“No, ser… right away, ser.” The dungeonkeep hurriedly stripped down to his underclothes and passed the outerwear to Tylar.
“I think I was less soiled when I was naked,” Tylar grumbled as he pulled the sweat-stained jerkin over his head, but it did feel better to have some clothes on his body.
His former squire waved away the dungeon guard and waited until he was gone. Rogger had grumbled at the commotion, then curled away and was already snoring again.
Alone and private, Perryl freed his masklin, exposing a worried face. He eyed Tylar up and down, the glint of Grace bright in his gaze.
Tylar crossed his arms again. “I heard there was a deathwatch.”
Perryl nodded and paced the floor, parts of him slipping into and out of shadow as his cloak reflected its owner’s agitation. “Seven days. It ends this night, when the lesser moon’s face touches the greater moon.”
“And there is no hope of her reviving.”
Perryl shook his head. “Her heart is gone. The finest alchemists have tested her remaining fluids. There are no signs of Grace in any of her humours. She is as empty as any man or woman. Even decay and corruption have set in, bloating her body.”
“Then she is truly dead.”
Perryl stopped his pacing and stared hard at Tylar. “This story of some Darkly Graced beast… you swear this is the truth?”
“Yes, but I have nothing left to swear upon except the filthy body I’m wearing.”
“An unbroken body.” A twinge of suspicion laced Perryl’s words.
“Unbroken and marked.” Tylar parted his jerkin enough to expose the black fingers on his chest. “This is not a curse. Meeryn blessed me for some reason known only to her.”
“But why?” Perryl began to pace again. “It’s all impossible.”
“As impossible as a slain god?”
Tylar read the dismay in the other’s eyes. For four thousand years, ever since the time of the Sundering, none of the Hundred had ever died. Every child knew the history of Myrillia, of the madness and destruction that followed the arrival of gods to this world. It lasted three centuries until the god Chrism chose the first god-realm and imbued his Graces into the region, sharing his powers to bring order out of chaos. Other gods followed, settling various lands, bringing to bear their unique Graces.
Thus the Nine Lands were formed.
Beyond these god-realms lay only the hinterlands, spaces wild and ungoverned, where rogue gods still roamed, as untamed as their lands. Occasional rumors and stories spoke of the death of gods out there, stories of great hinter-kings who slew maddened rogues, raving creatures of dark power.
But never had one of the Hundred been slain… until now.
Perryl stared up at the lone window. Night fast approached. “Already the Isles have judged you. The word godslayer rings through the streets. Only my cloak protects you from the gallows or worse.”
“And I thank you for that.”
Perryl turned back to Tylar. “But that protection cannot last forever. A single knight’s cloak is only so thick. As the sun sets, I will board a flippercraft headed to Tashijan, to seek the counsel of the full Order on your behalf.”
“You waste Grace on such an effort,” Tylar scoffed. “The Order has no love for a fallen knight, especially me.”
“I know of your past crime. Selling repostilaries to the Gray Trade, lining your pocket with gold marches. All preposterous lies.”
Tylar shook his head. “The accusations were true.”
Perryl blinked, looking a surprised boy again. “What? How…?”
“I had my reasons. But I did not kill that family of cobblers on Esterberry Street.”
“Your sword was found there.”
Tylar faced Perryl. “Do I look a child killer to you any more than a godslayer?”
“No, but then again, I never imagined you a trafficker in repostilaries.”
Tylar turned his back on the Shadowknight. With even that one crime, he had broken his knightly vows. It was reason enough to have been stripped of his Graces and cast out of the Order, but the crime of murder carried a heavier sentence: to be broken on the wheel, then sold into slavery.
“The caste of Gray Traders at Akkabak Harbor knew I was about to expose them. They sought to discredit me.” He glanced back to Perryl. “And they succeeded.”
“So you claimed before the adjudicators, but the soothmancers said you spoke falsely.”
He lowered his head.
“And they were not the only ones,” Perryl whispered. “Kathryn-”
Tylar swung around sharply. “Do not speak her name in my presence, Perryl. I warn you.”
The young knight did not back down. “She said you were gone from your bed that night and returned bloody to the sheets. And when asked if she believed your claims of innocence, she denied you, a fellow Shadowknight and her own betrothed.”
Tylar hardened. “I will not speak any more of this. I’ve paid for my crimes and won my freedom in the rings as was my right.”
“And what of the slaughter you’re accused of now?”
“I expect no fairer justice in this matter. I know how it must appear, so let them have me.”
“I can’t.” Perryl balled a gloved fist. “A god has been slain, not some cobbler’s family. If for no other reason than to find out how you succeeded in bringing down one of the Hundred, the Order will intervene. The truth will be known.”
“I have no faith in the Order.”
“Then have faith in me.”
Tylar saw the pain in the other’s eyes. He touched the man’s elbow. “You’ve soiled your cloak enough already, Perryl. Stay away before you’re dragged down with me.”
Perryl refused to move. “There is much you don’t know. As I warned you on the streets, these are dark and perilous times.” The young man sighed. “Have you heard about Ser Henri?”
“What of the old man?” Tylar asked cautiously.
Henri ser Gardlen was the warden of the Order, the leader of Tashijan for as long as Tylar could remember. He ruled the Order and its council with a firm but even hand. It was only through Ser Henri’s intervention that Tylar had not been hanged for his crimes.
“He died… most strangely and suddenly.”
“By all the Graces, how?”
“His body was found on the stairs leading up to his tower, his face a mask of horror, his fingertips burned to the first knuckle. Tashijan is keeping the details shuttered. When I left there a half-moon ago, the Order was still in chaos. Factions war behind closed doors, vying for the seat of succession. I can only hope matters have settled to deal with the tragedy here.”
Tylar stood, stunned.
“But that is not all. Strangeness abounds across all the lands. Over in the Fifth Land, Tristal of Idlewyld has gone into seclusion on his peak, cutting off all Graces to his sworn knights. Talk is that he raves. Ulf of Ice Eyrie has frozen his entire castillion, locking his court in hoarfrost. None can enter or leave. And across the Meerashe Deep, rumors abound of a mighty hinter-king rising on the Seventh Land, threatening to break out into the neighboring god-realms.”
Tylar shook his head. “I’ve heard none of this.”
“Few have. The tidings are scattered and scarce. Perhaps they are merely a spate of bad fortune, but now this.” He glanced to the doorway. “Ten days ago, Meeryn sent a raven to Tashijan and requested a blessed courier.”
“You?”
Perryl nodded. “It was my honor.”
Tylar touched his brow in thought. Once gods settled to a land, they were rooted to it, requiring intermediaries to carry their messages between them. Only the most important messages were born by the sworn couriers of the Order.
“I don’t know how Meeryn’s death ties to all this,” Perryl continued. “But I sense dark currents in the tides of the world. Something is stirring down deep, out of sight.”
“And you think it struck here? To silence Meeryn?”
“It seems an extraordinary coincidence that she summons a courier, and on the very day I step on this island, she is slain.” Perryl reached to Tylar, touching his hand. “If you spoke the truth about that awful night, then Meeryn blessed you for some reason, healed you with the last of her Grace. She must have championed you for some purpose.”