the coming of the gods, to the barbarous times of human kings. Grace kept its fires always glowing. It was quiet now, waiting to be stoked again.
Reaching the central dais, they circled around the Hearthstone. Kathryn eyed it with a sickly look on her face. Clearly she was remembering another pit, full of knights’ bones, charred and broken. Tylar also felt a twinge of unease. Was Perryl already among those bones?
Lorr led them past the arch of seats on the dais and continued to the back wall.
“Where are we going?” Krevan asked, irritated at the tracker’s reticence to explain.
The tracker reached the wall and held up his lamp. It shone off a plate of bronze that stood the height of a man.
The Shield Gong.
It was struck to summon all of Tashijan to the court. Its voice traveled throughout Tashijan.
Tylar finally understood Lorr’s purpose.
Of course…
The gong covered the opening to a funneling tunnel. This narrow passage was not meant for the tread of knight nor master. Its maze of corkscrewing channels echoed the gong’s ringing throughout Tashijan.. from the tower tops to the subterranean warrens of the masters.
Lorr grabbed an edge of the bronze gong and pulled it back, exposing the unguarded tunnel.
Rogger nodded with respect. “A passage that isn’t a passage,” he said, repeating Lorr’s earlier cryptic message. “How did you think of this?”
“Before undertaking Castellan Vail’s guardianship,” Lorr said, “I studied the maps of Tashijan. The first thing a tracker learns is the lay of the land, whether forest, mountain, or castle.”
Without further ceremony, they all pushed into the tunnel. Krevan and Lorr shoved the gong back with their shoulders, raising it enough for the bullhounds to enter. They dared not leave the hounds behind. If anyone should come to investigate, the presence of the bullhounds would expose them.
Taking care, Krevan and Lorr lowered the gong back in place. It would not serve them to have the gong sound now, awaking all of Tashijan.
Lorr squeezed ahead with the lamp. The low ceiling kept them all crouched. He led the way. The echo tunnel twisted and turned, branching and forking. They had to trust Lorr’s sense of direction and memory, but wyld trackers were well known for their ability to keep to a trail.
No one spoke, and they all walked as softly as possible, fearful that their tread or voice would echo outward.
Lorr continued his determined pace. Finally he took a left fork and followed its spiraling path. Light appeared ahead, and they soon found themselves at a grate. By now the tunnel had squeezed to the point that they were half-crawling. The bullhounds slunk on their bellies.
“This should be the third descended level of the masters,” Lorr said.
Tylar helped the tracker lift the grate free and set it aside. They all gladly stumbled out into the regular hallway.
“I know where I am,” Kathryn said, sounding surprised. “Master Gerrod’s quarters are down another level. It’s not far.”
Kathryn now led the way, moving swiftly. The halls were thankfully all but empty. The masters were sticking to their quarters. With a godslayer afoot, the guarding of Tashijan had been left to the knights. Still, a few maids and the occasional baldpated master did widen their eyes at their passage. Kathryn nodded in a perfunctory manner.
At last, they reached a door. Kathryn knocked.
A small peek window opened in the door. All Tylar saw was a flash of bronze.
“Kathryn?” a muffled voice said.
“Gerrod, open the door.”
The small window closed and a bar was thrown back. The door swung open.
Tylar stared at the squat, bronze figure. It took half a breath to hear the whir of the mekanicals. An articulated suit. All he could see of the man inside were a pair of moist eyes that surveyed the party with Kathryn, then settled to Tylar.
“I think you all should come inside,” the master said, stepping aside.
Kathryn took comfort from the familiar surroundings and the stolid companionship of her friend. The room’s braziers-sculpted into eagle, skreewyrm, wolfkit, and tyger-all burned brightly. Myrr and winterroot scented the air.
Gerrod offered her his chair by the fire, but she refused, still too agitated to sit.
Lorr kept watch with the bullhounds outside. Tylar and his four companions stood warily.
Gerrod paced the length of his room. “The Godsword,” he said after hearing Tylar’s story. “It is indeed named Rivenscryr, but only in the most ancient of Littick texts. If Meeryn used this word, then she meant you to know the truth behind the sword. Its oldest stories and legends.”
“What do you mean?”
Gerrod sighed-or maybe it was just his mekanicals-as he faced Tylar. “Most stories say that Rivenscryr was destroyed when the home of the gods was sundered. This is not true.”
Tylar frowned. “It still exists.”
“In a form, yes. It had not been so much destroyed as exhausted after the Sundering.”
“Go on,” Tylar said. “Explain yourself.”
“There is much I don’t know. A great war occurred among the gods. Someone forged Rivenscryr as a weapon. But it was too potent. Something went wrong. It shattered all, friend and foe alike. Even their world.”
“The Sundering,” the handmaiden mumbled.
“Yes, but Rivenscryr survived and was carried here with the gods as they fell to Myrillia. Echoes of themselves were cast high and low. The gods lost parts of themselves. All that was dark went down to the naether, while all that was light went up to the aether, forming the naethryn and aethryn.”
“And what were we left with here in Myrillia?” Rogger asked.
“Gods made flesh, as gray as any man.”
“And the Godsword?” Kathryn asked.
“Rivenscryr fell with the gods to Myrillia, but it was spent, empty, exhausted. Nothing more than a dire talisman of the war that ended all, destroyed all. It left no victors, only the defeated.”
“But if it fell here,” Tylar asked, “how come no one’s ever seen it? What does it look like?”
Gerrod stared into the hearth. “There is only one text that mentions its appearance. It was written by Pryde Manthion, the last of the ancient kings of Myrillia. The hide parchment is vaulted in the Bylantheum in the Ninth Land. It is written in the dead language of that country. Only a small handful of scholars can still read it. Titled Shadowfall, it recounts the coming of the gods to Myrillia. In the text, Pryde Manthion tells of a god who came to ground, bearing a great sword. ‘Of light and shadow,’ he describes it. ‘Borne by a figure of blood and bone.’ ”
Gerrod grew silent.
Kathryn had learned to read the subtleties of expression in a man of bronze. Gerrod’s head hung, his chin resting on his collarbone. One arm was half-raised toward the flames, not to warm them, but in a warding gesture. Gerrod was reluctant to speak.
Kathryn stepped beside him. She kept her voice low, meant for his ears only. “Gerrod, if you know more, please speak it. A dark time is upon all of Myrillia. Now is not the time for more secrets.”
His arm lowered, relenting. “Manthion tried to steal the sword at this weak moment, but his fingers passed clean through. When he described the blade as light and shadow, it was not poetic. That was all the blade appeared to be to his hand. But as his fingers brushed this strange blade, he heard the screaming of a shattered world. It unmanned him. He fled in terror.”
“And you think this sword is Rivenscryr?” Tylar asked. “Why is this tale any more substantive than the other thousand legends about the Godsword?”
Gerrod kept his face to the hearth. “Because in the ancient tongue of the Ninth Land, light and shadow are ryvan and screer.”
“Rivenscryr,” Kathryn said.
Gerrod nodded. “Pryde Manthion may be the only mortal man ever to truly see the sword. He named it, not
