That morning, His Grace was wearing a long aubergine coat and coordinating waistcoat, and with his aristocratic frame and perfectly coiffed dark hair, he exemplified fine patrician breeding. Felix, in contrast, felt like a rogue privateer who’d been dolled up for his own court-martial.
The whole pirate life was definitely losing its luster after being aboard a real ship for a week. Nothing made a man appreciate solid ground like fifteen-foot waves.
Felix gripped harder to the railing as he got closer to the bow, summoned his breath between the heaving of his stomach and called out weakly, “Your Grace?”
The High Lord turned inquiringly just as another massive wave impaled itself against the bow and thus also the zanthyr’s fifth-strand shield. White spray careened around them in a milky sheet. Felix clung to the railing as the waters streaked over his head.
Yet...now that he was close to Phaedor, Felix realized the ship’s pronounced rise and fall had dramatically diminished. In fact, it felt like they were sailing calm seas. He cautiously released the railing but remained hunched near it, hands hovering close, just in case...
The High Lord was watching him with a bewildered expression. “You have word from the captain for me, Felix?”
Felix waited until the ship crashed into another huge wave without knocking him off his feet. Then he grinned and straightened away from the railing.
“Yes, Your Grace.” He tugged his coat straight and assumed his delivering-an-important-message face. “Captain di Falco says if his lordship keeps the wind steady,” and Felix glanced to Phaedor at this, “we should clear the head by midday tomorrow.”
“Thank you, Felix.” Marius returned his gaze to the churning sea, looking troubled. He noted to the zanthyr, “I thought surely once we were this far north, the currents would become clearer.”
The zanthyr was standing between Felix and the High Lord with his face in profile to both, his emerald gaze fastened on the northern horizon and his dark hair tossing on the wind. He looked far more impressive than the actual figurehead adorning the ship’s bow. “Most likely the disturbance originates at the weld in Kjvngherad.”
“Yes, that would follow. It would infect every node downstream of it.” Marius studied the zanthyr with his gaze, though his thoughts seemed elsewhere. “I confess I’d hoped...” he exhaled forcefully. “Well, you know what I’d hoped. Francesca believes the Red Guard in Kjvngherad have been compromised. She says their latest report reads of compulsion.”
“This should hardly surprise you after everything else we’ve seen.”
“But to subvert an entire battalion of guardsmen, all of whom have been protected against such fourth strand tampering? Ansgar has no Adepts of that caliber.”
“Ansgar has Shailabanáchtran.”
Malcontent made thin lines of the High Lord lips. “You must concede the difficulty in believing these claims, Phaedor, Pelasommáyurek’s confession to my Empress notwithstanding.”
“There are no innocuous answers, Marius.” Phaedor turned him a look to emphasize his point. He’d been more tolerant of the High Lord since the latter stopped insisting Malorin’athgul didn’t exist. “The guard are compromised because an immortal has corrupted them. The second strand roils with malfeasance because it’s under constant attack. You must open your eyes to these truths.”
“I daresay you’ve left no dark corners for the truth to hide,” Marius groused.
The zanthyr angled him a sidelong eye. “You’ve barely begun illuminating those corners, in fact.”
The High Lord still stood with protest staunchly at his side, but he made no rebuttal. He’d come a long way from balking at every word the zanthyr said. “Well...there is little to be done about any of it from here.” He gave a vexed exhalation. “I’ve tasked Vincenzé with uncovering the source of the nodes’ corruption once we arrive.” He shifted his hazel-eyed gaze to Felix then, and there was much of speculation in it suddenly.
Which Felix distinctly misliked. He was just trying to think of an appropriate excuse to flee their company when Marius proposed, “Perhaps Felix would be useful in that endeavor as well.”
Felix glowered. He’d envisioned his role as that of a dashing envoy, perhaps mingling among the aristocracy with Francesca da Mosta on his arm, chatting with nobles and sipping wine whilst listening for the key phrases that would prove the solution to all of their problems.
He wasn’t so keen instead to go seeking out whatever evil was being worked against Kjvngherad’s weld, probably down among some dank and moldy tunnels reeking of rats and old bones, and particularly not when he was being teamed up with Vincenzé, from whom the kindest words he’d received thus far were ‘pay up, bocchino’—and especially not when the Literato N’abranaacht was involved.
The High Lord’s gaze tightened upon Felix. “Why do you think we brought you along, Felix di Sarcova?”
Felix scratched at the back of his head. “Is that a rhetorical question, milord?”
“Never mind.” Marius looked him up and down with beleaguered patience. “I can imagine what you thought.” He leaned back against the railing, crossed his arms and considered Felix.
The bow surged into the waves, sending geysers of white spray careening around Phaedor’s shield. “What have you overheard about the nodes out of Daneland, Felix?”
Felix hated when the High Lord phrased his questions so specifically. It left no room for worming out of answering them. Felix blamed Vincenzé for the High Lord’s adoption of this new tactic of questioning.
And Sancto Spirito, it was an affront to his honor! There was nobility in speaking the truth on one’s own, standing up to show one’s true colors, all proud-like, shoulders straight and chin held high...but when the High Lord dragged it out of him like a thief being hauled to the gallows, giving him no choice but to answer with the truth...well, it just bled all the virtue out of being honest.
Felix assumed his I-am-highly-affronted-but-far-too-mannerly-to-show-it face, which involved dragging his ears back and down to smooth his brow with indignant indifference. “I know that they’re corrupted somehow and can’t be traveled.”
The High Lord reasonably assumed this was far from all he knew. “And?”
Felix scrunched his features into his appearing-to-think-hard-and-solemnly-upon-the-matter face, but really he was deciding how much of what he knew to share with the High Lord.
Not enough, and the High Lord would know he was lying; too much, and he wouldn’t ever trust him with anything important. If he told him everything he’d overheard and pieced together, Marius would probably lock him in the brig for the duration of the trip.
Felix assumed his I-am-earnestly-telling-you-all face—it was the one he used with his mother when his brothers had abandoned him to be the scapegoat for their latest prank—and replied, “And...you suspect it’s purposeful, this corruption. You think the Danes are polluting the nodes to prevent your discovering where they took the Adepts they kidnapped. Or else they’re doing it to ensure the Imperial Adeptus can’t use the nodes to descend upon Kjvngherad, to make sure you’d have to come by ship to investigate.”
The High Lord’s brows arched towards his hairline. “You have long ears, Felix di Sarcova.”
Felix thought the length of his ears was a foregone conclusion.
Marius shifted his crossed arms. “It is of utmost importance to root out the source of these dark nodes, Felix. The Empress’s Red Guard have searched King Ansgar’s fortress of Fjell and found nothing remotely untoward.”
“But didn’t you just say the Red Guard had been compromised, Your Grace?”
Marius frowned at him. “One of our primary objectives is solving this riddle.”
Felix had overheard the High Lord claiming that his primary objective was getting the evidence they needed to wipe the Danes off the face of the earth, but he knew better than to say this to the High Lord di L'Arlesé’s face.
In any event, now that he’d had a moment to think about it, he rath
er liked the idea of being given his own mission. He’d have a legitimate rebuttal the next time the Caladrians claimed they’d only brought him along to do their washing.
Felix donned his speaking-on-an-important-topic face, which he’d adopted by mimicking his lord father, and which mainly involved inching his eyebrows towards one another to form a peak of lofty sincerity. “I am at your service, Your Grace.” He placed a hand across his heart and bowed low.
Marius eyed him skeptically.
A sudden shrill whistle came from on high, whereupon the lookout atop the mainmast shouted, “Land ho! Starboard bow!”
Felix moved swiftly to the starboard railing. Sure enough, as the ship crested the next wave, a murky blue-grey swath that was the mountainous coast of Köhentaal appeared between the heaving sea and charcoal skies.
Marius gazed upon the swath of land and rubbed his jaw. Conflict shadowed his brow. “I never imagined I would be coming to Kjvngherad beneath a diplomatic flag.”
The zanthyr grunted. “You may be certain, neither did Shailabanáchtran.”
“Yes...” the High Lord’s frown deepened as he shifted his gaze back to the zanthyr. “That’s the point, isn’t it? Offering clemency when combat is better suited.”
“Is it better suited?”
The High Lord gave him a long-suffering look. “Do you now lecture me on diplomacy? Perhaps Phaedor would become High Lord of Agasan.”
Phaedor looked back to the sea wearing one of his don’t-you-wish-you-knew-everything-I-know smiles, the kind that always made Felix’s teeth hurt from grinding them so hard. “The Balance is shifting, High Lord,” Phaedor said while the wind of his own making blew his hair into his eyes. “You’ll either ride the crest of that wave into the future or be crushed beneath it.”
Marius frowned at him.
Felix posited that any man would be hard-pressed to spend a week watching the zanthyr sail a ship at fifteen knots, with or without wind, and not give him his due.
“The future is what I’ve been trying to ensure,” Marius remarked with asperity lacing his tone, “repeatedly—but you will not hear my proposal.”
Phaedor cast him an incurious eye. “What is there to discuss about it?”
“What is there...?” Marius stroked a brow with one forefinger, clearly at a loss for words. After a bout of this measured exercise, he clasped hands before him in a grand display of patience and proposed reasonably, “The two strongest bloodlines in the Empire joined in a child of prodigious talent? Great thought must be put into who the boy marries. It cannot be merely for alliance or property.”
“Tanis has no need of property.”
“Or for politics then.” Marius exhaled a slow breath, clearly summoning calm. Felix admired his equanimity. “In the absence of Tanis’s parents, Phaedor, you, as his guardian, must negotiate the conjugal contract.”
“Tanis decides his own path.”
Marius stared at him in frustration. “The boy has a responsibility to more than himself. As heir to Adonnai, he is subject to the Empire and its needs—verily, with such a talent as he possesses, I daresay to the realm at large.”
Phaedor slowly turned his head and leveled his gaze on the High Lord. “Since when have the heirs of Adonnai been subject to anyone?” His deep purr-growl reminded Felix of the distant rumbling of thunder across the Caladrian moors, the kind of thunder that always made you hightail it for home. Then Phaedor returned his inexorable gaze to the sea, as if he hadn’t just dashed the High Lord’s hopes into pieces, or made all of the hair stand up on the back of Felix’s neck.
Marius looked to the opposite railing, frowning deeply.
The ship surged through the sea. Waves crashed against Phaedor’s shield. The two most powerful men in the Agasi Empire turned on opposing axes while Felix, snared by their gravity, hoped they’d forgotten he was there—because, bloody hell, the conversation was really intriguing. The smell of the sea burned strong in Felix’s nostrils, but the scent of Phaedor’s magic was stronger still.
As the silence between the zanthyr and the High Lord was becoming oppressive, Phaedor observed more gently, “The race isn’t declining because the bloodlines are failing. Breeding Adepts like livestock will not restore the Balance.”
Marius stared at him for a moment, jaw clenched. Then he pushed a hand roughly through his hair—a rare moment of discomposure—and dropped his gaze. “I know you’re right. But by Cephrael’s great book, Phaedor—” he flung an almost agonized look back to him, “Arion Tavestra? Isabel van Gelderan? To know their blood resides in that boy and not secure an heir—”
“When the Balance is restored, Alorin will have thousands of Arion Tavestras, as in the time of the Quorum of the Sixth Truth, when fifth-strand Adepts outnumbered all others.”
Marius let out an explosive exhale. “I’m not sure any of us want a return to those days.”
“But a return to their strength is inevitable. Perhaps humankind will exert better judgment this time.”
It was like the world shifted in that moment—at least, that was the way Felix looked upon it afterwards.
A veil overcame the High Lord’s expression, woven finely of an unreadable combination of emotions. He suddenly seemed...not himself.
“Yes...better judgment.” He considered Phaedor with his jaw tight. “As they showed in those times by uniting with the Council of Realms against the Warlocks of Shadow? I bid you observe the fruits of that hypocrisy.”
Phaedor looked at the High Lord with one brow lifted curiously. Marius did seem suddenly incensed for no apparent or logical reason.
The High Lord’s eyes burned with a strange light. “Is this what you told my Empress during your voyage to Köhentaal together? The secret truth that has her so restored of vitality—this feeble hope? Some misguided expectation that the Balance will somehow right itself?”
“Get to the point if you can find it, High Lord.”
Marius’s eyes flashed. “That’s a low deception even for Ceph—”
It all happened so quickly then.
Marius flew into the opposite railing.
The wind ceased.
The sea went dead calm in an instant, and the ship surged so suddenly and forcefully to a slow that everyone was flung forward off their feet.
Felix grabbed for the railing while the sails sagged in an enormous rustling of canvas and the entire world went still and silent, save for the occasional creaking of wood and the pounding of Felix’s heart in his ears.
The zanthyr took one step and materialized across the deck to hover over the High Lord, who was bent backwards over the rail, his hands white where they gripped the polished wood. Cords stood out in the High Lord’s neck as he stared back at Phaedor. He couldn’t move so much as an eyelash, pinned beneath the zanthyr’s will.
Phaedor studied him. Felix could read nothing in the zanthyr’s expression, but his own skin felt like a million bugs were crawling on it, alive with whatever power the zanthyr was working.
The sailors were all staring at them, not daring to move but clearly wishing to. The air had become electric, charged by alarm.
Then the zanthyr simply turned away. The wind suddenly billowed the sails, everyone staggered as the ship surged into motion again, and the sea roused with gusto.
The High Lord slowly righted himself off the railing while Phaedor returned to his position at the bow. Marius stared at him for a moment. Then he strode aft, all casual elegance, as if the zanthyr hadn’t just nearly broken him like a brittle branch over his knee. Felix wagered he was going to have one hell of a bruise on his back by dinner.
He watched the High Lord walking away, wondering what in Belloth’s thirteen hells had just happened. Then he looked back to the zanthyr. “Well, that was sure a great start to the day. Thanks so much for that.”
“I aim to please.”
“Yourself.” Felix finished for him. “Pretty sure that’s how you meant to end that sentence.”
“I’m relieved you are
here to speak my mind properly.”
“And by that you mean I wouldn’t know your mind if it punched me in the nose—hey, where are you going?” For the zanthyr had started aft.
“There is an unusual tension in the fabric.”
Felix stared after him exasperatedly. “What does that even mean?” He bounded off the railing in pursuit and added as he caught up with him, “You probably tore this so-called fabric with that little episode of yours.”
The zanthyr eyed him sidelong. “Episode?”
“Showing off to the High Lord.” Felix pounded his chest and gave his best imitation of a god thundering from on high, “I-AM-PHAEDOR-FEEL-MY-WRATH.”
“You have captured the essence of the moment, no doubt.”
“And there you go again. I’ll bet if I poked you with one of those blades you’re always flipping, you’d bleed sarcasm.”
“Perhaps you should test this theory on yourself.”
“Sure.” Felix grinned and held out his hand. “Just give me one of your daggers.”
Phaedor gave him a smile that said clearly, On a cold day in hell. He stopped at the steps leading below.
For some reason, looking at the dark opening, Felix got the impression of a great beast lying with its mouth open in wait.
“Stay alert today,” Phaedor cautioned in that purr-growl that always made Felix’s insides feel like jelly. Then he turned in a swirl of his dark cloak and vanished into the belly of the beast.
Fifteen
“One of the advantages of being disorderly is that one is
constantly making new discoveries.”
–The truthreader Dareios Haxamanis, Prince of Kandori,
on why his workroom is always such a mess
After the zanthyr vanished below, Felix wandered the quarto deck, hoping to run into Francesca da Mosta, who liked to take a morning walk before the sun got too high.
Why the ship’s uppermost deck was called quarto and the lowest deck primo, Felix had never been able to get anyone to explain. He’d long stopped keeping track of the things that were upside-down and backwards about ships.
The Sixth Strand Page 25
