“That won’t be necessary,” he said coldly. “A bit of privacy will be enough.”
“This way, then.” Bennifren turned away, carried by his milk mare. “All is ready. You can use my tent. It is the last and largest.”
Tylar noted where he pointed and motioned for Krevan and Rogger to stay. This was a duty that did not require their attendance. He headed toward the tent with Bennifren.
Rogger called after to him. “Remember-don’t work too hard!” Then in the next breath, he added, “No! I take that back! In this matter…”
Tylar shook his head, blocking out the thief’s next words as he rounded the rock, glad to be rid of Rogger. This duty would be difficult enough to accomplish.
“I’ll have a repostilary for your humour brought to you,” Bennifren said and guided his woman off to the side. “And don’t worry, you’ll have your privacy.”
Tylar kept his gaze fixed on the tent ahead. He had never spilled his seed for the sake of Grace. Not even at Chrismferry. He had shared all his other humours with varying degrees of humiliation. But he had always refused to relinquish this one humour, one of the most powerful, second only to blood. It allowed Grace to be imbued into living tissue, essential for a great many alchemies. But there were plenty of gods out there already. As regent, he saw no need to contribute to this storehouse himself.
Until now.
For the sake of Tashijan, he had to relent. No matter what foul alchemies were to be performed on his seed, it was a debt that must be paid. As he walked alone now, he remembered the only child ever birthed from his seed. Long dead, winnowed by grief while in the womb. Had his seed always been cursed?
This dark thought reminded him of Kathryn, of better times, of moments they shared when life was bright and the days seemed endless before them. Now he knew better. He knew it was a black bargain being completed here, but it was done in the hopes of again returning the world to brighter times.
If not for him, at least for others.
He reached the tent and pulled open the hide flap. Ducking inside, he noted that no lamp burnt, and the thick leather shut out the stars and the moon. He dropped the flap behind him, happy for the darkness, better to hide his shame. But could he hide from himself?
He would not find out.
Somebody already hid here.
From the back, where the darkness was thickest, shadows stirred and birthed a figure in a cloak to match his. A fair face shone back out at him, lit by eyes that flashed with dread fire.
The black ghawl swept toward him, sword raised.
“Perryl…”
Brant approached Dart. She had wandered to the bank of the flooded forest when the strange Wyr-lord and the regent had stepped away to discuss the fate of an old bargain.
She sat on a narrow sandy strand, hugging her knees. She had pulled up the hood of her half cloak against the growing chill.
Ahead, the black water lay flat as glass. The air hung heavy with the promise of rain. Clouds covered what little starlight had shone. The darkness was almost complete.
Brant sank down next to her, dropping to one knee. He hated to disturb her. She plainly wanted a moment alone to settle her thoughts, but what he had come to suspect could not wait.
“Dart-”
Her face lowered farther.
“I’m sorry to bother you.”
A hand wiped at her cheek. “What is it?” Her voice was tremulous with tears.
He began to straighten, suddenly regretting his intrusion. “I’m sorry. Perhaps another-”
She sniffed, once and hard, clearing her throat. A hand reached and touched his shoulder. “No. What is it?” A bit of firmness returned to her voice. She wiped her cheeks with a corner of her sleeve and shook back her hood, facing him.
His voice died for a moment, struck silent as the firelight brushed across her damp face, glistening and warm.
“Brant…?”
He blinked and swallowed. Finally he settled beside her. “I wanted to ask you something away from others. I’m probably wrong, but it was something you said a while back. Up in the flippercraft as we approached the Eighth Land. When you asked to see my stone.”
Brant offered his hand, opening his palm. The stone rested there, unthreaded again from its cord. He’d felt its warmth as he had neared Dart. Pupp must be close, watching with his ghostly eyes. It was one of the reasons he had come. He had to be certain.
Pupp…the sword…
A single line furrowed between her brows as she stared at his stone.
“I don’t understand,” she said.
“You said something up in the flippercraft,” he mumbled. “About the stone. I dismissed it before. But after what we just heard…”
She looked up at him a bit more firmly, hearing the hope in his voice. Even his hand trembled a bit. If he was right, it could make his father’s death mean something…make all of this mean something.
But was he right?
He remembered Dart’s description of his stone.
It’s beautiful…the way it catches every bit of light.
Brant also remembered his words to his father when he first picked up the stone.
It’s only a rock.
That was what everyone else saw, just a dull, drab stone, something of no great acclaim, especially as Brant kept silent about where it had come from. A secret between father and son.
Now Dart, a girl with sharper eyes, saw something more.
Was it what he suspected-hoped for?
“All I see is a plain black stone,” Brant explained. “Dull and wan.”
Her eyes flicked to him, confusion shining. “But it’s not dull-”
“I know. You see something else.” He held out his hand, trembling. “Show me what no one else sees. Like Pupp. Or the sword.”
She knew then. He saw the understanding in her eyes. Not everything, not yet.
“My blood…”
He nodded.
Before either could move, a shout erupted from steps away. They both turned to find Lorr running straight at them, bearing aloft a fiery torch. “Get back! Get away from there!”
Brant’s fingers clenched over the stone. He leaned closer to Dart, ready to protect her. But he saw the wyld tracker’s eyes weren’t on them-he looked beyond them.
Toward the water.
Brant twisted around.
Dark figures stood out in the lake, some still rising out of the black water, though not a ripple was stirred, as if the dark flood was mere shadow. Closer still, two dark shapes were already sliding toward Dart and Brant. Again not raising any wave by their passage, wading out of shadows.
Black ghawls.
A dozen strong.
Brant and Dart scrambled back, but the sand was loose and their feet kicked more than gained.
Then Lorr was there, leaping over them with the agility of a spring deer. He splashed into the water’s edge, flaming brand before him, warding against the pair that were closest.
“Here, Master Brant!” Malthumalbaen bellowed behind him. “By the fire!”
Brant finally gained his feet and hauled Dart up with him. They stumbled toward the waiting fire.
Out in the water, knee-deep, Lorr swung his torch before him. The fiery arc forced the two closest ghawls back a step. They were cloaked in shadows, bearing aloft black swords. The torchlight washed away the darkness for a breath, revealing pale, sunken faces of the long dead.
“Git back to the fire!” Lorr called to them.
Heeding his own advice, he backed toward shore, keeping his torch between him and the pair of daemon knights. The flames kept them at bay. But to either side, the other ghawls floated toward shore, again moving without disturbing the water, eerie and silent.
But Lorr kept his focus on the closest pair.
A mistake.
Behind him, a dark shape lunged out of the water at his heels, catching the tracker off guard. And rightly so, as the water was only ankle-deep-too shallow to hide such a form-but Brant knew it wasn’t truly water from which these creatures welled. They arose out of the darkness that lay across the waters like oil.