Kathryn felt her stomach churn, remembering her own lost child. What mother would sacrifice her own child in such a manner?
“From such corruption, children were born with strange voices. Rich in twisted power, it is said, able to bind pure Grace to its will. They call such corrupted talent seersong. I believe that was what we just heard, an echo released from the desiccated flesh that it once bound.”
“Wait. Are you saying that the rogue god was bound by this song?”
“I can’t say for sure. Air alchemies are the most ephemeral. But for such a trace to remain in the bones of the skull, the exposure would have to be long and intimate. Even after death, the skull remains deeply imbued with seersong. Remember Rogger’s story of what befell him in Chrismferry.”
Kathryn could not forget the attack at the docks, of the ilk-beasts that sought the skull. She also remembered who one of the beasts had been. One of the god Fyla’s personal bodyguards.
“You believe the skull was the source of their ilking?”
“How else to explain it? The thief, Rogger, was wise to keep the talisman warded with black bile and to take a route far from any god-realm. But even Chrismferry, godless for a full year, remains a land rich in Graces. And possibly still tainted in some small manner. The naethryn-god, Chrism, had ilked hundreds before being banished. I think the skull, exposed to such taint, absorbed and echoed the curse upon the air, carried by the power of the seersong.”
“Ilking the unsuspecting nearby.”
“If they were rich enough in Grace. Like Fyla’s guard.”
“And what about Tylar?” Kathryn shuddered. “Why was he not ilked?”
“Tylar was probably too rich in Graces. All of his humours flow with power. And then there is the matter of the naethryn nesting inside him. The daemon probably helped protect him. But many mysteries remain. I need more time with the skull.”
Kathryn reached out and touched his bronze hand. “And you need some sleep, too.” The shadow under his eyes told her that her friend was burning himself to the quick. “There will be time enough after the ceremony.”
“Perhaps you’re right. Hesharian grows suspicious enough with my protracted absence. And at some point, I’d certainly like to talk at length with Rogger. We were interrupted last time from hearing his full story of how he came upon this strange talisman.”
Kathryn drew Gerrod away from the skull and back toward the main room.
He followed her slowly, almost reluctantly, but he did close the heavy doors to his study behind him. As he glanced around his room, he seemed to see it for the first time in a full turn of bells. His eyes widened slightly, and he shook his head at the sorry condition of his chambers.
“I should brew us some bitternut,” Gerrod said and strode to a side table where a cold kettle rested.
The third morning bell rang, muffled but clear.
Kathryn sighed. “I must be back upstairs. Before the towers burn down on top of us.”
Gerrod waved to a chair. “I know you think you are the only person holding our towers up, but they’ve stood for centuries, so I think they’ll last a little while longer.”
“But the ceremony is tomorrow. I’ve a thousand-”
Gerrod offered her a tired smile. “If I can leave my study for a while, you can avoid the hermitage. Sit. We have more to discuss. A small matter.”
Kathryn’s brow pinched in curiosity as Gerrod stoked one of his braziers. He glanced over to her, one eyebrow raised.
“Tylar ser Noche…”
“What’s wrong?” Tylar asked Delia.
She stared out the flippercraft window, watching the towers of Tashijan rise at the horizon, aglow in the setting winter sun. She shook her head but did not turn.
Tylar sat across from her in the private cabin aboard the airship. They were alone. His personal bodyguards were stationed up and down the hall, led by Sergeant Kyllan, who stood outside their cabin, alongside the wyr-mistress Eylan. The other men were posted throughout the craft, keeping a watch over Tylar’s party. There were three for every one of his group. The only other travelers aboard the flippercraft, besides the ship’s crew, were the other seven Hands of Chrismferry, all coming to attend and witness his knighting. But only Delia, Hand of blood, shared Tylar’s cabin.
“We’ll reach Tashijan early…by a full bell,” Delia mumbled to the window, nodding to the rising towers.
“All the better,” Tylar said.
Mid-voyage, the ship’s captain had come, cap in hand, to their cabin. The storm at their back had him worried. Tylar had seen the northern skies himself. A great winter storm had settled into the middle of the First Land and was slowly rolling toward the sea. The captain had swung their path far to the west, almost as far as the Middleback Range, to skirt the storm. But the captain feared they’d fail to outrun the blizzard, so he had come to ask permission to burn blood, to increase their pace, accelerating their schedule.
Tylar had granted it.
“We should have sent a raven ahead to alert Tashijan,” Delia said.
“As much blood as we’re burning, the fastest raven would arrive about the same time as us. Besides, I’d just as soon land when least expected.”
Delia finally turned from the window. “Do you fear some betrayal by my father?”
So that’s what had been worrying her so…
Delia had no love for her estranged father, the warden of Tashijan, Argent ser Fields. The coming ceremony would be as much a strain on the warden’s daughter as it was on Tylar.
“No,” he answered. “I’m sure Argent will be pinning on his best face. I fear more what sort of pomp and blow he might have arranged at the dock atop Stormwatch. I’m sure it will be tedious and full of false cheer. So if we arrive unexpectedly enough, we might slip down to our rooms and avoid all that. The less we have to share the same space with Argent, all the better.”
A slight smile broke through her pensive expression. “You will both have sore faces before this is all over. Strained smiles, tight jaws, ground teeth.”
“If this gesture weren’t so important-”
“It is,” she assured him. “You deserve to have your cloak returned to you. And it will be good to head into spring with the First Land united and healed.”
He nodded. “I’ve heard that all the god-realms of the First Land and some of the outlying realms have sent representatives. Even Lord Balger.”
“It doesn’t surprise me. All the gods-even Lord Balger-want peace again, want the land to heal.”
“Not all the gods,” Tylar mumbled.
Delia’s eyes grew worried again. While a majority of the Hundred, the settled gods of Myrillia, had voiced their acceptance of Tylar’s regency, not all were as vigorous in their support as he would have wished. In fact, there were some who either remained silent or expressed outright distaste. And they were being heard-by other gods and by the people of Myrillia at large. Chrismferry was the oldest of all the god-realms. To have a man, even one blessed with a flow of Grace-rich humours, sitting atop the castillion at Chrismferry struck many as an affront against the proper order.
“All the more reason we must tolerate coming here,” Delia said. “It isn’t only the rift between Tashijan and Chrismferry that needs to be closed. Uniting the gods of the First Land around your regency will help settle the rumbling across the other lands.”
“I hope you’re right.”
As if the flippercraft sensed his worry, a slight tremor vibrated through its bones. The crew must be readying to land.
Delia gripped the arm of her seat with one hand. “The effort will be worth the risk…” she mumbled and returned her attention to the cabin’s window, growing pensive again.
Tylar frowned. He sensed there were layers of meaning behind her soft words. Why was it that women seemed so capable of lacing a thousand thoughts behind so few words? And men so inept at deciphering it all.