But in this quest, they created misshapen creatures, some raving, others wise beyond measure. And ultimately theirs was a mad goal, an impossibility. Even when gods lay down with a man or woman, no child was ever born from such a union. As Grace foreshortened the lives of the Hands who served their gods, such strong emanations destroyed this earliest spark of life. No child could be born into Grace. It could only be granted by a god.
Still, the Wyr-lords persisted, producing abomination and deformity. Their ilk, while mostly hidden away in the depths of the hinterlands, could be found throughout Myrillia.
And the true heart of all the Wyr was rumored to be hidden here.
The Lair.
At last the narrow gorge opened into a wide hollow, framed by the tallest of the mounds. In the center, a small pond shone in the thin light, rimmed in red algae and as dark as oil. It bubbled slowly and stank of sulfur that burned the nose.
A woman awaited them, carrying a baby in her arms, swaddled in a blanket. Flaxen haired and pale of complexion, the woman was tall, lithe of figure, generous of bust as was fitting a new mother. She seemed unsurprised by the visitors, but her face was uninviting.
“Leave your weapons,” Krevan said. He met Rogger’s eyes for a moment longer. “ All your weapons.”
Corram tugged free his sword belt and rested it atop a boulder. He shook back his cloak’s sleeves and undid a series of wrist sheaths, each housing three daggers, then did the same at each ankle.
And while this was an impressive array of weaponry, Rogger proved to be a regular armory: short sword, throwing daggers, razored stars, a flail, even a blowgun down one pant leg. It was surprising the thief could even walk upright.
Delia had only a single dagger, Tylar the one short sword.
Krevan was the last to disarm, pulling free his diamondpomelled sword and holding it before him, blade resting in his two palms as if offering a gift.
Tylar stared at the blade, seeing it for the first time. Along its silver length, a winged wyrm had been traced in gold, filigreed and detailed.
“Serpentfang,” he whispered in awe. He remembered Rogger’s claim that Krevan was actually Raven ser Kay, the Raven Knight of lore. Any attempt to question Krevan earlier had been answered by a cold stare. And Rogger refused to say more after his initial revelation.
Tylar had assumed Krevan was a descendant of that infamous Shadowknight, a man said to have died three centuries ago. But here was the very blade once said to have been borne by the Raven Knight. Serpentfang had been described in song and fable, depicted in tapestry and in oil.
While the blade was polished, any Shadowknight could recognize its age, its steel folded a thousand times. This was no replica given to some young lord upon a birthing day.
Without mistake, here was the very blade that slew the Reaper King.
And if this was indeed Serpentfang…
Tylar watched Krevan approach the lone woman by the lake. Halfway to her position, the Raven Knight dropped to one knee, lowered the blade to the chalky soil, and stepped past it, abandoning a prize that could ransom an entire god-realm.
Only then did the woman stir, stepping into Krevan’s shadow. The knight towered over her, blocking the view but not her words.
“Raven ser Kay,” she said, her voice sibilant and high, full of malice and amusement. “What brings you into the Lair again? Last we met, you swore to kill me.”
Krevan kept a wary stance. “Your memory is long, Wyrd Bennifren.”
“Eighty years is not long to either of us, now, is it?”
Krevan remained silent.
“Again, what brings you here?” she asked.
“We wish to buy passage through the Lair’s burrow.”
A long silence answered his request. Then slowly she spoke. “For you… and the godslayer.”
Krevan attempted a lie. “Don’t tell me you believe such nonsense?” He punctuated it with a harsh snort.
“Perhaps not, but Lord Balger certainly does. We know the Downs are overrun with crawlers, scent hunters, and worse. Two of your knights met their ends among the hollows. The rest are hotly pursued. Yet you bring the true prize to my doorstep.”
Krevan had not moved, yet a dark cloud of cloak and shadow seemed to swell from his shoulders. “You bear no special love for Lord Balger
… or Tashijan. To keep this godslayer as a prize would bring the full wrath of both upon the Lair.”
“No doubt of that, but I would see this godslayer for myself,” the woman finished, “before we settle on a price.”
Krevan glanced back to Tylar. He was waved forward.
Rogger hissed at his ear as he stepped away. “Speak with a cautious tongue. Deals among the Wyr are struck upon one’s word.”
Tylar moved to join Krevan. Stepping around the large knight’s billowing form, he again spotted the woman. She leaned her weight on one leg, throwing out her hip, carrying her swaddled babe there. She wore a bored expression.
“So this is the godslayer?”
Tylar’s brow pinched. The woman’s mouth had not moved as she spoke. In fact, her entire manner-from slack lips to glazed eyes-struck Tylar as dull and mindless.
“Bring him closer.” Pale movement drew his eye. He spotted a tiny white arm beckon to him. It was the baby boy. The infant’s eyes were fixed on his face. “Tylar de Noche,” the babe said, thick with disdain. “Your reputation precedes you.”
Tylar found no words, mouth agape.
Krevan covered for him. “May I introduce Wyrd Bennifren, Lord of the Lair and free leader of the Wyrdling clans.”
“Be welcome, Godslayer.” The baby smiled up at him, a horrible toothless visage, eyes wizened with age. “Let us strike a bargain for your life.”
Tylar paced the confines of the small cave. Their accommodations were surprisingly pleasant. Flames crackled in a small hearth carved into the wall, the smoke fluming away through a buried chimney. Underfoot, thick sheepskin rugs warmed the natural stone floor. Torches blazed on all four walls, illuminating the tapestries of Kashmiri silk woven with gold-and-silver thread. He could easily be in the greeting chamber of some lord’s manor house, rather than deep beneath the chalk hills of Kistlery Downs.
“How much longer must we wait?” Tylar finally blurted.
“The Wyr will not be rushed,” Krevan said. He sat hunched on a bench. The room had no shadows in which to hide or draw strength, and clearly this made him ill at ease and seemed to age him.
His fellow knight, Corram, simply leaned against one wall, rubbing a wrist where his sheathed daggers once rested.
Seated on a chair by the hearth, Rogger chewed a stubby briar pipe, puffing out clouds of redolent smoke through his beard. “Bennifren is actually treating us-or rather should I say you ”-he glanced pointedly at Krevan-“much more courteously than I would have imagined.”
“What past do you two share?” Delia asked. She also sat by the fire, but in a deep, cushioned chair. She had sunk gratefully into it. Tylar had almost forgotten Delia’s past as a handmaiden to Meeryn, where such luxuries were easily at hand. She had abandoned so much, a life of comfort and grace, to accompany him on this hard road.
Krevan stared at her, then away. An imperceptible movement of his wrist toward Rogger indicated it was permissible to speak of this matter.
The thief took up the mantle with aplomb. “Now that’s a tale.” He stood up to warm his backside by the fire. “But before that one could be told, one must tell the story of the Raven Knight. One not sung by minstrels, nor written in the great recountings of history.”
Tylar stopped his pacing and gave Rogger his full attention. “And we should begin such a story at the beginning-with the death of Raven ser Kay. Some three hundred years now, is it not?” Rogger glanced to Krevan,
