She crossed to finger the cloak. As it shifted, an edge unfolded, revealing a blackened and singed corner. She pulled the cloak up and brought the edge up into the light. “Look at this.”
Penni cried out. “Oh, dear! The corner must have been too near the hearth when I freshened the coals! Mistress Mirra will be furious with me!”
As Perryl attempted to calm the maid, Gerrod stepped to Kathryn’s side. His voice was a whisper. “There are ways of telling what sort of fire burned the robe. I can take it to one of the alchemists for study.” He stepped around, blocking the view of Perryl and the maid.
Kathryn slipped a dagger from her belt and cleanly cut away the burned swath. She passed it to Gerrod. It vanished into a compartment in his armor, one of many hiding places on his bronzed form.
Before anything else could be made of the matter, a loud ringing echoed up from below. Slow and ponderous. It was the Shield Gong of the Grand Court, calling all knights and masters of Tashijan to gather.
“The Council of Masters is done with their tallies,” Gerrod said. “It seems a new warden has been chosen.”
Perryl crossed to them. “What now?”
“We join the court,” Kathryn said. “As we must.”
“And Castellan Mirra?” Perryl eyed the empty chair.
Gerrod answered, ever practical, “If she’s still within these walls, she’ll have to respond to the summons.”
That is, if she’s still alive, Kathryn added silently.
Bodies pressed and jostled outside the western entrance to the Grand Court. An air of celebration rang through the crowd of knights, squires, and pages. After the gloom and uncertainty that pervaded the halls since the death of Ser Henri, the choosing of a new warden promised a return to order and the beginning of a new era for Tashijan.
Following the ceremony, ale would flow from the top of Stormwatch down to the subterranean bowels of the masters’ dens. Already, servants and maids festooned the passages with flower petals; incense burners smoked cheerily. But before the revelry could begin, there was one last observance to attend.
The Naming Ceremony.
Kathryn worked through the crowd toward the packed entrance. The banter and excited talk had faded to the steady drone of an overturned beehive. The doorway was framed in black onyx stone, surmounted by a massive crystal of dark quartz, representing the black diamond that marked the hilt of every Shadowknight’s sword.
She passed under the arch with Perryl in tow.
Once through, the way opened as the crowds dispersed to the gallery seats. The excited chatter in the outer hallways faded, both from reverence for the chamber and simply because the voices were lost in the vast spaces overhead.
In ancient times, the Grand Court was a natural amphitheater worn into the stone cliffs that towered over the Straits of Parting. It was said that human kings once held court here, before the coming of the gods. As such, the revered place was chosen for the site of Tashijan, hallowed ground where mind and might became one, the Shadowknights embodying the purity of muscle and reflex, the Council of Masters epitomizing all the learned studies and meditations. Over and around this ancient amphitheater, the Citadel of Tashijan had been constructed. The natural granite hollow had been carved into tiered benches with balustrades and stairs leading from one level to another.
Kathryn crossed to the stone railing that circled this level. She stared down toward the floor far below. An arc of eight seats, hewed from the granite itself, stood before a deep central pit, the Hearthstone. Flames licked upward out of this stone well, smoking with alchemies and lighting the seats in a ruddy glow. Various leaders of the Order and Discipline already sat in their seats, leaning toward one another in whispered conversations.
“She’s not here,” Perryl said.
Kathryn’s fingers tightened on the balustrade. Ser Henri’s old seat, the tallest, stood vacant, as did the one to its right, the castellan’s chair.
“What now?”
Kathryn imagined much of the whispering below centered on that empty chair. She searched the lower levels of the court, the tiers reserved for the masters. It did not take long to spot Gerrod down there. His bronze armor stood out among the robes. He was gazing up at Kathryn. He shook his head.
Around the nearer tiers, the various knights, pages, and squires took their seats. As in Tashijan itself, the upper levels were their domain.
“We should get as close as possible,” Perryl said. “Watch for any sign of the castellan.”
Kathryn nodded and led the way down into the thick of her fellow knights. She found two seats just above the masters’ tiers. She hurried to them.
Following their passage, Gerrod climbed upward and traded spaces to occupy a seat directly beneath them. He stood, his head at their toes. “I’ve listened upon the masters and knights. No one knows what keeps Castellan Mirra away. But they’ve agreed they can wait no longer.”
Kathryn glanced behind. Most of the crowd had shuffled in and seats were packed up to the edge of the domed roof. A majority of knights, like Kathryn herself, wore their shadowcloaks, casting vast swaths of darkness over the tiers.
Gerrod continued. “There is no law requiring the castellan to be present at the ceremonies. Most seem settled that she has taken ill. They plan on proceeding as soon as-”
His words were cut off as the deafening reverberation of the Shield Gong echoed off the roof and across the open space, silencing all in a breath. Its voice also traveled along a series of echo tunnels behind the gong, to be heard throughout all of Tashijan, above and below.
“So it begins,” Gerrod mumbled as he took his seat.
Kathryn sat straighter, tense.
The head of the Council of Masters stood from his seat to the left of Ser Henri’s old chair. Master Hesharian was as wide as he was wise, his girth swelling the brown robe of his standing. Firelight shone upon his bald pate, tattooed like Gerrod’s own. He bore eleven disciplines, second only to Gerrod in number.
His voice boomed across the hall, carried upon the natural acoustics of the amphitheater and accentuated by the Graces smoking from the Hearthstone pit. “We are gathered here where ancient kings once stood to carry on the traditions of Tashijan, to raise high one of our own to lead us.”
Murmurs of excitement met his words.
“We stand upon the cusp between the old and the new, the past and the future. As throughout time, stones have been cast and counted.” He nodded to the circle of seats on the lowest level, the Council of Masters, who had tallied the ballots. “And a new warden will rise this night!”
Clapping met his words. Calls for a name were raised as was tradition and spread throughout the galleries. Master Hesharian simply stood, bathed in the cheering and chanting. Finally he raised an arm, and the swell died down.
“A name you ask for! A name you will hear!” He raised his other arm high. “Stand and greet your new warden.”
As one, the crowd gained their feet. Kathryn did so reluctantly.
Master Hesharian searched the tiers, though clearly he had to know where the victor sat. He pointed an arm. “There stands the one cast in stone by your own hands! Warden Argent ser Fields! ”
Cheers erupted before the announcement was past Hesharian’s lips. Argent’s name was shouted and chanted. And a few among the crowd, those already into their cups, called out, “One Eye! One Eye! One Eye
…”
Flogged by the pounding enthusiasm of his brethren, Argent ser Fields climbed down out of the knights’ tiers and past the masters’ levels to finally reach the floor, greeted by hand and a kiss upon each cheek by Master Hesharian. He was led to the center chair. He acknowledged the warm reception humbly and with a generous smile.
Argent ser Fields was two decades older than Kathryn, but he could pass for her younger brother. His deep auburn hair, worn long to the shoulder, bore not a hint of gray. And age had done nothing to his strength or skill. For as long as Kathryn had been at Tashijan, he had not been bested at swords or daggers. But that was only half the man. His face was hard, but more often than not, softened by good humor. He was known to be generous with
