That was the thing about being lucky; sometimes you were the only one left alive.
Rain lashed the Queen’s hull. The crack in the ignium lamp’s glass casing refracted light over the steel walls of the hangar, painting them in the ash-orange of a dying ember. It reminded Enoch of long forest walks beneath a sunset’s riven rays—of those moments between night and day, summer and winter.
‘Hmm-mm, mm-mm…’
Humming the song from his fractured childhood memories soothed Enoch. He worried for his dog and his friends—Serena most of all. Her abilities were as much a curse as Enoch’s immortality. Back in the sewers of Dalthea, Enoch had been drawn towards the girl—something had brought him to her that he could not explain. He’d embarked upon this journey with the promise of returning to ruined Palthonheim and finding answers, but he couldn’t shake the feeling that something was drawing Serena and her allies to another place. There is purpose hidden in the chaos.
The hangar he’d been locked inside contained trace fumes of the igneus used to fuel Morton Brunswick’s aerial fighters. The pirates had taken the few not destroyed in the battle as their own, leaving a cavernous, grey cell for Enoch to roam within—as far as his chains allowed.
He retreated to the darkest corner he could find. His granite finger traced the scars on his hard chest; the surgeons had done remarkable work stitching him back together.
Newer were the scars Korvan had inflicted on him.
No less than I deserve.
Enoch lay upon the hard floor and closed his eyes.
Yes, Palthonheim. A suitable final resting place.
‘You lot are the only coves who ain’t in the manifest,’ said Solassis.
Serena stood shoulder to shoulder with Myriel inside Vabrizio’s private quarters. Everything the captain had owned had been ripped apart or stolen, and lopsided ignium lamps cast awkward spears of light through the room.
Solassis prowled back and forth, eyeing Myriel, Gallows and Serena with playful animosity. When she moved, the cleavers around her waist jingled.
In the corner, Tiera Martelo glowered, arms across her chest and her head angled down. She looked nothing like the proud First Mate that had stood by Captain Fitzwilliam’s side aboard the Liberty Wind.
Traitor.
Solassis took a thimble between her thumb and forefinger and snorted a substance from it. It left a pastel-blue chalk around her nostril. ‘What do ya reckon, Captain? Start with the green-haired freak?’
‘I believe they’ll talk after we execute one of them.’ Ventris’ voice drawled like the lazy pluck of a harp string that was left just out of tune. She sat on a simple wooden chair, legs apart and fists clenched.
Solassis pulled Vabrizio’s antique pistol from her belt. ‘Sounds like a plan.’
‘We’re nobody,’ Serena said. ‘Just… tourists.’
‘On our way to Rhis, like everyone else,’ Gallows added.
Solassis didn’t look convinced. ‘You don’t look like the kind of tourists who can afford passage aboard a ship like this.’
‘And yet here we are.’
Solassis slapped Gallows with the back of her hand. ‘Funny man. You got no tickets, no names. Who’ll come looking for you?’
Sweat slicked Serena’s palm. I have to do something. I have to stop this…
She locked eyes with Tiera. Through aching muscles, the siren-song unfurled from her fingertips.
Tiera scowled. ‘Stare at me any longer, girl, and I’ll take your eyes.’
Whether she was acting hard to keep her cover or just because that’s who Tiera was, Serena didn’t know. She let the siren-song dissipate. ‘Reckoned you were more of a back stabber.’
‘What’s that supposed to mean?’ Solassis demanded.
Shit. Serena opened her mouth, but it was Tiera who answered.
‘She saw me kicking shit out of one of the passengers—not my fault the Gods didn’t gift him with eyes on the back of his head.’
Solassis didn’t seem satisfied, but she didn’t push it.
Myriel cleared her throat. ‘I’ll tell you the truth. I’ll explain everything.’
What?
‘We’re part of the royal family of Ryndara,’ Myriel continued. ‘We’re travelling to Rhis for an audience with King Arnault.’
Gallows gave Myriel a look. Serena reckoned the same one was plastered all over her own face.
‘Oh, it’s quite all right,’ Myriel continued, ‘they’d have figured it out eventually.’
Serena stood as still as the Queen’s ice statue of Musa.
‘You ain’t royals,’ said Solassis. ‘Where are your papers? Your retinue of ass-lickers?’
‘We were travelling incognito,’ Myriel explained. ‘To avoid the attention of sky pirates.’
The corner of Solassis’ mouth curved to a knife-point. ‘How’s that working out for you?’
‘Oh, it’s had its up and downs, but I’m nonetheless optimistic for a happy ending.’
‘I know the royals of Ryndara,’ Ventris drawled. ‘They’re like Tarevian dolls—scrambling to climb into each other’s asses, unaware of the doom that slouches towards them.’
‘Apologies,’ Myriel began, ‘perhaps I wasn’t clear; I am a member of the royal family—I am King Arnault’s third cousin, Mathildé Cosetta tal Ryn-d’Antos. This is my escort, Tyson Gallows of Dalthea—’
Ventris’ unfocused gaze narrowed at the mention of Gallows’ name.
‘—and the girl is a pupil of mine, Alisabeth Compton—also of Dalthea.’
Serena’s heart thudded with slow, heavy thumps. I hope you know what you’re doing.
‘And the grey man?’ Solassis asked.
‘An associate and a monk at Dalthea’s Church of Terros. He has a rare disease of the skin known as marmorderma, hence his appearance. Poor fellow, only the church would take him in.’
‘Or the circus,’ said Solassis. ‘Hells, a big bastard like that, we’ll give him work easy enough.’
Ventris leaned forward, her pearly teeth gleaming in the weak lamplight. ‘I don’t recognise your name, crone.’
‘I’ve been carrying out missionary work these past decades,’ said Myriel, ‘and I am returning to Rhis as a forward delegation on behalf of Eparch Tiama. She seeks funding for an expedition to Val Candria in order to better spread the word of the Indecim to the nomad tribes.’
Damn, Myriel lies as easy as she breathes.
‘You’re with the Crown of Ryndara and the Fayth?’ Solassis asked.
‘A third cousin is never going to sit upon a throne—spreading the word of the Indecim is my purpose.’
‘Only Vabrizio knew about us,’ Gallows added. ‘He reckoned he could claim tax relief for working with the church, once King Arnault signed off on proof.’
Gallows, too. That actually sounds like something Vabrizio would do.
Solassis stood nose-to-nose with Gallows. ‘When she says “escort”, does she mean “Hunter”?’
‘Sure does.’
‘And can we assume the Church pays for this undertaking?’
‘Sure can.’
‘How much?’
‘Ten thousand aerons,’ Gallows answered without missing a beat. ‘To be paid upon Mathildé and Alisabeth’s safe arrival to Rhis. I’m expected to deliver ’em to the palace myself.’
‘And you have a contract to prove this? A writ?’
Gallows laughed and shook his head. ‘Mathildé wanted to keep it low-key—that’s the damn point. And between you and me, I don’t reckon King Arnault gives a shit.’
‘You’d be surprised, Tyson Gallows,’ Ventris said. ‘Congratulations—you get to live another day.’
Relief should’ve pooled inside Serena. Instead, she couldn’t shake the feeling that things had just gotten worse.
CHAPTER TEN
Four years ago…
Gusts of wind sheared through the imposing fir and birch trees, and clouds the colour of gravestones concealed the dipping sun. The su
nlight that did manage to break through stretched the shadows of the trees across the ground like a black spider web.
The Nyr-az-Telun crept through the Solacewood, miles from camp. No-one had uttered a word in hours; they didn’t need to.
Warm, dense rain soaked Damien’s robes and mixed with the sweat running down his back. Though tired, he kept pace with Sister Caerith and Cleric Adravan across jagged, muddy terrain. The master powered across the terrain like he was born to it.
The sounds of the woods had ceased some time ago; no slow, high-pitched song of blackbirds, no constant cluck and chatter of red squirrels, no snuffled yelps of agitated foxes.
Behind Damien, Azima stuck close to Sateo—aside from Sister Caerith, she and the brother were Adravan’s favourites; the year the disciples had spent together had proven that. Their sycophancy towards the cleric sickened Damien—it reminded him of home, and how the people would fawn over the upper classes, only to curse them as soon as they their backs were turned. And the nobles were worse; gossiping, exploiting workers, extending one hand while readying a knife in the other—all for the sanctity of a family name or a chance at seizing more wealth.
Father’s duplicity is even worse, made all the more maddening for his flagrant displays in front of Mother.
After all the blood he’d spilt in the name of Nyr, what would Damien’s mother think of him now? Would she be horrified? Disappointed? Or unsurprised?
Adravan halted in a clearing and leaned on his walking cane. The air turned heavy, as though he willed it so.
An altar stood dead centre of the clearing—black, but silvered in the rush of rainfall. The song of the Solacewood grew in tempo and volume. One of the disciples—a contemptuous sycophant with a broken nose and bushy brown hair named Ulden—fell to his knees and gasped. ‘We’ve found it. We’ve found it.’
‘Silence.’ The word slithered from Adravan’s mouth. ‘Steady your hearts. Focus your desires. Nyr listens.’
‘The final test,’ uttered Caerith. She stood proud.
Damien and the others approached the black altar. As Damien got closer, he noticed it shimmered with an amber hue.
‘A gift from the Gods,’ Adravan began. ‘What the uninitiated call ignicite.’
Ulden scrambled to his feet, faltering in the sludgy mud. ‘Finally, finally.’ With tremoring fingers, he reached out to touch the altar…
Quick as lightning, Adravan’s cane whipped Ulden’s hand away. ‘She will call out only to those who are worthy. Touch the altar before she wills it, and Nyr will welcome you into her domain.’
‘What do we do, Cleric?’ Azima asked. Damien sensed the quick rhythm of her heart.
‘Simple, Sister—when Nyr calls you, touch the altar.’
The disciples exchanged nervous glances with one another. Even Caerith seemed perturbed. Sateo kept rolling his shoulders and inhaling deep breaths, but each time it seemed he would approach the altar, he froze.
This is a pantomime.
Adravan’s tales had infected the disciples, robbed them of common sense. Couldn’t they see that they were looking upon nothing more than a lump of ignicite?
Damien listened to each person’s breathing. Excitement resounded from them in waves, accompanied by the rising tempo of their hearts. Rain danced upon the altar and the haunting song of the Solacewood whispered all around.
It was simply a lump of ignicite.
‘Ulden.’ Adravan’s strident voice cut through the mourning music of the wood. ‘Do you believe in what the Nyr-az-Telun strive to accomplish?’
Ulden beamed. ‘Yes, cleric.’
‘Do you believe that in order for the Gods’ will to flourish, evil must be purged from the world?’
‘Yes, cleric.’
‘And do you believe that we are guided by Nyr the Unseen, the Merciful?’
‘Yes, cleric.’
‘Good.’ Adravan showed his crooked teeth. ‘Then approach the altar and let her will guide you.’
Ulden rubbed at his wrists and rolled his shoulders, his lips parting like a gash from a knife. Damien detected a strange stuttering in the disciple’s heart.
Jostled by the wind, Ulden took slow, weak steps towards the altar—but something was amiss; something deep in his heartbeat, like a single out of tune string in an orchestra.
Ulden reached out to the altar with a trembling hand, wavered for a moment—and then touched it.
Nothing happened. Nyr did not announce herself. The song of the Solacewood remained undisturbed.
A pantomime, as I thought.
Then Ulden staggered back. ‘I… Cleric, I…’ A hacking cough rasped from Ulden’s throat. He fell to the mud, and—like the setting of rigor mortis—his limbs tightened and twisted at awkward angles.
Adravan cocked his head to the side.
‘I…’
There is something in his bloodstream.
Ulden’s heart slowed to a whisper. His eyes bulged, and the words protesting from his lips grated like the dying gasps of an animal.
Caerith stepped forward, but Adravan held her back.
‘Watch,’ he commanded.
Damien did as the cleric ordered, hypnotised by Ulden in his death throes. Breathless, he watched the warmth drain from Ulden’s skin, leaving him the colour of a corpse. Blood boiled through the dying man’s lips before the life disappeared from his eyes.
‘Brother!’ Caerith leapt down to the body. ‘Brother.’
Electricity shot through Damien’s veins—the same as it had back home, when the duke’s daughter died. Her death was more peaceful than Ulden’s, more beautiful.
‘None of you are ready yet,’ Adravan called. ‘You have not proved yourselves. Young Ulden spoke to Nyr and heard her voice in kind—and she deemed him not worthy to live. We must punish the sinful,’ Adravan continued. ‘Even those who would approach us under the guise of friends—liars and betrayers who claim to follow the Indecim and live by the lies within the Fayth Codex. Nyr is not ready to speak to any of you yet, not until the guilty are—’
‘Enough.’ Damien pushed past Sateo and Azima, stepping over Ulden’s body on his way towards the altar.
Caerith’s hand grasped his shoulder. ‘What are you doing?’
Damien shook her off. Proving this is theatre.
He held his hand high for all to see, then brought it down hard onto the altar.
Damien woke with the rest of Rafale, one of Ryndara’s many fishing villages.
He showered and dressed in what clothes hadn’t burned in the Solacewood: A crisp white shirt, a plum-purple waistcoat with gold embroidery, and matching suit trousers.
He trimmed his beard with scissors before cradling a straight razor in his hand. It hovered in front of his throat for a moment before he got to work on his beard.
Muffled chatter filled the inn’s dining room; Damien sat in a corner booth in the far end, facing the door, breakfasting on a salad of spinach and cherry tomatoes, and a side of poached eggs. The tomatoes popped and oozed red juice when his fork pierced them.
Two men ambled into the dining room—miners, by the look of their gear and thick arms. They sat on stools by the counter and ordered scrambled eggs with thick sides of fatty bacon. They drank coffee, and the elder of the two men emptied a miniature bottle of rum into the cups.
Damien stood, counted out a generous tip and made for the door.
‘—who knows what’s going on?’ one of the miners said, an elderly man sporting a patchy beard. His erratic heartbeat stuttered and stammered. ‘Lot of trouble over there just now—the Queen of the North could be at the bottom of the ocean. So close to Wintercast, too.’
Damien flitted close to them and stopped. ‘Apologies for the interruption—you mentioned the Queen of the North—it’s gone missing?’
The miners looked up at Damien and grumbled. ‘Aye, that’s right,’ the elder said. ‘Missed one of its stops.’
‘Bet Genevieve Couressa is throwing a tantrum,’ the second miner joked,
a stout younger man who reeked of nicotine. ‘Bet the venue never presented her with the right sort of flowers, or forgot to count out all the lemon bon-bons from a jar.’
‘Has there been an announcement?’ Damien asked.
The elder man shook his head. ‘Was supposed to stop in Tuss, but no-one’s seen hide nor hair of it. Damn, those who paid a pretty penny for tickets will be livid.’
Genevieve and Aulton Carney are aboard the Queen of the North—after Dalthea, can this be mere coincidence?
‘What’s the news from that way?’ Damien asked.
‘Eh?’
‘Of Ryndara?’
The younger man thrust his cutlery onto his plate. ‘Gods, ain’t you got a squire or something to wipe your ass and tell you everything?’
‘Leave off, he’s just asking,’ the older one said. His heartbeat remained erratic. ‘Listen, mate, sky piracy is rife just now. Warning bills all over the place—rumours of the Idari tooling up means every man’s for himself. My cousin in Dulwin sent me a telegram saying the pirates was everywhere. Ol’ Captain Vabrizio even hired a merc outfit ’cause he didn’t trust the Ryndaran air force to do their job. You got a ticket, friend?’
‘Nah, look at ’im.’ The younger miner turned his nose up. ‘He’s probably Genevieve Couressa’s younger brother.’
‘Thank you both for the information.’ Damien squeezed the older man’s shoulder. ‘Ease up on the fatty bacon.’
Rafale’s train station was effectively a shed that happened to sit next to a railway track. Damien examined the route map plastered on the wall by the ticket office: Tuss, Côte de Foudre, Kvel, Vermeaux, Rhis.
Seeing the name of his home turned Damien’s stomach. He’d promised never to return.
‘Your father sends his regards,’ Azima had told him. Did he know of her plan to poison Zofia? Would he have access to her cure?
Damien stepped up to the counter.
‘How may I help you?’ chirped the rosy-cheeked boy sitting behind the glass.
‘A one-way ticket, please. To Rhis.’
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