She’d spent the last seven years working with Godfrey to breed and train their pigeons to make longer journeys at a faster pace. She’d started with a dozen birds, but now had hundreds spread across the realm of Terra. Some birds were trained to go to the castles and holdfasts of Almiran lords. Some to the barns, mills, and forest huts of commoners Ashlyn paid to spy on their own lords. Some went to the remote outposts of alchemists she’d hired to study different aspects of the natural world. Others went to foreign nations like Papyria. And others still went to the secret informants that Ashlyn had planted on the far side of the Soul Sea.
“Hello, Godfrey,” Ashlyn said, lowering her head to slip past the low ceiling of the dovecote. The steward was in the process of sending out Ashlyn’s messages to the small lords of Almira, requesting they bring as many wardens as possible to her coronation.
Now that her father was dead, Ashlyn knew that calling so many wardens to Floodhaven was a risk. And if the only thing she wanted to accomplish as queen was to remain in power, she would never do such a thing. But Ashlyn refused to be that kind of ruler.
She’d burn the Malgrave throne to ash if it meant saving the dragons of Terra.
“Good morning, my princess,” he said, lowering his head. A moment later his bushy eyebrows twitched as he realized his mistake. “Ah, forgive me. Good morning, my queen.”
“It’s all right,” Ashlyn said. “I’m not used to it yet, either.”
Godfrey nodded. “We become accustomed to all things with time, my queen. Just think how far our pigeons have come.” He motioned to a white-winged female. “Layla was born in this very dovecote. It was her entire world for a time. But just this morning she returned from Papyria—flying over mountains and across long leagues of the Soul Sea. You taught her that.”
Everyone had thought Ashlyn was insane when she started training birds to cross the Soul Sea—most homing pigeons couldn’t reliably travel more than a few dozen leagues over familiar land. But Ashlyn had trained hers to travel up to five hundred leagues over open water without getting lost.
“Ruling a country is not so different from what you’ve done with these birds,” Godfrey continued. “It seems impossible until you settle down and begin doing it.”
“I hope you’re right,” Ashlyn said.
She’d always liked Godfrey—he took excellent care of the birds and seemed impervious to the troubles of the world beyond the dovecote.
“Speaking of Layla, let me get the message that she carried back.”
Godfrey opened a locked chest in the corner of the room with a key that only he and Ashlyn carried. He removed a small, rolled parchment and handed it to her. The wax seal was pressed into the shape of an orca’s fin rising up from the ocean. Empress Okinu’s personal symbol. It had required very careful work to get a letter like this into her private dovecote. After Ashlyn’s mother had died, there were rumors that Hertzog Malgrave had killed Shiru with his own hands, instead of her dying during childbirth. It wasn’t true, but it wasn’t easy to convince a distant island nation of that through letters alone.
The empress of Papyria had never forgiven Hertzog for the death of her sister, and Hertzog was stubborn enough to let relations with the island empire turn icy and distant. Ashlyn could not abide the loss of such a valuable ally. She had spent years secretly rebuilding the Malgraves’ relationship with Papyria.
The official channels of royal communication were shared by a hundred eyes in both countries, and neither Hertzog nor Okinu were willing to extend anything beyond the most basic level of correspondence, so that avenue was closed off. Instead, she’d cultivated an academic relationship with one of Empress Okinu’s high councilors—a woman named Noko. Ashlyn was initially wary of putting even the smallest ounce of confidence into a stranger, but over the years she’d begun to trust Noko. They shared the same interest in the mechanisms that powered the natural world. Noko was more focused on flowers and plants than dragons, but they both trusted logic and observation above all else. So, she took a risk.
A year ago, when Hertzog’s cough began to worsen, Ashlyn asked Noko to deliver a private letter to the empress on her behalf. The message had been simple. After her father died, Ashlyn knew that she would be the female ruler of a country that, above all else, respected the strength of men. The odds would be stacked against her at every turn, which meant she needed allies who saw her gender as an advantage, not a weakness. Ashlyn suggested that she and the empress open a private line of communication with each other, so they might prepare for the day that she ruled as queen of Almira.
Ashlyn knew it was morbid to plan for the death of her father behind his back, but the world was a morbid and unforgiving place. No sense denying that reality.
Empress Okinu accepted. They had exchanged dozens of letters in the following months—each message Ashlyn sent was meant to build favor with Papyria. When the empress complained of ongoing illnesses on her outer islands, Ashlyn recognized the problem, then sent a new method for digging cisterns that kept the water clean and ended the outbreaks. When a score of adolescent Milk Wings harried a remote township, Ashlyn suggested the local soldiers lure the dragons into the wilderness using rags soaked in milkweed, which mimicked the smell of a potential mate. No piece of advice was too small.
All that effort had been geared toward influencing the contents of the letter Ashlyn now held in her hands. Okinu’s reaction to Hertzog’s death would either give Ashlyn a wealth of options, or none at all.
Ashlyn took a deep breath and broke the wax seal with her thumb.
For the eyes of Queen Ashlyn Malgrave,
Losing a parent is never easy, but it happens. I would imagine that you feel a bit like one of your baby pigeons who has hatched from her egg only to find the nest devoid of support and nourishment. But you are not a lonesome bird, my dear niece. You have proven yourself to be a valuable and loyal ally, and you have powerful friends in Papyria.
Simply ask for the support you require, and it shall be yours.
With love,
Empress Okinu, Eternal Majesty of the Papyrian Empire
Ashlyn allowed the message to roll closed against her thumb, then tucked it into her dress. She let out a long, slow breath of relief as she considered her response. More than anything, she needed a way to get Almiran wardens across the Soul Sea if Bershad failed.
“There was a second arrival today as well, my queen,” Godfrey said.
“Who?”
“Asper, my queen.”
“Finally,” Ashlyn said. Asper was her Mudwall pigeon—she’d been waiting to hear from the steward there for two days, hoping to receive good news so that she could order the five thousand Malgrave wardens riding west to turn around. With her father dead, she needed to consolidate power.
She opened the paper.
For the eyes of Queen Ashlyn Malgrave,
I regret to inform you that the violence in Mudwall has escalated in recent days. Lord Hrilian’s men have been marauding the countryside beyond our walls. His men capture the local peasants, then bring them within sight of the wall and lynch them, one by one. He is hoping to lure High-Warden Raimier out of the city to engage in open combat, where he will most surely be defeated, now that Hrilian has the numbers. And, I must admit, Raimier’s control of the city is dubious at best. The small lords suspect him of treachery.
In your previous message, you mentioned that Malgrave wardens were on their way. I beg you to spur them forward with all haste. I fear that Mudwall will become a nest of demons and violence if help does not arrive soon.
Uylnar Went, High Steward of Mudwall
Ashlyn stared at the wretched words after she had read them twice. Felt hot anger rise in the back of her throat.
“When would you like to draft your responses, my queen?”
“Right now,” Ashlyn said.
She wrote back to Uylnar Went first, assuring him that her Malgrave wardens were riding to his aid as quickly as possible. Ashlyn needed more soldiers
in Floodhaven, but she would not ignore peasants who were being hung from the trees. There was always a different path forward. Lord Hrilian and his marauders had closed off one road, which meant Ashlyn needed to open another.
Ashlyn would ask the empress for ships from Papyria, but that wasn’t all. It was time to find out exactly how much goodwill Ashlyn had built with her aunt.
PART II
10
BERSHAD
Realm of Terra, the Soul Sea
Rowan and Alfonso got seasick as soon as the Luminata left Floodhaven harbor. When possible, Rowan vomited over the side of the ship. When it wasn’t, he did his best to hit a bucket. Most of the time he missed.
Alfonso was worse. The poor creature didn’t understand what was happening. He whinnied and brayed and then made a mess of his stall. Bershad stayed with him, rubbing his muzzle and trying to calm the donkey down. Told him it would be over soon. During the rare occasions the beast was actually calm, Bershad used the time to scrape the rust off his sword. Beneath the decay, the blade was still keen.
Two days into their journey, Bershad came out of Alfonso’s little stall with a full bucket of donkey vomit. Felgor was perched on the rail, looking out over the sea. Vera had unchained the Balarian as soon as they were out of the harbor and the ruse of a prisoner transportation wasn’t necessary, but she’d made it very clear that she would cut off his feet if he made trouble. Even now, she watched Felgor from across the ship as if he might jump into the Soul Sea and swim for his freedom.
Rowan was sitting against the ship’s mast and staring at his feet. There was a bucket between his legs.
“Ah, but I’ve missed the sea!” Felgor said, beaming with happiness. “Spent the first half of my life on a ship about this size, although not nearly as nice. My parents were part of a traveling band of troubadours, so they could barely afford a seaworthy vessel. Makes you good at improvising, but it takes a toll on—”
“Felgor,” Rowan said, without looking up from his feet. “Shut up.”
Felgor looked down at him. “A natural sea dog, this one.”
Bershad emptied the bucket into the sea and looked out. In the distance, he could see the hazy outline of islands that marked the center of the Soul Sea. Every ship that crossed the sea gave those islands a wide berth—the currents and channels between them were famous for bashing errant ships to splinters. There were other alleged dangers, too. Strange animals and enormous dragons.
And for Almirans, the place was sacred.
“The islands seem smaller than I remember,” Felgor said, following Bershad’s gaze. “Maybe I’ve just gotten bigger.” Felgor glanced at Yonmar, who was molding a totem onto the gunwale. “What’s all that, anyway?”
“The heart of the sea is the birthplace of the gods,” Yonmar said without stopping his work. “It would be foolish to pass by and not honor them.”
“Fucking Almirans and your mud gods, I love these things. Let’s see it.”
Yonmar glared at Felgor for a moment, but moved his hands away so everyone could see his work. It was an arm-sized totem, body formed from mud, sprouting bear claws and willow twigs. Yonmar had used two rubies for the eyes. It wasn’t bad work.
Felgor studied the little totem. “What’ll you do with it when you’re done?”
“Send it back to the sea,” Yonmar said. “Nothing’s permanent.”
“You’re gonna part with two rubies so some gods don’t get homesick? What’s so special about this place?”
“Before the gods were born, the realm was ruled by dragons and demons,” Yonmar said. “Everything was hard rock and hot ash. Then the forest gods emerged from the heart of the sea and climbed onto the shores. They brought lush trees and warm-blooded animals with them. And once they’d filled the land with plants and life, the gods pulled men from the heart, too, so that we can live with honor and courage amidst their creation. When we die, if we can get back to the sea and the gods deem us worthy, we join our ancestors and live in the heart for eternity.”
“What if you’re not found worthy?”
“Your soul is cursed,” Yonmar said. “And you’re turned into a wandering demon. Tortured by sunlight. Haunted by nightmares.”
“Shouldn’t you two be making totems, then?” Felgor said, glancing at Bershad and Rowan.
“My soul is pretty well fucked at this point,” Bershad said. “Even if it wasn’t, they snatched my totem bag at the same time they took my title and gave me the bars. Exiles aren’t allowed to ask the gods for help.”
“You, too?” Felgor asked Rowan.
“I still got mine. But I’m not worried.” He glanced at Yonmar. “The gods can smell desperation.”
Several tense moments passed.
“The whole thing seems silly to me, but I love you Almirans for it,” Felgor said, breaking the silence. “All of you tote around these bags of sticks and bones and precious gems. A pickpocket can die rich and happy just prowling the Foggy Side of Floodhaven, snatching purses.”
“At least I don’t worship a fucking clock,” Yonmar muttered.
“Common misconception, there,” Felgor responded. “Balarians don’t worship Aeternita. We made her.”
“Men can’t make a god.”
“Sure you can. All you need is some metal, wire, gears, and a bunch of people to agree with you. And it’s not just clocks—it’s all the machines of Balaria. Whole thing works out better than your Almiran setup, too. Aeternita serves us, not the other way around. Life’s more comfortable and we don’t have to stop what we’re doing all the time to make little statues.”
“If it works out so well, why’d Balaria try to invade Almira thirty years ago?” Rowan asked, still staring at his bucket.
“Dunno,” Felgor said. “I was two years old.”
Bershad did. Balaria had touted all sorts of reasons for the war—honor, conquest, civilizing the mud worshippers. But it all came down to food. Balaria had expanded their empire so quickly, they couldn’t sustain their population even before the famines in Ghalamar and Lysteria. After the invasion of Almira failed, Balaria was forced to seal their borders just to keep the refugees out of the empire’s heartland.
“Because just like rocks and burned trees, you can’t eat metal, either,” Bershad said. “And Aeternita doesn’t make food.”
Felgor shrugged. “Hey, I’m just a simple thief trying to keep my blood warm. I don’t fuss with the whys of life and all that philosophical shit. It’s exhausting.” He turned to Vera. “What about you Papyrians?”
“What about us?” Vera said.
“You worship some sky god or something, right? I was always hazy on that.”
“Papyrians don’t worship gods at all. We simply respect the moon and the stars.”
“Why’s that?”
“The moon brings the tides that take us to the sea. And the stars guide us upon her waters.”
“That’s all?” Yonmar asked, frowning.
Vera looked at him. “You ever find yourself in the middle of a storm at night, and nothing to guide you besides a black sky, and it’ll make more sense.”
* * *
After passing the Soul’s heart, the Luminata hit a storm. The ship was tossed from wave to wave, tipping and rising at steep angles as the rain battered the deck. Torian and his crew worked tirelessly for a week—shouting at each other, adjusting the sails, tightening ropes only to loosen them again when the wind changed.
On the morning that the storm broke, they spotted the bone-white coast of Ghalamar. The shore was colored by thousands of tiny shells washed ashore and bleached by the sun. From a distance, the wavering cream line of the coastal cliffs beyond looked like a great snake stretching out endlessly on either side. There was a small harbor and city on the coast, and beyond that, the dark gray Razorback Mountains, which separated Ghalamar from Balaria.
“Argel.” Torian pointed as everyone clambered above deck for a look. “Northernmost city in Ghalamar.”
“Argellian whores
have really nice breath,” Felgor said. “Top five in the realm, I’d say.”
Vera glared at him, tightened her grip on one of her sheathed daggers.
“Is there no other place for us to get ashore?” Bershad asked Torian. “A harbor with fewer eyes?”
“Plenty, but not around here. North is all rocks and mountains and then Balaria—no paths inland. South is that cliff. One man in ten can scale those heights. The other nine end up dead and pulled out by the tide. We can go around it if you’re willing to tack on an extra month of travel.”
“I’m not.” If Bershad didn’t reach the emperor before the summer solstice, there was no point in going at all.
“Then we’ve got to make port in Argel.”
“You’ve been here before?” Vera asked.
Bershad nodded. “This is where they took me down from the mountains. The pass is a day’s ride northeast of here, give or take. Hidden by a grove of pine trees and razor bush.”
“Were you well received?” Yonmar asked.
Bershad had spent two weeks drinking with different Argellian lords and merchants—who all wanted to hear the story of his airborne entrance into Balaria—before Rowan finally tracked him down and they’d been compelled to move elsewhere. Ghalamarians did not hold the same disdain for dragonslayers as Almiran nobility, but they still executed exiles who lingered too long in one place.
“Depends on who we run into,” Bershad said.
The quay of Argel was almost empty. Ships rocked lazily on the water, but there were no sailors or workers in sight. Just customs agents. Torian and his crew docked the Luminata in silence, and six armed and armored agents came over.
Balaria had subsumed Ghalamar and Lysteria into their empire almost a hundred years ago after a series of successful military campaigns. The two countries kept their names and small scraps of their autonomy so long as they supported Balaria with taxes, food, and soldiers. The Ghalamarian borders weren’t sealed like Balaria, but clearing customs wasn’t a simple thing, especially when it was a dragonslayer, a Papyrian widow, and a Balarian thief with a death sentence asking to be let in.
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