“I don’t know. Perhaps it was simply a final kindness for the man who comforted her during her last breath.” He remembered the swell of Grace into him. His fingers wandered unbidden to the center of his chest, where she had touched him.
“Did she say anything to you in those last moments?”
Tylar dropped his fingers and shook his head-then realized he was mistaken. “Wait.” He focused back to Perryl. “She did say one thing. But it made no sense.”
“What was it?”
He struggled to remember the exact pronunciation. “Riven… scryr.”
Perryl’s eyes pinched.
“Does that mean anything to you?”
Perryl shook his head. “I… I’ve never heard of such a name.” He backed a step, looking slightly paler. “But perhaps the scholars at Tashijan or in Chrismferry will know better. I should be going. There is much to arrange before I leave, much to ponder.”
As Perryl turned away, Tylar reached out to the edge of his friend’s cloak, but he dared not let his fingers soil it. The young Shadowknight fixed his masklin in place and studied his former teacher. “Be safe, ser.”
Tylar let his arm drop. “And you,” he mumbled.
“Until our cloaks touch again,” Perryl said, then vanished away.
These last words were a common farewell among knights. Tylar turned to face his dank cell with its steaming chamber pot and snoring guest. Even fit and hale again, he felt like no knight.
The door slammed behind him, and the bar was shoved in place. The dungeonkeep grumbled something about his clothes, but he didn’t dare ask for them back. Tylar wondered how long such protection would last once Perryl was gone.
Rogger groaned and rolled to face Tylar. “Talkative fellow, that tall dark one.” The thief must have been feigning sleep the entire time. “A friend of yours?”
Tylar settled to the mound of lice-ridden straw that was his bed. “Once… and maybe still.”
Rogger sat up. “He had much to say… and little else of real worth to offer.”
“What do you mean?” Tylar’s attention drew sharply toward the bearded and branded fellow. He spoke more keenly than earlier. Even his manner seemed more refined.
“As a pilgrim, I’ve journeyed far and wide. I’ve heard, too, of the dark tidings of which the young knight spoke. And not only in halls and castillions through which your once-and-maybe-again friend walked, but in those many places where the sun doesn’t shine as bright.”
His speech suddenly thickened again, his manner roughened, hunching a bit. “Th’art many a low tongue that’ll wag to a whipped dog that won’t speak to a lordling or maid.”
Tylar knew this true enough himself. The underfolk kept many secrets unto themselves.
“Then again,” Rogger continued, “there are many in high towers who speak freely at their castillion door, blind to the ragged pilgrim on their doorstep.” A sly glint blew bright in his eye. “Or on the floor of a cell.”
It seemed sleep was not the only thing this thief had been feigning. There was more to the man than first impressed. “Who are you?” Tylar asked.
Rogger started to wag a finger at him, then thought better of it and used it to dig a flea out of his beard. “Just a thief and a pilgrim.” An eyebrow rose as he paused in his scratching. “Or rather should I say I’m as much a thief and pilgrim… as you are a knight?”
Tylar’s head hurt from trying to riddle meaning out of these strange words. “Are you truly on a pilgrimage? Was your story of Balger’s punishment true?”
“Alas, as true as the stripes on my back, I’m afraid. But one story does not make an entire man, does it?”
Tylar had to agree. “You mentioned hearing other grim tidings on your journeys. What sort of happenings?”
“Rumors, whispers in the night, tales of black blessings and ilk-beasts stirring from the hinterlands. Your young friend has barely nicked the flesh on what’s really going on, but he still hit the heart of the matter. Something is indeed stirring out there.”
“What?”
“How in the naether should I know?” Rogger rolled back to his straw billet. “And now that I finally have a bit of quiet, maybe I could get some true sleep. I doubt we’ll get much rest this night.”
“Why’s that?”
“The bells, ser knight, the bells.”
Tylar had almost forgotten. Meeryn’s deathwatch ended with the rising of the Mother moon. The death bells would announce her passing. They would surely peal all night.
He settled back to his own bed and pondered all that had been told him. But his thoughts kept returning to one moment-or rather one word.
Rivenscryr.
What did it mean? Why had Meeryn blessed him, healed him? Was it for him to be her champion, as Perryl had suggested? Was this word supposed to mean something to him?
Tylar sensed something unspoken in Perryl. The young man had paled with the mention of Rivenscryr. But if Perryl knew more, why hadn’t he spoken?
There could be only one answer.
Perryl must have sworn an oath. While the young knight might show his face to a man who had once been his teacher, even protect him, he would never break an oath.
Perryl had learned that much from Tylar.
Rolling to his side, Tylar tried to stop thinking, stop remembering.
It hurt too much.
Tylar startled awake in his bed, sitting up. He vaguely remembered dreams of being crippled again… and now waking to his hale body, he felt oddly disappointed. His broken body had sheltered him, hidden him these long years, requiring nothing of him but survival. But now Tylar had to face the world again, a whole man.
He groaned.
From beyond the lone window, hundreds of bells pealed, ringing and clanging. The noise was deafening.
He glanced upward. Full night had set in. Evening mists flowed in through the high barred window, pouring down like a foggy waterfall. His eyes grew accustomed to the gloom and spotted Rogger across the cell. The thief was standing under the window, bathed in mists.
“It’s all over,” Rogger said, noting him stir. “The Hundred are now ninety-nine.”
Tylar stood, joining him. He had heard the sorrow in the other’s voice. Despite the thief’s calculating and dismissive demeanor earlier, the man understood the loss, felt it deeply.
“This is just the beginning,” Rogger mumbled. “The first blood spilled. More will flow… much more…”
Though the night remained hot and muggy, Tylar shivered. Bells rang and rang, echoing out to sea and beyond. Cries could be heard rising in the night, mournful, pained, angry, frightened. Prayers were sung from a tower top, cast out to the skies.
The pair in the cell remained silent, standing under the window for a long stretch. Rogger finally turned away, staring at Tylar. “You talk in your sleep, ser knight.”
“So? What does it-?”
Rogger cut him off. “You were speaking in Littick, ancient Littick, the old tongue of the gods.”
Tylar found this claim doubly odd. First, he was hardly fluent in Littick. And second, how did a thief from the Dell even recognize Littick, especially ancient Littick? “What did I say?” he asked, expecting no real answer.
“You were whispering. It was hard to make out.”
“Yet you’re sure it was Littick.”
“Of course. What I did make out was clear enough. You kept saying, ‘Agee wan clyy nee wan dred ghawl.’ Over and over again.”
Tylar pinched his brow. “What does that mean?”
Rogger pulled on his beard in thought. “It’s nonsensical.”
“Then it’s probably nothing. Dream babble, nothing more.”
Rogger seemed not to hear him. “ ‘Agee wan clyy’… break the bone. ‘Nee wan dred ghawl’… and free the dark spirit.”
Tylar waved the words away. “As I was saying, dream babble.”
“Then again,” Rogger continued, “ clyy could mean body, rather than bone. Depends on the emphasis.” The thief sighed. “And you were whispering.”