if she had decided something to herself.
“He will be,” Perryl said. “Already Ser Hightower is closing a net over the southern seas.”
“A net that will surely drown our godslayer,” Mirra said. “That must not happen. He must be protected.”
“Why?” Perryl asked, as surprised as Kathryn.
“Tylar is not guilty,” Mirra said with rasping authority.
Kathryn stepped closer, unable to hide her shock. “I don’t understand. He fled his accusers, he called forth a daemon… pirates shield him. Are these the actions of an innocent man?”
Mirra shifted in her seat. Her eyes locked on Kathryn’s. “They are the actions of a man accustomed to betrayal and false accusations.”
Kathryn went cold inside. “What are you saying?”
Mirra settled back to her chair. It was a long time before she spoke, and when she did her tongue was slow with regret. “There are words I fear to share… but I see no other course. I am too old for
this burden alone. It broke Ser Henri, and he was stronger than I.”
Kathryn crossed gazes with Perryl, but neither spoke, allowing Mirra the space to reveal what troubled her.
The old castellan fixed each of them with her sharp gaze, weighing their resolve. Her eyes settled on Kathryn, softening slightly. “Do you still love him?”
“Who?”
“Your former betrothed.”
Kathryn’s brows pinched. “Tylar… I… no, of course not. That was buried long ago.”
Mirra turned away and whispered to the flames, “What’s buried is not always lost…” She stared into the fire for several breaths before speaking again. “What I tell you next is no kindness. In many ways, it is a cruelty that shames me, and worse still, shames the memory of Ser Henri.”
“Nothing can make me think ill of Ser Henri,” Kathryn said. In many ways, the old warden had been the father she never knew. She had been born to and abandoned by a sell-wench on the streets of Kirkalvan.
Mirra seemed deaf to her. “Shame no longer matters. Time runs too short for pride. I tell you these words now on the eve of the winnowing, on the last day I will wear the emblem of the castellan.” Mirra fingered the diamond seal pinned under her chin. “By midnight, a new warden will be chosen and, as you well know, the outcome is almost certain.”
Though Perryl looked confused, Kathryn understood. As of the past two days, the faction supporting Argent ser Fields had become firmly entrenched in the lead, pinning down a majority through old ties, pacts, and bonds. He was a fit leader and a strong spokesman, having served on many and varied boards. Even Kathryn had chosen to cast her ballot stone in his direction.
“What does any of this have to do with Tylar?”
Mirra’s eyes took on a faraway glaze that was both tired and angry. “Half a decade ago, your betrothed had been a minor piece in a larger game, tossed aside after he was no longer of use. And while Tylar was not entirely blameless for his actions, neither was he guilty of the bloody crimes for which he was accused. He set in motion- blindly though it might have been-a series of events that almost brought down Ser Henri. To preserve the Order of Tashijan, to protect it from darker forces, Tylar had to be sacrificed.”
Kathryn’s legs went weak with her words. As thunder echoed through the castle walls, she found herself leaning on a table for support. “Then the murder of the cobbler’s family…?”
Mirra shook her head. “Their blood does not stain his hands.”
Kathryn felt the room’s walls close in. Darkness oiled the corners of her vision. Innocent.. he was innocent…
Mirra sighed. “Now, I don’t understand Tylar’s role in this new gambit. Was it mere chance, a twist of fate, or are there darker currents at play? In any case, it proves even a broken pawn can arise again and shake the board, rattle the play of the game.”
Kathryn shook her head, trying to clear her mind. “What game are you talking about?” Anger flared, hardening her tone. “Tell me!”
Mirra remained unmoved, a stone against Kathryn’s fury. “Even I don’t know all the plots and contrivances. I doubt even Ser Henri knew, and he was the wisest of us all. But he believed the struggle waged behind the walls of Tashijan was only an echo of a larger war brewing outside.”
“Then start here first,” Kathryn said.
