Shadowfall by James Clemens
No one knew how many Oracles would show up at each ceremony, seeking replacements for their lieges’ handmaidens or handmen. It was a matter of utter secrecy. Even the Oracles themselves had no foreknowledge of how many or what manner of servants were needed in other gods’ households. Handmaidens and handmen, called collectively Hands, lived exultant but short lives, exposed to powerful Graces that slowly altered their bodies. Replacements were needed regularly by the households of the hundred realms.
The Oracles were led into the center of the chapel, surrounded by the supplicants’ stoops. They faced the hopeful group, abandoning their red servants for the moment, concentrating on the circle of young men and women, boys and girls.
Dart noted the sigils: Yzellan of Tempest Sound, Isoldya of Mistdale, Dragor of Blasted Canyon, Quint of Five Forks, Cor Ven of Chadga Falls, and on and on. The number of Oracles was not large, but they represented some of the finest houses.
A small murmur spread through the assembly as the last Oracle entered the chapel and revealed himself. It was a very old man, borne by two servants and still needing a cane.
Dart squinted at his sigil on his forehead—ҁ—and gasped with recognition.
Chrism.
Here was the Oracle of Myrillia’s eldermost god. It had been three years since Chrism had called for a new servant.
As this elderly Oracle took his place among the others, another servant ran in from the hallway. He searched the room, then hurried to one of the Oracles. The two bent in whispers. As the Oracle straightened, his cowl was drawn back over his head. He withdrew with the new servant, leaving the chapel amid fervent murmuring from the gallery.
Dart had read the sigil on the departing Oracle. Meeryn of the Summering Isles. How odd. She could not recall an Oracle ever withdrawing in the middle of a ceremony. Something drastic must have transpired in Meeryn’s household.
As Meeryn’s Oracle left, the greatdrum began to beat again, slow and solemn. It filled the vast space, making it seem larger, yet at the same time more intimate.
It was the signal to begin the choosing.
Dart knew what to do from here. Kneeling, with her elbows already on the rail, she pushed out her hands, palms up, and bowed her brow to her forearms in the posture of supplication. As she did so, she was acutely aware of the sting of her abraded hands. It was shameful to offer such soiled palms, but then again, it was somehow fitting, considering the corruption of her body and spirit.
With her head bowed, she saw nothing. Still, she closed her eyes to staunch the hot tears that threatened. She heard the shuffle and brush of robes as the Oracles spread out among the supplicants, searching with the senses of the god they represented, seeking the perfect match to fill their need.
Dart’s hands trembled. The stoop was all that kept her upright. Around her, she heard startled cries from the other students as they were chosen.
After so much pageantry, the selection was a simple matter. The Oracle would simply place a small gray slate stone, the size of a dol-jin tile, into a student’s upraised palm, claiming the supplicant for their god. There was no appeal or argument allowed. In the High Chapel, under the first moon of summer, the Oracles were their gods.
The chosen would then be raised from the stoop by the red-liveried servant and brought to stand by his or her new master. Only then could they look upon the tile and know which of the nine Graces they had been assigned. The primary quadricles were the most exalted: blood, seed, menses, sweat. But none would shun any of the secondary quintrangles: tears, saliva, phlegm, yellow and black bile. It was an honor to be chosen at all.
The choosing stretched painfully long. Dart heard Oracle after Oracle pass her station with a brush of robes. Her palms stung worse and worse. No cool tile was placed there to numb the pain.
Then the beating of the greatdrum ceased on one resounding crash, and it was over.
Dart raised her face, noting the empty stoops. Margarite still knelt beside her. But beyond was an empty station.
Laurelle had been chosen.
Margarite began to sob with the realization. Both of them searched the gathered Oracles to see who had chosen her best friend. Already the servants were pulling up their masters’ cowls, preparing to leave.
Dart was the first to spot Laurelle. She covered her mouth in shock and delight. Laurelle stood in the shadow of the elderly, bent form.
“It’s Chrism . . .” Dart whispered in awe.
Margarite sobbed harder, a bitter sound.
Noting their attention, Laurelle nodded to them and touched the corner of her eye. She was signaling the Grace to which she had been chosen.
“Tears,” Margarite half-wailed, shedding her own for her friend and for her own loss.
It was the best of the secondary quintrangles, an honor for one so young.
Dart simply kept her mouth covered. She allowed the pleasure of the moment to well through her, happy for Laurelle. She read the bright expression of relief on her face and could not help but be delighted.
“All of our sisters should have been here to witness this,” Margarite hissed, grief quickly firing to anger, needing a target.
Dart’s momentary happiness dimmed. Margarite was right. It was a success the entire floor should have shared.
The Oracles began to file out of the room with their charges. Dart noted the bronze boy leaving with the Oracle who represented Jessup of Oldenbrook, a distinguished house of the First Land. The dark boy did not seem to notice her attention, but she followed him with her eyes as he departed. No other thirdfloorers had been chosen.
With her attention focused elsewhere, Dart barely noted the slow, assisted passage of the ancient Oracle. He and his entourage crept past Dart’s station. Laurelle waved to her and Margarite, wisping a kiss in their direction, tears running down her face. But Laurelle’s eyes also spent a long time searching the tiers and benches.
Dart noted her lack of discovery. Her family was not in attendance.
But Dart had her own concerns. With the ceremony over, she had to face the ruins of her own life. How long could she stay hidden here? What of Healer Paltry, lurking in the halls?
The bent-backed Oracle stopped before Dart’s station, leaning heavily on his cane, resting a breath. Servants supported him on both sides. His head swung in her direction, blind and swathed in silk. But Dart sensed him staring at her, like a weight upon her heart.
A crooked finger rose and pointed at her.
Another servant rushed to her side and grabbed her by the shoulder.
Dart pulled away, knowing she had been found out, her inner fears heard by the blind seer. Weak from dread, she did not fight as her arm was yanked forward.
The Oracle stepped heavily toward her, stabbing his hand out at her. She stared wide-eyed, taking in every detail: the yellow nails, the parchment-thin skin, the spiderweb of veins. It was more claw than hand.
A cry built up inside her. All eyes were on her. She would be debased before the entire assembly.
Then a stone dropped into her palm. Reflexively she caught it, closing her fingers. Her arm was released.
Murmurs of shock and surprise echoed from the gallery.
“You are chosen.” The servant at her side spoke solemnly. “Rise and take your place.”
Dart could not. She simply trembled. “I can’t . . . mistake . . .” She tried to push the tile back toward the Oracle.
The ancient one ignored her and stepped away.
Laurelle took his place. “Be strong,” she whispered, returning Dart’s words to her. She offered a free hand.
Slowly, on wobbling legs, Dart stood. She slipped around the stoop and stepped to Laurelle’s side.
Margarite looked on, her face aghast and drained of all color.
“What Grace have you won?” Laurelle asked.
Dart numbly glanced to her closed fist. She opened it and stared down at the painted Littick sigil:
H
Her hand trembled, almost dropping the slate.<
Laurelle steadied her with a hand. “Well?”
Dart could not speak. She showed her tile to Laurelle. The disbelief on the other girl’s face matched her own.
It was the one Grace above all others.
Blood.
5
BROKEN BONES
“I ...I DON’T KNOW ANYTHING,” TYLAR MOANED, HATING himself for the sob that racked through him.
“Again,” commanded the masklin-wrapped Shadowknight.
Tylar no longer had the strength to tense. He heard the crack of the whip, then felt the lancing sting as a long stripe of flesh was sliced to bone. His body jolted against the whipping post. The flesh on his wrists tore against the unforgiving iron. He hung by his manacles, looped over a hook high on the post, his toes brushing the dirt of the courtyard.
He was stripped to a loincloth. Blood ran down the back of his thighs and calves, dripped from his toes. Tears trailed through his sweat. He stared up at the full face of the lesser moon shining down on him.
He had lost count of the strokes. Eighteen lashes? He wasn’t sure. He had slipped away once, the pain driving him into oblivion. But a splash of cold water had mercilessly revived him, along with a crumpled cloth soaked in bitter alchemies shoved under his nose. Apparently it was rude to sleep during one’s own torture.
Dazed, he slumped against the post, lolling in his manacles. Crowds packed the courtyard stands to watch the spectacle. The trio of adjudicators sat in seats, a silver tray of pomegranates and kettle cakes beside them. The red-robed soothmancer stood at their side, arms crossed. At least he had the decency to look sickened. The group of black-draped Hands clotted in one corner, consoling one another in low whispers, barely noting the festivities.
And a festival it was. The balconies and parapets were crowded with lords and ladies of the high city, servants of the castillion, even some drabbed underfolk who must have bribed their way to a viewing seat. Laughter and shouts for more blood rang off the walls. Black ale flowed along with spiced wine. Somewhere a minstrel played bright tunes, while hundreds of bells rang from the lower city.
The Shadowknight, Darjon ser Hightower, leaned closer to his face, one gloved hand resting against the whipping post. “Tell us the truth, and your death will be swift.”
Tylar tasted blood on his tongue as he attempted to speak. “So you keep promising . . . but here I keep hanging, though I keep telling you the truth.”
The eyes of his torturer narrowed. “We’ve barely begun here. I can make this last more than a single night.”
Tylar closed his eyes. “You want the truth . . . ?” He took a deep breath, though it pained him to do so.
Darjon bent nearer.
Tylar opened his eyes and spat with the last of his strength, catching the knight square in the face. “There is your truth!”
With a roar, the Shadowknight reared back. He waved an arm to the whipmaster.
The crack of flying leather answered, and Tylar was slammed into the post. His back flashed with fire, his agony darkening the world to a pinpoint. He did not fight it, but instead sank away.
Somewhere far off, he heard a shout. “Keep that up, y’art going to kill him.”
Tylar recognized Rogger’s voice. The thief, bound in ropes off in one corner, seemed to be his only defender. Of course, his pleas for clemency might be self-serving. Once Tylar confessed and was killed, Rogger was due to be impaled next to him, both destined to be bits of decoration for Meeryn’s tomb. So the longer Tylar held out, the longer the thief drew breath.
As Tylar drifted farther away, acrid vapors suddenly assaulted his nostrils. He struggled to get away from them, tossing his head. Cold water flooded over him, shivering over his flesh. He gasped as the world shook back into foggy focus.
He saw the healer’s face hovering at the tip of his nose. “Here he comes,” the man said, pulling away the crumple of stinking cloth. He glanced to Darjon at his shoulder. “He’s lost a lot of vital humour, ser. Next time I might not be able to revive him.”
Darjon swore. “The whip’s not loosening this one’s tongue anyway. We’ll try other tortures that aren’t so bloody. Cut him down!”
A guard rushed forward and unhinged the hook. As the manacles slipped free, Tylar’s body felt tenfold heavier. He collapsed, facedown, into the bloody mud under the post.
The healer dropped to one knee. “I could put some firebalm on his wounds. It stings mightily, but it’ll staunch the bleeding.”
“Do it! I won’t have him dying on us . . . at least, not yet.”
The healer rummaged in a satchel.
Darjon twisted a fist in Tylar’s hair and pulled his face up. Limned against the full moon, his countenance was entirely shadow. Only his eyes glowed with Grace. “Before this night ends, I will discover what you did to Meeryn.”
Tylar sensed Darjon’s ferocity. And something darker. There was more to this man’s determination than mere vengeance. While punishments could be cruel, torture was not the way of the Order. But Tylar was too tired to curse the man, so he told him the truth in his heart. “You . . . You disgrace your cloak.”
Darjon shoved him away.
The healer pulled free a tiny clay pot. “This will sting,” he said under his breath.
Tylar steeled himself, though it had done him little good so far.
The healer’s shadow fell over him. Fingers touched his shoulder. The spread of balm on his flesh did not burn. Not at all. Instead, it was like the sweetest nectar on the tongue, a soothing caress on a fevered brow.
Tylar moaned in relief, unable to keep it bottled in his chest. It was as if every scrap of torture-inflicted pain was being repaid in kind by rapturous pleasure. It rippled over his flesh.
A small surprised gasp escaped the healer. “By all the gods!”
“What?” Darjon asked, stepping around.
“He heals with just a touch of the firebalm.” The healer slathered his back with more salve as proof and demonstration. “Look how the lash wounds glow under the balm, and the skin closes over.”
As Tylar shuddered with the pleasure of the balm, Darjon stumbled back a few steps. “The glow . . .” He swept out with his shadowcloak to command attention. “It is Grace . . . the Grace stolen from Meeryn! Here is the proof we’ve sought all night! He heals with Meeryn’s own dying Grace!”
Despite the soothing touch of the balm, Tylar groaned.
Figures closed in to witness the miracle. Guards held off all but those who had been in the hall earlier. The adjudicators watched as the healer repeated his demonstration, treating the last of the lash marks. Sounds of amazement rose from those gathered.
A black-gowned figure fell to her knee beside Tylar. She raised her hands to her face, lifting her veil. She was ashen-skinned, her lips daubed black. “It’s blood Grace!” she gasped. “I would know it anywhere . . .”
Another of the entourage spoke, a man dressed also in black. He placed a hand on the woman’s shoulder and explained, “Delia was the maiden who handled Her Brightness’s blood.”
Tears rose in the young woman’s eyes. “It is indeed Meeryn!”
“Can there be any doubt of his guilt now?” Darjon said boldly. “I say we put him to more vigorous tests. Grind the truth from his very bones.”
Fervent agreement met his words. Only the kneeling woman looked confused. “Why does he bear her blood?” But no one heard her.
She was helped to her feet by the man who had spoken on her behalf. The crowd dispersed, making room.
Tylar turned.
Darjon led two men. One hulking fellow carried a stump of wood. The other, even larger than the first, carried an immense iron hammer.
As the stump was dropped in the mud at his feet, Darjon bent closer. “There is more than one way to break a man, Godslayer.”
In this instance, the knight was speaking literally.
“Undo his manacles. Drag his right hand onto the wood.”
Tylar balked, understanding what was inte
“First the one hand, then the other, then we’ll start with your knees.” Darjon seemed to take particular delight in his prisoner’s thrashing, but Tylar couldn’t stop himself. It was not just the pain he feared.
“No!” he begged. “I’ve told you the truth.”
“Your own blood betrays you. What the whippings have hinted, the hammer will reveal.”
Tylar was too weak to resist. Two guards gripped his arm and thrust his hand atop the stump.
Darjon leaned closer. “Tell us how you slew her!”
“I didn’t—”
Even before he could finish, Darjon signaled the giant with the hammer. Swung from the shoulder, the fist of iron arced high and plunged down toward the stump and its pale target.
Tylar cried out. He heard Rogger do the same: “Agee wan clyy!”
The words made no sense.
Then the hammer struck. Tylar felt the rebound all the way up his arm. It shuddered past his shoulder and into his chest. A wave of agony followed on its heels. Blinding . . . a thousandfold worse than a single lash.
He screamed, arching back, his face bared to the moon overhead.
Then he felt something loosen deep inside. He had already pissed himself, and if he had anything to eliminate, he would have done it long ago. This was something deeper, something beyond bowel and flesh. He could not hold it back, even if he wanted.
From the black palm print on his chest, something dark wrested out of him and into this world. It gutted him, tearing out of his chest, taking all pleasure from him and leaving only pain.
The torment in his hand spread throughout his body. Other bones broke and reformed, callused, then broke again.
He screamed anew, as much in anguish as agony.
Somewhere far away, Rogger answered him: “Nee wan dred ghawl!”