The sun, high overhead, shone clear to the distant Strait of Parting. Near the horizon, a steeple seemed to float above the thin layer of sea mist and cloud. Tylar would recognize that sight anywhere. It had called him home many a day.
Stormwatch.
The highest tower of Tashijan.
“How long to reach there?” Delia asked.
“We should have horses in Muddlethwait awaiting us,” Krevan answered. “If we ride hard, we’ll reach Tashijan in the dead of night. A good time to seek entry.”
“Good or not,” Rogger said, “it’s the dead part that worries me.”
Tylar stared across the plains. Now in sight of the tower, the enormity of their task threatened to overwhelm him.
Rogger touched his shoulder. “Are you ready for this?”
He had no choice. Both his past and future lay ahead of him.
“Let’s go.”
16
“I believe I've discovered who called upon castellan Mirra,” Gerrod Rothkild said. “The one who brought her that swatch of linen in the middle of the night, soaked in blood.”
Kathryn stood out on her hermitage’s balcony, leaning on the balustrade. The day had proven to be warm, the first kiss of true spring. The rains of the past quarter moon steamed from the damp grounds of the courtyard, trapped between the four stone walls of Tashijan. The air was redolent with flowering buds from the giant wyrmwood tree blooming just these last few days, opening honeyed petals of snow-white. The branches of the wyrmwood dappled the balcony with their shadows, while across the courtyard, Stormwatch Tower climbed endlessly upward, basking in the sun like a sword raised on high.
It seemed too pleasant a day for such dark conversations. It should be night with rain falling. She sighed and turned to her friend. Gerrod’s bronzed armor sparked in the patches of sunlight, as if on fire.
“What have you discovered?” Kathryn asked.
Gerrod turned from the balcony and strode back into her rooms. Such words were best spoken in private, away from the open courtyard. Voices could carry oddly, echoing from the yard’s walls.
Kathryn followed him inside, closing the balcony doors.
Gerrod reached to his neck and retracted his helmet with a whir of mekanicals. His pale features seemed even paler. He ran a hand over his shaved scalp. The tattoos of his mastered disciplines stood out starkly, looking more like wounds than ink. “What I’ve found is most odd.”
Kathryn crossed and poured them each a tiny glass of rose wine. “Tell me all.”
“I was able to loosen the stableman’s tongue, the one who took the stranger’s horse,” Gerrod said, accepting a glass. “Though the groomsman proved stubborn. But what was sealed with gold finally broke under more.”
“What did he tell you?”
“Unfortunately not as much as I’d wished.” His frown deepened, along with the furrow across his brow. “He knew nothing of what the man carried or what his purpose was in coming so late on so road-worn a horse. But he did know that the man had traveled from Chrismferry.”
“And as I recall,” Kathryn said, “he returned there again after meeting with Castellan Mirra.”
Gerrod nodded. “The stableman also managed to note a detail about the man. At the man’s collar, he wore a stitching of oak and twig.”
Kathryn’s eyes widened. “A healer?”
“So it would appear.”
“By why would a healer bring something so foul to the castellan and in such a guarded manner?”
“That I can’t answer.” Gerrod stared at her with those penetrating green eyes, shining with sharp intelligence. “But my gold did buy one additional bit of information.” A bit of wry amusement glinted.
“What?”
“A name.”
Kathryn lowered her wineglass to the table. “The stableman caught his name?”
“Not exactly. The healer left his ride behind, taking a fresh horse for the long trip back.”
“He took one of our windmares,” Kathryn said, remembering the man’s urgency. He had needed speed to return to Chrismferry, borrowing an air-graced horse.
“And he rode in on the same,” Gerrod commented. “One by the name of Swifttail. This detail, of course, the stableman happened to note. He might miss a man’s name, but such a blessed bit of horseflesh would not escape his eye.”
“And how does this help us?”
Gerrod stepped to the table and picked at a piece of hard cheese left from her midday meal. He raised a brow inquiringly, asking permission.
“It seems what you bought in gold I must pay in cheese,” Kathryn said.
He cut a chunk and gingerly used his armored fingers to nibble at its edge. He washed it down with his wine, sighing contentedly, then continued. “It is lucky that Swifttail’s heritage was well-known to our stableman. His knowledge of all the First Land’s horseflesh is quite extensive. He spent most of a morning reciting Swifttail’s lineage.”
“And where does this lineage lead us?”
“To a stable as distinguished as our own. A private stable.”
“In Chrismferry.”
“Indeed… at the Conclave of Chrismferry to be exact.”
“The school?” The Conclave was the oldest and most illustrious of Myrillia’s institutes of training for young handmaidens and — men. Many of the Council of Masters had once taught there or still consulted.
“And the Conclave has only one healer in residence,” Gerrod said. “A fellow by the name of Paltry. I did some investigation and found he matched young Penni’s description of Castellan Mirra’s night visitor: black haired, fair of features.”
Kathryn narrowed one eye. “Healer Paltry. Why does that name sound familiar?”
“He also serves as the private physik to the High Wing of Chrism. You may remember hearing how the man saved several of his Hands from the pox scourge that struck the city two years ago.”
Kathryn nodded. “Of course. And now you think it was this healer who brought the bloodied swath to Castellan Mirra.”
“I am confident he is the one.”
“But why? To what end?”
“That’s something that will require further investigation in Chrismferry.”
“I can send a cadre of knights-”
“And alert all of Tashijan, including Warden Fields.” The name was spoken with a thick scowl. Fields had been instituting changes throughout the Citadel, not all well received. He had trimmed control of the Council of Masters, giving Master Hesharian powers to dictate without a quorum from the rest of the council. Power was concentrating into fewer and fewer hands, and all of those under the thumb of Argent ser Fields.
“What do you propose then?” Kathryn asked.
“There is an early-morning flippercraft headed to Chrismferry. I hope to be aboard it. I’ll make an excuse of needing to consult the libraries in the city. Once there, I can make some discreet inquiries, see if I can trace the source and reason for this strange visitation by Healer Paltry.”
Kathryn shook her head. “I don’t want you to go alone. You’ll need an escort.”
“I can fend for myself. And I am armored.” He tapped a fist on his thigh with a clank.
“No.” A firm tone entered her voice. “I want a sword at your side and someone who knows how to use it. You’ll take Perryl with you. To lessen suspicion, I can send him as courier to the court at Chrismferry. As castellan, I have some authority.”
“At least for the moment,” Gerrod countered dourly.
She sighed and glanced to the door, sensing the tracker and beast at her threshold. “He keeps me on a short enough tether as it is. And once Tylar is captured”-her voice caught in her throat-“or killed, my use to the warden will end.”
“I’m not so sure,” Gerrod said more softly. “He eyes you most salaciously at times. I think his plans for you don’t end with Tylar’s capture.”
Kathryn remembered Argent’s talk in his chambers, a hint at some possible union between them. For the good of Tashijan… and in turn for all of Myrillia. Such had been his rhetoric these past days as new laws were posted to doors and common rooms, justifying the concentration of power. And she was no exception.