Mirra moved slowly down the black stair, wrapped in a furred cloak and leaning on a stout cane. She took care to open the wards before her and close them after.
Precautions must be taken… even down here.
She moved far beneath Tashijan, as deep as Stormwatch Tower thrust high. None knew of these old tunnels and caverns. They were ancient even in the times of the human kings, burial crypts of the primitive el’rayn, a race before man. Not even their bones remained, just piles of dust and a few teeth.
Such is the impermanence of flesh…
She continued deeper. She needed no torch to guide her steps. She knew the way. Light was not welcome here. It threatened the barrier between this world and the naether below. Only in such sunless places did the naether come close enough to cross without the Godsword.
Still, she paused on the stair to rest her knees and back. She stared up. All was set. Her duty was almost done: to spread dissent, to corrupt, to confuse. Ser Henri had been too pliant a fool, so easy to flail his fears, to beset him with suspicions. She had set him against the Fiery Cross, playing one side upon the other. And the linchpin had been Henri’s golden boy, Tylar ser Noche. How simple it had been to tease the mistrust of the Gray Traders, to get them to plant murder at Tylar’s feet, then have him stripped and broken. It also broke poor Henri, made him even more compliant to her whispered words of conspiracies and dark covenants within the order.
The schism had been set.
All that was left was to widen the crack, to bring Tashijan down.
As Tashijan falls, so falls Myrillia.
Despite this thought, an irritated frown drew her lips back down. Henri had managed to keep one secret from her. Who could have known he had such strength? The abomination had lived, hidden so close. Even torture had not loosened Henri’s tongue.
The secret had threatened everything.
Still, Mirra drew strength as she remembered Henri’s screams, warded into silence, for their ears only. It was no matter in the end. With Henri’s death, the Fiery Cross occupied the Eyrie now. And such an assignation continued to ring with discomfort throughout Tashijan. Argent ser Fields sat uncomfortably upon his throne. He would prove an even greater ally than Ser Henri.
It would not be long.
With a sigh, she continued down the stairs, passing tunnel after tunnel, each lined by niche after niche, ancient el’rayn crypts. But new residences had taken roost, the ancient dust swept clean.
In each cubicle, they waited, naether bound, and black blooded. A thousand strong. New knights to occupy Tashijan. Darker than any shadow, more powerful than any Grace.
The Black Ghawl.
She heard them breathe around her in the darkness, ageless, collected for four centuries and stored here, awaiting their rise.
Soon.
Mirra wended the last few steps to the deepest cavern.
She touched the last ward and a glow finally rose about the chamber ahead. Not a natural light, but the shine of putrefaction and decay. She walked gladly into its embrace.
The cavern was empty, except for a ripple of volcanic flowstone that had hardened into an altar. Upon the black stone rested a pale figure. Naked. Staring blindly upward.
She approached the altar. It was time to add one more to her legion.
It had been a shame to waste her last subject. To abandon his body on the floor, cold and emptied of blood. But he had served his purpose. To cast suspicion upon the Fiery Cross, to plant yet another seed of suspicion, sowed this time into the hearts of the new castellan… and in turn, into the godslayer.
She cursed under her breath at this last.
Tylar had cost them much.
But there were ways of handling a godslayer.
And Tylar had forged Rivenscryr.
This thought stirred the shadows around her. The naethryn waited at the gates. It would not be long. Myrillia was far from settled. Already the wheel turned.
Soon.
She turned her attention back to the pale figure sprawled upon the flowstone altar. Littick sigils marked his flesh, drawn in her own blood. She dabbed her fingers in a bowl and dripped the cursed alchemies into the boy’s eyes.
Blindness dissolved like crusts from his gaze. The Littick symbols burst into flame.
He blinked. Then screamed.
“Hush,” Mirra whispered. “It is time to bend a knee to a new master, Ser Perryl.”
She lifted the dagger.
The boy could not move. So fair of features, so blue of eye.
But not for long.
She lifted the dagger high, far enough for the frozen boy to see.
Terror was an important element of alchemy.
With the strength of both shoulders, she plunged the dagger deep into Perryl’s chest. The cursed blade passed easily through his ribs to the fist of red muscle that lay beneath. She let the dagger rest there, dropping her hands.
The hilt vibrated with each failing beat of the boy’s heart.
Once, twice, thrice…
She waited. No more.
She reached forward and uncapped the top of the hilt. The hollow handle had been carved from an infant’s leg bone, taken from the godling child stolen by the Cabal four centuries ago.
With all ready, Mirra climbed atop the flowstone altar. She straddled the boy, one leg on each side of his chest. She lifted the hem of her robe and squatted over the open handle of the dagger. She removed the plug of linen from between her legs. She allowed her menstra blood to flow and drip into the hollow handle.
Menstra to bless… she recited. Or in this case… curse.
It did not take long. It never did.
The bone hilt twitched.
The beat of a new heart, black and poisoned.
Once, twice, thrice…