Shadowfall (v5) by James Clemens

Author:James Clemens
Language: eng
Format: mobi
Tags: Fantasy, Science Fiction
ISBN: 9780451460509
Publisher: Roc
Published: 2004-12-31T05:00:00+00:00

14

WHISPERS In THE DARK

DART KNELT ON A SMALL GOOSE-DOWN PILLOW AND SLOWLY unrolled the linen scarf across the stone floor. She then placed the small wyrmwood box onto its center. All the while, she felt the two pairs of eyes scrutinizing her every move.

Matron Shashyl stood with her hands folded behind her back, her lips pursed as she oversaw Dart’s preparation for her first bloodletting.

Lord Chrism merely sat upon a chair, his face turned toward the open window of his chamber. He smelled of hay and freshly turned soil. His hair was oiled and combed straight back, making his green eyes seem larger, shining brighter than the afternoon sunlight.

With trembling fingers, Dart opened the small wyrmwood box. Lord Chrism’s sigil was inlaid in gold on the lid. Inside, brown velvet protected the contents: a line of silver instruments, a ribbon of tightly braided silk, and a fresh repostilary. The crystal receptacle had been blown by the glass artisans only two days previous. Dart had toured the Guild’s shops across the courtyard and watched this very repostilary being crafted.

Her first.

“This will be a full draw,” Matron Shashyl said. “So which lancet will you choose?”

It was not a difficult question. Shashyl had schooled her vigorously over the past two days.

Dart reached and pointed to the leaf-shaped lancet. To create a flow rich enough to fill an empty repostilary to the brim, she would need the largest of the silver blades. It was filigreed with gold inlay, again the sigil of Chrism. Dart knew it was an ancient instrument, dating back to the second millennia following the Sundering. Yet the tool was maintained in such delicate fashion that the silver shone without a single pox of tarnish. Its honed edge looked sharp enough to slice through darkness itself, its tipped point so fine it was hard to discern the end of the lancet without squinting.

“Very good,” the matron said. “Let us not keep our Lord of the loam waiting any longer.”

Chrism sighed with a ghost of a smile, his attention drawn back upon student and teacher. “Mayhap, dear matron, you should leave my Hand and I alone for this first bleeding.”

“But, my Lord, she is—”

The garrulous old woman was silenced with the lifting of a single finger. “She’ll do fine,” Chrism said in consolation. “This is a private time between god and Hand.”

Matron Shashyl quickly bowed, then retreated toward the exit to Lord Chrism’s chambers.

Dart kept her eyes upon the floor, upon the spread of her tools. She found it hard to breathe, as if the air had gone suddenly too thick. Pupp lay on the stones, his stumped tail wagging slowly. His fiery eyes were fixed upon the tools, like a dog eyeing a soupbone. She had warned him off with a firm gesture when she first knelt down.

Chrism stirred in his chair by the window. “As much as the good matron may press upon you the import and weight of your duty, it is truly a matter of no great concern.”

Dart glanced up at him.

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