Delia ran her fingers over his forearm.
He shivered again. And it wasn’t from Delia’s touch this time. He considered what lay inside him… not just any naethryn, but Meeryn’s undergod. What did it all mean?
Delia concentrated on her work, a lock of hair hanging over one eye.
Tylar reached up and brushed the stray bit of hair back in place. It was a reflexive gesture, from another time, another man… another woman. He quickly dropped his hand.
“This vessel will do,” she said, and gripped his wrist, pressing deeply as before, numbing his hand. She slid the lancet into his arm, then caught the flow into another repostilary.
Tylar looked away.
“If Meeryn’s naethryn is inside you,” Delia continued, “then I cannot leave your side.”
“Why? You swore no oath to her undergod.”
“I did not serve Meeryn upon oath alone. I loved her… as did all her Hands. She died to bring you this gift.” A tremble entered Delia’s voice. “I will serve its bearer like I served her.”
“I asked no oath of you.”
A touch of firebalm flared from his wrist, marking the end of the bloodletting. Delia’s next words were so soft Tylar barely heard them. “As with Meeryn, it’s no oath that binds me…”
He stared into her eyes. They glistened more brightly in the torchlight.
“Oy there!” a voice shouted from the door. It was the crook-backed alchemist. “Enough jabbering. Be quick about your harvest. I’m late for my dinner.”
Delia placed aside the blood-filled jar and called back to the Wyr-man, “All we have left are tears.” She set about preparing for the next harvest, picking up a glass straw to wick his tears, then pinched a bit of salted powder to sting the eyes.
All we have left are tears.
Tylar considered their future, all their futures. He suspected no truer words had ever been spoken.
Tylar stumbled along with the others. They had been blindfolded for over two bells, guided like sheep through the warren of tunnels beneath the Kistlery Downs. He had at first balked at being put at such a disadvantage, but Krevan had voiced his unconcern. “The Wyr will not break an oath once sworn.”
Tylar had honored his side of the bargain, giving up his humours. Even now he shied his thoughts from what ill-use they would serve for the alchemists of the Wyr.
Tylar felt a freshening breeze on his cheek, coming from ahead. The end of the tunnels. He found his steps hurrying. The Wyr-man who gripped his elbow and guided his steps forced Tylar to slow. He heard the creak of some ancient wooden gear and the twang of strained ropes. Another trap was being undone. This last must guard the easternmost entrance to the Lair.
Tylar was anxious to be free of the blindfold and free of the tunnels. As they had traversed the Lair, he had heard strange cries, howls, and low mewlings echoing up from the deeper levels of the Lair. During such moments, he was glad for the blindfold. His guide moved him forward again-into the face of the fresh breeze.
In four steps, he sensed the world open around him. The press of stone lifted, filled by the noises of meadow and forest: the twitter of swifts, the cronk of a frog, the slight rustle of water over stone. Somewhere far ahead, a dog barked, echoing up from below.
He was led another hundred steps, moving up and down, stumbling in his haste.
Finally, he was pulled to a stop. The hand on his elbow vanished. He stood for a moment, unsure where to move.
Delia’s voice called out. “Tylar… Rogger…”
Tylar reached toward her voice, bumped into someone, grabbed hold.
“Watch what you’re a-grabbing there,” Rogger’s voice erupted.
Tylar let go and ripped away his blindfold. He blinked back the dazzle. The others were doing the same. Krevan already stood a few steps away with Corram, at the edge of a steep incline. Their weapons were piled at their feet.
Tylar glanced around the sparsely wooded glen. All the Wyr were gone… except for Eylan. She stood a few steps back, stoic, staring in the same direction as Krevan and Corram. The others must have retreated to the Lair’s hidden entrance, keeping its location unknown.
Tylar crossed to Krevan, along with Rogger and Delia.
The knight pointed an arm.
Ahead stretched an open plain, broken into green pasture-lands and patches of crops. A small township lay not far away, by a small freshwater lake. Muddlethwait. It was where they were to rendezvous with any of the surviving knights.
But that was not where Krevan pointed.
The sun, high overhead, shone clear to the distant Strait of Parting. Near the horizon, a steeple seemed to float above the thin layer of sea mist and cloud. Tylar would recognize that sight anywhere. It had called him home many a day.
Stormwatch.
The highest tower of Tashijan.
“How long to reach there?” Delia asked.
“We should have horses in Muddlethwait awaiting us,” Krevan answered. “If we ride hard, we’ll reach Tashijan in the dead of night. A good time to seek entry.”
“Good or not,” Rogger said, “it’s the dead part that worries me.”
Tylar stared across the plains. Now in sight of the tower, the enormity of their task threatened to overwhelm him.
Rogger touched his shoulder. “Are you ready for this?”
He had no choice. Both his past and future lay ahead of him.
“Let’s go.”
16
“I believe I've discovered who called upon castellan Mirra,” Gerrod Rothkild said. “The one who brought her that swatch of linen in the middle of the night, soaked in blood.”
Kathryn stood out on her hermitage’s balcony, leaning on the balustrade. The day had proven to be warm, the first kiss of true spring. The rains of the past quarter moon steamed from the damp grounds of the courtyard, trapped between the four stone walls of Tashijan. The air was redolent with flowering buds from the giant wyrmwood tree blooming just these last few days, opening honeyed petals of snow-white. The branches of the wyrmwood dappled the balcony with their shadows, while across the courtyard, Stormwatch Tower climbed endlessly upward, basking in the sun like a sword raised on high.
It seemed too pleasant a day for such dark conversations. It should be night with rain falling. She sighed and turned to her friend. Gerrod’s bronzed armor sparked in the patches of sunlight, as if on fire.
“What have you discovered?” Kathryn asked.
Gerrod turned from the balcony and strode back into her rooms. Such words were best spoken in private, away from the open courtyard. Voices could carry oddly, echoing from the yard’s walls.
Kathryn followed him inside, closing the balcony doors.
Gerrod reached to his neck and retracted his helmet with a whir of mekanicals. His pale features seemed even paler. He ran a hand over his shaved scalp. The tattoos of his mastered disciplines stood out starkly, looking more like wounds than ink. “What I’ve found is most odd.”
Kathryn crossed and poured them each a tiny glass of rose wine. “Tell me all.”
“I was able to loosen the stableman’s tongue, the one who took the stranger’s horse,” Gerrod said, accepting a glass. “Though the groomsman proved stubborn. But what was sealed with gold finally broke under more.”
“What did he tell you?”
