Sheershym asked a few more questions about what was broken in the past and now. By the time he was done, Harp had a litter ready. “Let’s get you up to the camp,” the master said, standing again. “I’d like to study this puzzle in more detail. ‘It is often the smallest thread that reveals the greater pattern.’”
“Tyrrian Balk,” Roger said.
Sheershym glanced to him. “You’ve read the work of the Arithromatic. You must someday tell me where you performed your studies.”
They hurriedly got Tylar stretched out and continued skyward along a steep and winding path. It looked little more than a deer track, and probably was. Switchbacks climbed the side of a promontory of rock that jutted from the peak called the Anvil.
As they climbed, Brant had begun to revive, mumbling and attempting to sit up on his litter.
Lorr pressed his shoulder back down. “Stay put,” the tracker ordered.
“Where…?”
Dart kept to his other side. She found his hand and took it. “We’re heading up into the forest. Rest now. We’ll explain more when we stop.”
He nodded, eyes rolling slightly. His fingers found the strength to squeeze hers, an intimacy that warmed through Dart and made the path seem less steep. Then he relaxed back into slumber.
After several more turns, views opened and revealed how high they’d already climbed. The black river stretched below, winding back to the great mountain to the south. On the far side, the spread of green forest filled the lower valleys. But much remained hidden behind mists, including the Huntress’s castillion.
Then the views vanished again under heavy canopy. A few shouts reached them from ahead. One last push, and they topped the rise and found a small glade where a crude camp had been set up. It was nothing more than sprawls of tented canvas across low limbs and netted hammocks hanging higher. Children and elders gathered, though some hung close to the forest edge, looking ready to bolt-especially when Malthumalbaen trudged into view. One of the youngest began to cry and buried his face in the skirt of an older woman leaning on a cane.
“He won’t eat you,” the woman promised.
“Dral might have,” the giant mumbled under his breath as he passed. “’Course after that climb, I’m not about to be that particular either.”
Harp guided them forward and found a corner for them to rest and catch their wind. Water was brought in leather flasks. It tasted sour, but to Dart it was still the sweetest wine.
Tylar settled to the forest floor.
Sheershym appeared with a book tucked under one arm. “I would like to sketch a map of your injuries. Where they are now, where they were before. See what pattern, if any, might reveal itself.”
Tylar groaned and shifted up into a seated position. “I feel stronger already.”
“Because your arse was hauled up here,” Rogger said. “That’s why.”
“And rest will not straighten a crooked bone.” Sheershym added. He waved Tylar back down. “First I’d like to inspect the mark Meeryn placed upon you. It is through there that the naethryn enters and leaves this world. Yes?”
Tylar grimaced, but that was the extent of his further objections. With Rogger’s help, he slipped his shadowcloak over his shoulders, then unhooked the shirt beneath. It had been soaked through with his sweat.
Rogger accepted the garment as Tylar shed it. The thief pinched it up with a sour expression. “If Delia saw this waste of humour, she’d burn you with her tongue for days.” He wrung out the garment, squeezing the sweat into a small fire ringed by stones. It sizzled and popped, destroying any residual Grace.
Bare-chested, Tylar leaned back to the litter, plainly exerted by even this small effort. Still, a bit of color had filled his cheeks again after the rest.
Sheershym leaned to study the black palm print centered on Tylar’s chest, the mark of Meeryn. He reached a hand toward it. “May I?”
Tylar had his eyes closed and waved a few fingers of his good hand. “Do what you must.”
Sheershym traced the black edges with a finger, then tested the flesh within the mark.
Dart winced as she stood to the side, arms crossed over her chest. It was the first time she had seen Tylar’s hidden mark since back in Chrismferry. It made her uneasy to look upon it. It looked to her like a well of dark water shaped like a palm. She feared the master’s hand would pass into Tylar’s chest.
But his fingers only discovered skin over bone.
“I don’t feel anything amiss,” he said, straightening. “Let’s check the rest of your injuries. For the knee, we’ll need those leggings off.”
The master waved to Dart and Calla. “Perhaps a bit of modesty is in order.”
Calla shrugged and wandered a few steps away to where someone had spitted a rabbit over a flame. Dart also began to turn away, when a flash of light caught her eye.
She turned back to Tylar. He had raised to one elbow and was tugging free the loop of his sword belt. “Wait,” she said and stepped closer.
Tylar lifted his face toward her.
Dart leaned closer to the mark on his chest, bending at the waist. “I-I thought I saw something…”
Tylar glanced down at himself, his brow crinkling.
The well of dark water that was his mark swirled ever so slightly as she stared closely. She had noted the same back in Chrismferry, as if something had crested just under the surface, stirring the waters.
His naethryn.
But that was not what had drawn her eye.
Sheershym sighed with impatience. “I assure you, lass. Nothing is amiss.”
Rogger warded him back. “Best let her look. She’s got eyes a mite sharper than ours. Sees things others miss.” He said this last with a wink in her direction.
Dart kept her focus on the mark, only a hand’s breadth from Tylar’s chest. She waited. Maybe she was mistaken-
Then it flashed again.
Deep within the well, a trickling trace of green fire snaked across the mark and away again. Flames within a dark sea.
“Did you see that?” Dart asked, startled.
Sheershym glanced at her, shook his head, then returned to study the mark.
Tylar caught her eye. “What did you see, Dart?”
“Flames, stirring deep with your mark. Then away again.”
“Flames?” Rogger mumbled. “What did they look like?”
She frowned, picturing them, trying to capture how they made her feel. “Emerald but with a sickly cast. A feverish sheen to them.”
Tylar touched his mark and found only flesh. “Green fire…” His eyes narrowed.
“What?” Rogger asked, plainly sensing some recognition in the other’s voice.
Tylar kept his gaze fixed to Dart. “Like moonlight off pond scum.”
She slowly nodded.
“I’ve seen such a flame before,” Tylar said. “It shone from the blade Perryl struck me with. Or rather struck Meeryn’s naethryn with.”
“Who is this Perryl?” Sheershym asked.
“A black ghawl,” Rogger said. “A daemon wearing another’s skin.”
“His dark sword grazed the naethryn when it was last released. I felt the burn of the blade’s kiss.” Tylar touched the side of his chest. “Here.”
Sheershym inspected the bruised flesh. “Where your rib is broken now.”
Tylar nodded.
Off to the side, Brant stirred and mumbled. “She…she…we must…” Then he drifted away.
The master looked to the boy, then back to Tylar. “I fear young Brant might not be the only one poisoned here. That blade must have carried some corruption. It poisoned your naethyn-and as the two of you are bound together, you suffer for it, too.”
Silence settled over them.
“And if his naethryn dies…?” Rogger finally asked.
Sheershym shook his head. “I cannot say. But I suspect the wear and break of your body reflects the vitality of the naethryn inside you. As you grow more crippled of limb, it maps your naethryn’s slide toward death.”
“Is there some cure?” Rogger said. “Some powder to smoke the poison out, like you did with Brant?”