“Perhaps Perryl should stay at your side,” Gerrod said.
Kathryn rested her hand on the diamond pommel of her sword. “I have a blade… and know how to use it.”
Gerrod reached and took her hand from her sword. “Still, beware. Trust no one, not even your fellow knights. Shadowcloaks are good at hiding one’s heart as well as form.”
She reached and hugged him. “You should take the same advice in Chrismferry. It seems something foul is at work there… something that struck at the heart of Tashijan.”
“Not just Tashijan,” Gerrod mumbled and broke the embrace. He raised his helmet. “Perhaps its reach extended as far as the Summering Isles.”
Kathryn studied the bronze figure. “The slaying of Meeryn? You think it’s all tied together?”
“A master’s first lesson is to be suspicious of a chain of circumstance. Something stirs beneath all this. It hides behind many faces, but wears only one.”
Kathryn felt the chill of certainty in his words.
“Hopefully I’ll learn more from Healer Paltry.” Gerrod bowed his head. “Step carefully, Kathryn.”
“And you do the same.”
The bullhound growled, crouched at a cross passage ahead.
Kathryn stopped at an arm raised by Tracker Lorr. “Barrin smells something,” the wyldman said. “Stay here.”
Kathryn felt no fear. One bullhound or the other was always scenting something. It made for crossing from one end of Tashijan to the other a major undertaking, full of sudden stops and hissed warnings. But she had wanted to hand the courier message to Perryl herself. She carried it in the inner pocket of her shadowcloak, sealed with wax, imprinted with the castellan’s mark. She had spent the afternoon composing the letter, addressing it to the one person she most trusted in Chrismferry. He would be able to assist Perryl and Gerrod in their inquiries.
Kathryn glanced to the bit of sky shining through a high window. The sun was close to setting already. At this rate, by the time she got the letter into Perryl’s hands, he would miss the dawn flippercraft.
Behind her, the hulking mass of the other bullhound filled half the corridor. Hern kept watch on their trail. How they could smell anything beyond the rangy reek of their own pelts and fetid breath was a mystery.
Lorr moved to Barrin’s side. The tracker’s amber eyes narrowed. His loose hair was secured behind his ears with a strap of leather. He had a pair of blades out, one in each hand. Kathryn had seen him impale a rat at a hundred paces, a tidbit of fresh meat for his companions. He scouted the crossing of passages.
Kathryn leaned against a wall. There was no use protesting such caution. Tracker Lorr had been given his duty by Warden Fields. He would brook no other authority.
He waved her forward. “Clear.” Lorr sniffed the air. Bred to be a tracker in the ancient forests of Idlewyld, he had been blessed with Grace, his senses of smell heightened by air, his skill at woodlore gifted by loam. He cocked his head high, his profile clearly showing the slight protuberance of the lower half of his face as he scented the air.
“There’s an old trail of blood through here,” he said. “I would’ve missed it if not for Barrin here. Someone was killed nearby. Murder, I’d say, from the tang of fear in the air.”
Kathryn moved to his side. “How old is the trail?”
“No older than the turn of one moon.” He glanced back at her.
Kathryn studied the crossroad of corridors. Her first worry was for Castellan Mirra. “Are you certain?”
“Blood is blood,” he said and waved Barrin down the hall.
“Can you follow the trail?”
Lorr shrugged. “Certainly, until the blood runs out. Barrin and Hern may be able to follow it even farther. But what of this letter you wanted delivered? The trail is old. It can wait the night.”
Kathryn shook her head, sensing a need for urgency. “No, we must pursue it.” She nodded for him to follow.
He balked for a moment, clearly wondering if it was wise to lead his charge along such a path. But his eyes drifted to the trail with beastly longing. Blood was in the air. There was a track to follow.
Finally he huffed at Barrin and pointed. The bullhound continued down the new passage, nose close to the stones. This passage led into parts of Tashijan that had seen little use in ages.
Warden Fields had been correct in his assessment of the current state of affairs, here and across Myrillia. The number of knights and those who sought to serve the gods had been slowly eroding over the past four centuries. So slow was the attrition, it was hard to note, like water wearing a path through stone.
They continued into the lonely passages. Rooms were boarded up, even some windows. Dust grew thicker as they wound down a twisting narrow stairway. Older footsteps disturbed the grime, coming and going.
Lorr would stop and finger some of the steps. “Fresher,” he said. “Other trackers have been this way.”
“So the blood trail has already been followed,” Kathryn said, disappointment hardening her words. She pictured the scores of men and women, trackers and knights, even ilk-beasts, who had searched for Castellan Mirra. None had met with success. If this path had already been followed…
Lorr straightened. “There are no sharper noses than those of a bullhound. Where others have given up, we may push farther.” A hint of excitement rushed his words. “We move on.”
As they searched, Kathryn remembered stories told of Chrismferry. The colossal, ancient city was so broad of scope and breadth that vast areas had fallen into disrepair and returned to wildlands within the heart of the city. Most of the city folk seldom traveled past their own four city blocks. The rest was foreign lands.
The same was true here, Kathryn realized. Tashijan was the size of a small city, half above ground, half below, but much had fallen away and was forgotten. Knights and masters stuck to the corridors they knew. Few ventured into those hidden corners. Warden Fields had warned about the impossibility of defending against Tylar’s attempt to enter Tashijan. It had too many forgotten battlements, entries, and secret halls. Kathryn saw the proof of that here.
Lorr was finally forced to light a torch as the corridors grew too dark… though Kathryn suspected the light was mostly for her benefit. The wyldman’s eyes glowed with a trace of Grace.
“The blood trail grows too thin for me to follow,” Lorr said, halting at a spot where the corridor branched in three directions. He knelt and studied the stone. “Someone used a blessing of air to breeze away the dust, hiding their footsteps.”
“So we can go no farther?”
“We have bullhounds,” said Lorr.
Barrin had already wandered ahead and sniffed at the three passages. He grumbled at the one on the left. A rope of drool dripped from one corner of his lip and sizzled on the stone, etching it. Hern, behind them, simply stood on guard, tongue lolling, waiting on his master.
“This way,” Lorr said, stepping toward the left passage. “Careful of the drool.”
Kathryn followed behind Lorr. The corridors here were low and narrow. Barrin filled the entire passage ahead, Hern behind. Kathryn felt an intense pang of unease. No one knew she was down here… and bullhounds had the capability for consuming all, even the bones, of their prey.
Was that how Castellan Mirra had vanished? Into the gullet of such monsters? Kathryn’s steps began to slow. Her hand drifted to the pommel of her sword. Had she walked willingly to her own doom?
They continued for another quarter bell, moving in line, slipping from one passage to the next, climbing crumbled stairs.
A hiss from Lorr drew her attention. He pointed ahead. Barrin had entered a cavernous room. Lorr followed next. He waved for Kathryn to stay at the entrance.
With torch in hand, Lorr moved into the room. The firelight danced shadows on the high-raftered room. It looked like a small gathering hall. Tiered benches circled the walls, though one section had collapsed down upon itself.