She rounded the last flight of the central stair and proceeded to the tall doors of the Citadel’s field room. For ages lost to the past, the chamber was used as a place of strategy, planning, and preparation. Over the millennia, the fate of countless hinter-kings and untold armies had been decided behind those doors. Great battles were mapped, wars waged in ink and blood, treaties signed or broken. All of Myrillia had been forged behind those doors.
A pair of Shadowknights, cloaked and hooded, posted the threshold, standing in shallow alcoves. Their forms seemed to flow into the gloom of their niches. The darkness fed their forms, readying them to respond to any threat with the speed borne of Grace. Only the glow of their eyes could be seen above the black of their masklin wraps.
“Castellan Vail,” the closest knight acknowledged with a sweep of cloak. “The warden awaits your presence.”
The other guard opened the door with a surge of darkness.
“Thank you,” Kathryn mumbled. Both were too young, she thought, fresh to their third stripe, too ostentatious with their show of shadowplay, wasting Grace in theatrics.
She stepped into the field room.
The scent of oiled woods and brittle parchment greeted her first-then a familiar booming voice.
“The castellan finally graces us with her presence,” Master Hesharian said. The rotund leader of the Council of Masters stood with four others around a central table.
Despite the chamber’s significance, the field room was cramped and tight. The rear windows, overlooking the tourney grounds, had been shuttered for this meeting, ensuring privacy and forbidding the sun. To either side, the Stacks-giant wooden shelves that stored illuminated maps of all the Nine Lands, even rough sketches of sections of hinterland- lined the walls, buttressed by ladders. The only other significant feature to the room was the massive wyrmwood table. Its patina had blackened from the passing centuries, its surface scarred and pitted.
Kathryn crossed toward the waiting group. “I apologize for my late arrival. Matters of some importance detained me.”
Hesharian raised one brow. “More important than the security of Tashijan?” The large man still resented her assignment as castellan, a post normally held by one of the Council of Masters.
Kathryn ignored his gibe. She nodded to Hesharian’s fellow council members. Master Osk climbed down one of the Stacks’ ladders, burdened with a large map roll. He was as thin as Master Hesharian was vast, a lesser moon before a greater. As always, he kept his eyes pinched as if fearful of being struck. He nodded back at her and turned to the table, exposing the line of tattoos circling the back of his shaved skull.
“A moment, Castellan Vail,” Argent said formally. He accepted the thick parchment from Master Osk, set it on the table, and shoved the roll loose down the table’s length. A schematic of Tashijan revealed itself.
Intrigued, Kathryn stepped to the table.
“It’s been a long time,” Keeper Ryngold greeted her on the right side with a genuine smile. He was the only person present whose head was not adorned by tattooed sigils or stripes of knighthood. Still, he was well respected by all, head of the entire house staff and laborers. If matters of security were to be addressed, he would orchestrate the underfolk of the Citadel.
On her left, she received no greeting and expected none. A knight of few words, Symon ser Jaklar needed no shadowcloak to cast a pall of gloom around him. He strode under thunderclouds even on the brightest days. His hair, shaved to a coarse black stubble, matched his eyes. Formerly squire to Argent, he had continued his duty as knight under the leadership of his former teacher.
Kathryn studied the ancient map of the halls, levels, rooms, and courts of Tashijan. Spread out on the table, the vast Citadel seemed a city unto itself with byways and alleys, crowded places and lonely ones, all centered round the central Stormwatch Tower that stretched as high as the masters’ catacombs delved low. How would they stop one man from breeching the vast domain unseen? It was a daunting challenge, but one the new warden seemed ready to handle, having served in dozens of sieges from both sides of a wall.
Argent placed his palms flat on the parchment. “As I was saying, I know the godslayer is on his way here. Perhaps he’s already in the First Land. But over the centuries, Tashijan has grown lazy with its fortifications, weakened its foundations. We can’t keep the godslayer out.”
“Then what can we do?” Master Hesharian asked.
“We can be smarter. What walls can’t stop, strategy can.” Argent straightened, sweeping his gaze around the room. “We must guide the godslayer to where we want him to go. The best trap is one the victim walks into willingly.”
Hesharian frowned. “And how do you propose to accomplish this?”
“By controlling what he most desires.” Argent’s sweeping gaze settled upon Kathryn.
All eyes turned in her direction.
Argent addressed her directly. “Castellan Vail, I’d like you to meet the man set as your personal guard in the days to come.” He lifted his arm. A signal.
A scrape of boots sounded behind her and to the left. She turned as a tall man stepped from between a set of the Stacks. She had walked right past him without even noticing his presence. But it was not Grace that hid him. He wore no shadowcloak. Instead, the man was outfitted in furred breeches, knee-high brown boots, and a mud-brown half cloak with hood. All looked well worn and scuffed.
A wyld tracker.
But it was not the clothes that identified the man. Wyld trackers were blessed at birth with alchemies of air and loam, making them preternaturally keen to scent trails and changes in winds. This blessing was plainly apparent from the prominent protrusion of nose and jaw. Half muzzled, as it was called, a beastly appearance, made more so by the lack of white to their eyes, leaving them a solid amber.
Argent spoke at the head of the table. “Tracker Lorr has served at my side since before the Bramblebrier Campaign. There is no finer hunter in all of Myrillia.”
He offered a half bow toward the warden, arms crossed. Despite the play at civility here, Kathryn sensed a feral edge to the man. His face bore testimony to past battles, rippled with scars, eyes hard as fieldstones. His lanky brown hair, worn past the shoulder, was shot through with gray. But he showed no signs that age had touched him further. His belts, at waist and crisscrossed over his chest, were decorated with sheathed blades of every shape.
“I’ve informed Tracker Lorr of his duties,” Argent said. “He will not leave your side or your door until the godslayer is subdued.”
Kathryn rounded on the warden. “And when does his duty commence?”
“At this very moment. I thought it best you both become acquainted with your new routines as soon as possible.” His gaze turned to the tracker. “Lorr, are you ready to introduce Castellan Vail to your.. ah, what do you call them… very colorful as I recall? Ah yes, your right and left hands.”
With another half bow, the tracker turned toward the door.
Kathryn hesitated. Was she being dismissed from the meeting already? A hard stare from Argent answered her. Clearly he meant to keep her in the dark on further details. Did he distrust her, think she would betray their secrets to Tylar?
With black clouds about her shoulders, she swung away and followed the tracker. He opened the door and continued through, not bothering to see if she kept pace with him. Perhaps it wasn’t necessary, armed as he was with his Grace-sharpened senses.
Out in the hall, the two young knights stirred as the pair stormed out. Kathryn imagined the tracker was no more keen to be relegated to mere guard than she was to be kept under guard. He continued down the hall, turned down a side passage, and crossed to a barred room.
Turning to her, he spoke for the first time. His voice was surprisingly soft coming from such a gruff exterior. “Best take care a moment. They’re easily spooked.”