“For the past decade, Ser Henri has fought to weed out a secretive faction within the Order. A faction that calls itself the Fiery Cross.”
Kathryn glanced to Perryl, then back to Mirra. Rumors of such a group had been bantered about for as long as Kathryn could remember: secret rites performed in the dead of night, hidden passages and chambers built into the walls, rogue members of the Order practicing the Dark Graces. But it was considered more myth than reality.
Mirra nodded. “They exist and have grown stronger and more open. Their goal: to turn the Order into more than servants to the gods and arbiters of peace. They seek to mold the Shadowknights into a warrior force, mercenaries for hire, assassins for those with enough coin.”
“But that goes against all our oaths,” Perryl said sternly.
“Oaths can be changed,” Mirra answered simply and added cryptically, “as they have been in the distant past.”
Kathryn found her legs and moved to the hearth’s edge, needing the warmth. “And Tylar became embroiled in this struggle?”
“He was caught between the Order and the Cross, blind to the forces around him, and crushed. The murder of the cobbler’s family was laid at his feet, and in order to prove his innocence, Ser Henri would have had to expose agents loyal to him who had infiltrated the Cross, risking even more deaths. So Tylar was sentenced to banishment and slavery. All Ser Henri could do was beseech the overseer of the trial to keep your betrothed from the gallows, sparing his death.”
Kathryn laid a palm on her belly. Not all had been so generously spared… She lowered her hand, swallowing down the rage that burned through her. “Then who murdered the cobbler family?”
Mirra’s voice dropped to a whisper. “The same person who murdered Ser Henri.”
Perryl fell back. “It cannot be…”
Ser Henri’s death was the cause of much speculation and rumor. His body had been found on the tower stair, his face locked in pain and horror, each finger burned and blackened to the knuckle. But murder? Ser Henri dabbled in alchemies, often dealing with volatile mixtures. An experiment gone awry was the Council of Masters’ judgment on the death, though they still left the inquiry open.
Kathryn bit back her shock, fingers clenching. “Is what you say true?”
The castellan continued her vigil upon the flames. Tears shone in her eyes. “The murder cannot be proven, but I know the truth nonetheless.”
“Who was behind it?” she asked.
Mirra pulled her ermine cloak tighter around her thin form. “It was the head of the Fiery Cross… either upon his order or by his own hand. I’m sure of it.”
“And does this monster have a name?”
Again the barely perceptible nod. “Ser Henri had his suspicions, nothing that could be proven.”
Kathryn refused to accept defeat so easily. “Who was it?”
The old castellan’s next words were frail with despair. “The next warden of Tashijan… Argent ser Fields.”
Kathryn shared her evening dinner with Gerrod Rothkild. It was a somber meal of diced boar in potatoes and turnips, whetted with a poor vintage red wine. They partook their meal in Gerrod’s quarters in the master’s wing of Tashijan.
He kept his room as orderly as his own mind: a small hearth aglow with coals, plain and heavy woolen drapes over slit windows, and simple furnishings of greenwood and hammered copper. The only adornments were fanciful iron braziers in shapes of woodland creatures-eagle, skreewyrm, wolfkit, and tyger-at each corner of the room, cardinal points of a compass. Even these had their practical uses, simmering now with sweet myrrh to scent the air, though more often they burned rare alchemies to focus the mind and thoughts.
“And that was all Castellan Mirra could tell you?” Gerrod asked.
There was no need to answer. It was the fourth time that question had been asked. But Kathryn nodded anyway.
Gerrod stabbed a fork into a chunk of meat. As usual, he wore his bronze armor, shedding only his helmet, indicating a level of comfort and familiarity with his dining companion. Though no older than Kathryn, he was as bald as his helmet, his scalp tattooed with symbols of his fifteen masterfields. His skin was pale to the point of translucency, even his lips. Only his eyes remained a rich brown, a match to his bronze armor.
The soft whir of his armor’s mekanicals was loud in the silence as he brought the forkful to his lips. The armor sustained his frail form. After showing promise as a boy, he had been ripened with alchemies of air and fire to ready his mind for his studies, but he had been pushed too far. Mastering fifteen disciplines had cost him the strength of bone and muscle, leaving him dependent on the armor to move his limbs.
“I can’t bring this to the Council of Masters,” Gerrod said. “Not without proof. Especially with accusations involving Argent ser Fields.” This last was said with a sad shake of his head. “It seems unbelievable, unfathomable.”
“Castellan Mirra seemed certain of her claim.”
Gerrod’s brow furrowed into pale lines. “And the old castellan definitely is not a person prone to fits of fancy.”
“As it was, she was loath to inform us of even this. She wished to consult with those still loyal to Ser Henri before explaining more. I think she told Perryl and me only because of our ties to… to Tylar. She is convinced he is of some importance to the struggles here and abroad. Whether he is a willing player or not, she was not sure.”
Gerrod sighed, wheezing like his armor. “And you’ve taken me into your counsel, spreading the word. Do you think this is wise? I did not know Tylar.”
Kathryn reached forward to touch his bronze hand. “If I can’t trust you, then who within the walls of Tashijan can I trust?”
His metal glove cleaved open like a clam, exposing the skeletal fingers within. She did not flinch from touching them. A small smile formed on his lips. Like all Masters of Discipline, he had forsworn women, but that did not keep him from loving. Kathryn knew his feelings for her and hers for him.
Five years ago, after Tylar’s trial and banishment, something had broken inside Kathryn. She had retreated for a year into the monastic levels of Tashijan, to the underground lair of the masters with its libraries, illuminariums, and alchemy laboratories. There, she lost herself in study and meditation, burying herself under the keep as surely as in a grave.
And she would still be there if it hadn’t been for Gerrod. Newly arrived to Tashijan and blind to her past, his eyes had not looked upon her with accusation for her damning testimony against Tylar, nor did they glance away with sad sympathy for her loss.
Gerrod simply saw her.
Over the next months, he drew her out with his wit and plain wisdoms. You’re too much a flower to hide from the sun… leave such places to mold and mushrooms. He helped build back her strength, find her center once again. It was holding this same hand that she left the subterranean levels of the masters and returned to the Order of the Shadowknights above, where she resumed her place as a knight. Though they could never be together, they were forever more than friends.
And it was enough for both of them.
A knock at the door interrupted. Kathryn stood as Gerrod’s armor snapped back over his fingers. “Who is it?” Gerrod called out.
“It’s Perryl, Master Rothkild!”
Kathryn hurried to the door as Gerrod climbed to his feet with a whirring protest from his mekanicals. He snapped his hinged helmet back over his head.
She opened the door, and Perryl hurried in. Like most knights, he had shed his shadowcloak while within the main keep and wore plain black breeches, boots, and a gray shirt, buttoned formally. He had oiled and combed his straw hair straight back as was custom for a Ninthlander. Free of his knight’s wear, Kathryn was shocked by his boyish appearance. It was easy to forget how young he was, so new to the cloak.
“The count is almost finished,” he said in a rush of breath. “They expect to announce the new warden in the next quarter ring.”
“So soon?” Kathryn asked. It was still well from midnight, the expected time for such a pronouncement. All ballot stones had been cast with the ringing of the eighth bell. It should have taken until the middle of the night for
