shattered. No one knew the true form of this dread weapon, though artists and storytellers dwelled upon this mystery, while philosophers debated its very existence. Only one detail was shared by all the tales: the Godsword was the weapon that shattered the gods’ realm and brought about the Sundering.
But what did Meeryn mean by uttering it in her last breath?
He remembered Fyla’s cryptic final words. Though it is neither, you call it the Godsword. He rubbed at the ache between his eyes. Though it is neither… What did that mean?
Rogger sighed, sensing Tylar’s internal turmoil. “There is only one way to find out more about this Godsword, Rivenscryr, and that’s in the libraries of Tashijan, where we are already headed.”
“And where, if you are right, Meeryn’s trust was betrayed.”
Delia called up from the cabin. “I see sails on the horizon!”
Tylar and Rogger swung around to stare across the bow. Off to the west, limned against the setting sun, a cluster of full sails climbed into the sky.
Tylar ducked down. “A spyglass!”
Delia found one secured in a cubby. She passed it to him.
Tylar popped back up and pointed the glass toward the ships. The horizon sprang closer. He read the flags at the top of a center mast. A black castle against a silver background. The flag of the Shadowknights. And beneath it flapped a blue flag with a yellow sun emblazoned on it. He had lived under that flag for the past year.
It was the fleet of corsairs out of the Summering Isles.
He shifted the spyglass lower. At the ship’s prow stood a figure draped in black. The distance was far, but Tylar knew who watched there.
“Darjon ser Hightower.”
Rogger groaned. “And we’re sitting in a floating milkweed pod. I don’t suppose we can hope for rescue from the Grim Wash?”
Tylar focused on something hanging below the corsair’s prow. “No,” he said with pained sorrow.
Dangling there, hung by his neck, was Captain Grayl.
10
Matron Shashyl smoothed Dart’s gown with an experienced hand, pulling hems straight, tucking away a loose gather, ruffling her half cloak so it fell evenly from her trembling shoulders.
“Calm yourself, child,” she hushed in warm tones. “You’ll shake yourself right out of your petticoats.”
Dart nodded, but her trembling worsened. Her knees threatened to betray her at any moment. She could not feel her toes.
Shashyl sighed. “Child, you’ve already met the Lord. You know he won’t bite.”
Laurelle stepped to her other side. She moved like a flow of moonlight in her silver dress. She had affixed a diadem of kryst jewels to her ebony hair. The priceless stones, also called God’s Tears, sparked in the light from the chamber’s lanterns. A single Tear could ransom an entire village, but Laurelle wore the diadem as easily as a crown of woven grass.
Dart’s friend touched her cheek. “You look so beautiful.”
The words startled Dart out of her terror of the ceremony to come. Her disbelief must have been plain on her face.
“Come see,” Laurelle urged, drawing her to the silvered looking glass.
Dart stepped in front of her reflection. She was draped in crimson high silk, a rich cloth that flowed like water. Her gown streamed from her buttoned neck to the stone floor beneath her slippered toes. A gold sash cinched the silk tight around her waist, while the sleeves billowed loosely at the wrist. A fire ruby rested in the hollow of her throat, seeming to flash with her own heartbeat.
Her hair had been scented with oils and combed back from her face, held in place by a gold net that sparkled with tiny fire rubies. Her cheeks blushed at the sight. Such richness could make a fatted sow beautiful. Still, she found herself staring at the image in the glass, wondering if this was truly herself. Pupp had followed her. He nipped at the trailing edges of her gown, his teeth passing harmlessly through the silk. She ignored him, focusing on the stranger in the looking glass.
“If you two lasses are done admiring yourselves, perhaps we could finish your primping.” Shashyl waved them over to her. “The horns will be sounding your summons at any moment.”
A knock drew all their attention. The door opened to reveal two figures dressed in similar hues to Dart and Laurelle: a man draped in crimson, a woman in moonlit silver. Blood and tears. They were attended upon the arm by two servants.
Dart and Laurelle bent a knee each in a hurried curtsy.
Shashyl simply placed her hands on her hips. “Mistress Huri and Master Willym, if you get my girls to soil their dresses on this filthy floor, I’ll not forgive you.” Her words were stern, but her face smiled warmly. The woman, Mistress Huri, the Hand of Tears, entered the room, assisted by her maid on one arm and leaning on a cane with the other. “We would not think to spoil such loveliness, Matron Shashyl.” Her eyes were milky, near blind, her back bent under the weight of ages. She was only fifty-six birth years, but appeared twice that. Such was the burden of Grace.
She hobbled to Laurelle, guided by her maid. “Come, child, let us speak.” Laurelle stepped away with the woman whom she was meant to replace. Dart noted the awe in her friend’s gaze.
Next came Master Willym. He was younger. Fifty-two birth years. But he moved as if death had already claimed him. His gold shirt and crimson surcoat hung on a frame of bones. He teetered as he walked, supported by a servant, but he kept no cane. He shuffled into the room toward Dart and lifted a hand. His skin was luminous and translucent, showing blue veins.
“I believe you are named Dart, is that not so?” he asked, his voice surprisingly firm, a remnant of the young man he once was. In his voice, he carried a smile warmer than the feeble curl of his trembling lips. “So you are the young lass come to take my place at my Lord’s side.”
She curtsied again, unable to speak. This was the first time they had met. The other Hands would be introduced at the ceremony as Dart and Laurelle were formally presented and raised to their place in the court.
She followed him to a small cushioned bench. It took him some gentle maneuvering to settle to a seat. He fell the last handspan with a heavy sigh, leaning back, eyes closed. “Ah, to have a young man’s legs and back again…”
Dart hovered over him as Pupp sniffed at his pant leg. Willym finally patted the cushion beside him.
She sat on the edge, back straight.
He swung to face her. His eyes were cloudy, but shone with a spark of fierceness that belied his fading body. “It is custom for one handservant to speak words of comfort and reassurance to their successor.” He reached and took her fingers between his own. “But I was never one for custom.”
He nodded over to Laurelle and Mistress Huri. The pair embraced. “I can only imagine Huri has spoken all the sweet words required with great diligence and earnestness. Such is her way.”
Dart stared over at them. Their very poses spoke of comfort.
Master Willym cleared his throat. His hands were cold on hers. “Instead I will share with you the counsel my esteemed predecessor instructed me with some four decades ago when I sat on this same bench.” He stared hard at Dart. “Gods live forever by sucking the life from their servants.”
Dart gasped at such blasphemy, drawing away her hand.
A dry chuckle escaped him. “Do not look so shocked. I saw your face as I hobbled in here. I must have worn the same expression four decades ago. It is one thing to understand the price of bearing a god’s Grace, but it is another to see its wrinkled face before you, is it not?”
Dart gulped and kept her gaze upon the stone floor.
“Answer me, child.”
