by Giles Carwyn
Lies. All lies. He wants to steal our power for himself.
Taking a shuddering breath, Brophy looked down at the Heartstone. He set it on the red silk padding and slammed the doors shut. The Fiend’s voice faded.
Brophy covered his face with his hands and staggered away. He stumbled into a tall, arching beam along the wall and punched it. Wood splintered, and he sagged to his knees. The nightmare would never end. He would never be rid of the Fiend.
His Eternal Wisdom crossed the room and crouched next to him. “You have strength, Brophy,” the Emperor said. “That is why you are so desperately needed. I could never have done what you just did. I know you want to protect Ohndarien. But you must help yourself before you can help anyone else. You are in need of profound healing, and that healing must begin on the Cinder.”
Brophy gripped the beam with both hands. “If I go to the Cinder, you can make it stop? You can get the voices out of my head?”
“I believe so.”
“And then you will take me and the Heartstone back home?”
The Emperor was quiet for a moment. Brophy looked up and saw, for the first time, a flicker of sadness cross the Emperor’s powdered features. “I am afraid not, Brother of Autumn. Dangerous times are upon us and there is something you must do that is far more important than protecting a single city.”
“What!” he shouted. “What more do I have to do?”
“You must teach a lost child how to love.”
CHAPTER 19
Shara brushed her fingers through her long black hair and looked to the skies. It was early afternoon, but the sun was hidden behind the oppressive, gray clouds.
Lord Reignholtz sat in the middle of the runabout, as solid and grounding as a statue. He hadn’t said much to her since her return to Laughing Breeze. He was polite enough, but every gaze he sent her told Shara that he disapproved of her liaison with his daughter.
Lawdon sat in front of her lord, staring grimly across the dark waves.
Shara could see why Lawdon had given her life to Reignholtz’s service. It was a noble calling, and everyone who surrounded the prince struck Shara as being competent and worthy. Reignholtz himself played the hand dealt him and never complained.
Brezelle was the only one who seemed eager for the night’s festivities. Sitting next to her father, her green eyes sparkled, though she kept herself composed.
A pair of capable servants manned the oars, and Mikal sat next to Shara at the bow.
“My lord,” Mikal said. “I feel compelled to ask you something.”
Reignholtz nodded.
“We row toward a duel, perhaps the greatest in many years. You mentioned the other night that Avon Leftblade is ready to stand for you, but—”
“But where is he?” Brezelle finished for him.
“That is my question,” Mikal said.
Reignholtz held up his hand. “It is taken care of,” he murmured, but said nothing more.
From a distance, the Floating Palace looked like a wooden island forested with a hundred masts with colorful banners for leaves. Countless little rowboats came and went from the cluster of ships like bees buzzing around a hive.
They cut through the choppy sea until the runabout bumped against the outermost ship on the Floating Palace. A subdued crowd met them at the rail. They stayed at a respectful distance, watching as Reignholtz’s group climbed aboard. Everyone wore colorful cloaks in anticipation of the rain to come. Greens, reds, and blues predominated, but there was plenty of black and gold. They looked like a sea of multicolored priests, a ludicrous juxtaposition of the somber and the frivolous. As they began to walk, Shara felt a surge of emotion from Reignholtz. She looked in his direction and found his attention flick to a single man in the crowd. The man’s cloak was snowy white, and his cowl was drawn. He made eye contact with Reignholtz and gave a brief nod. Underneath the cloak, his left hip bulged with the hilt of a long sword.
Mikal touched her arm, leaned close to whisper in her ear. “Leftblade. The man—”
“—in the white cloak,” Shara finished for him. “I saw Reignholtz spot him. Are you sure that’s him?”
“Did you see the way his left hand curled into a claw?” Mikal asked.
“No.”
“It’s him,” he assured her, and his breath came quicker in his excitement. “Oh, what a night it will be.”
Reignholtz’s procession continued across the Floating Palace. Unlike that first night, most of the ships were empty. No banquets, musicians, or jugglers today. The few Waveborn they passed stopped what they were doing to watch Reignholtz’s passage. Some raised flagons and nodded. Just as many scowled and turned away, but most just watched with fascination. They crossed two more ships before they reached Glory of Summer. By then, half the Floating Palace was following them. The other half had already gathered on Vinghelt’s ship. The upper decks were packed, and spectators hung from the rigging to get a better view.
Tension hung thick in the air. Vinghelt’s Natshea would duel Reignholtz’s mystery man, and the crowds were vibrating with curiosity as to who it would be.
The crowd parted as they approached, leaving an open path to the dueling space in the center of the ship. Reignholtz led them into the throng, and the spectators pressed heavy at their backs once they’d passed.
Lord Vinghelt stood at the edge of the crowd, smiling expansively. Natshea towered over him to his right, her hips cocked at an angle, her arms crossed as she looked at everyone with that bored expression. Shara searched the crowd for the albino. She found Jesheks covered with his black cloak, standing in the shadows where the forecastle joined the rail. Their eyes met across the distance, and the same jolt of energy crackled between them. He smiled and gave her a slight nod.
Vinghelt stepped a few paces into the cleared arena. Cheers arose from the crowd. He gave a half bow, his charming smile seeming to target each person individually. “Thank you all for coming,” he said. “It warms my heart to see that so many Waveborn patriots have come to defend our way of life. But there is one who does not appreciate those willing to lay their lives on the line for their countrymen. He does not approve of those who fight for his freedom.”
Vinghelt made a graceful gesture toward Reignholtz’s party.
“Last season, this man called me a traitor for pursuing our enemies to the ends of the earth, for calling the brigands to account for their crimes. He demanded we let the Physendrian killers run wild, release them to their base cruelty, to ravage our cities and rape our women as they see fit. He urged that we should leave your sons unsupported and unprotected against those foul rebels, to be slaughtered under their craven knives.”
Many in the crowd cheered his words. Vinghelt let them applaud, somehow managing to look humble as he soaked up their adoration.
“But all voices are heard upon the Summer Seas,” he continued, just before the crowd started to quiet. “I have called upon the Waveborn to sail forth, meet our enemies, and secure our shores once and for all.” He paused for more cheers. “We must protect our Eternal Summer. We must protect the Waveborn way of life.” More cheers. “If anyone disagrees, let him come forth. My truth runs from no one.”
Vinghelt smiled and nodded to the crowd as they cheered and stomped their feet on the deck.
Without waiting for the sound to subside, Reignholtz stepped forward into the cleared arena. “Good people of the Summer Seas, Fessa’s children, Waveborn one and all,” he shouted over the crowd. “I stand before you in defense of truth, champion of the shining path that Salice Mick set before us. ‘No one owns the sea.’ Those words are written upon our souls, and I, for one, will live and die by them. But there is one among us who would tell us we need more than a clear heart and the wind in our sails.” He pointed at Vinghelt. “I name that false prince the Herald of Winter, a greedy executioner of everything we hold dear. No true Waveborn would ask a single one of us to spill our blood upon the sand. Who among you would trade a child’s life for a bag of Physendrian gold? Who among yo
u—”
“Enough!” Natshea shouted, stepping forward to stand a foot beyond her lord. Her hand was a blur as she drew her sword and hurled it high into the air. It spun across the distance, and descended on Reignholtz. The Summer Prince clenched his jaw, but he did not move. The crowd gasped as the sword stuck in the wood between Reignholtz’s feet. The hilt vibrated, swaying slightly back and forth in front of Reignholtz’s chest.
A murmur of appreciation ran through the crowd. A few clapped or stomped their feet.
“No more chatter, Prince of Reignheld, unless you look to take up a sword and turn your petty words to poetry,” Natshea said. “Sweet words and steel alone will end this debate. Have you a champion ready to pit his truth against mine?”
Reignholtz lifted his chin. “I do.” He looked around the crowd. Shara followed his gaze, looking for the white cloak. Reignholtz had mentioned that Leftblade loved to make a dramatic entrance. Would he come swinging in from a rope? She looked to the rigging. Only spectators hung in the high nets or clung to the masts. She couldn’t find the white cloak anywhere.
The seconds dripped by.
Frowning, she glanced at Mikal. He, too, searched the crowd. A long silence fell, but Avon Leftblade did not appear.
A single laugh broke the silence. All eyes turned to Lord Vinghelt as his laugh petered out to a chuckle. “Ah, dear Reignholtz. Do you have a champion or don’t you?” He dabbed at the corners of his eyes with his one gloved hand. “Is there someone specific you wait for?”
Reignholtz glanced around at the surrounding crowd, but there wasn’t a white cloak among them.
“Perhaps you wait for some legend of the past to appear and save you?” Vinghelt asked.
A slow flush crept into Reignholtz’s bearded cheeks. He glared at Vinghelt. “Are you so vile that you would assassinate a duelist before the duel?”
“Your accusations have already been laid down, Lord Reignholtz,” Natshea said. “Are these new ones?”
“How much bloody gold did you put in his pockets, Vinghelt?” Reignholtz shouted, breaking his serene composure for the first time.
“If you wish to lay any more slanders at my door, you must present a champion,” Vinghelt said, then turned to the crowd. “Is that not the way of the Waveborn?” he shouted. A cheer rose in response. “Is there no one here who will stand for this man?”
The crowd noise faded into dead silence as Reignholtz stood alone in the dueling space, fists clenched, face contorted with rage. Shara flicked a glance at Mikal to find the young Waveborn’s hand on his sword, leaning forward. His eyes glinted, and she smiled, began breathing in time with him. Mikal drew a breath as if to speak.
“I’ll dance for truth,” said a light, melodic voice beside Shara. Shara turned as Brezelle stepped forward. Her sword flashed out of its sheath and flew, sailing across the distance to stick into the deck a foot away from Vinghelt.
Quick as a snake, Lord Reignholtz grabbed Brezelle’s shoulder. “Please excuse my daughter,” he said to the crowd. “She spoke without thinking.”
“Run back to your mother, Little Reignholtz!” someone from the crowd shouted.
“You can prick me with your pin, Brezelle!” another shouted. “If you let me prick you with mine!”
Several people in the crowd laughed uproariously at that, but Brezelle stood defiant, pretending to ignore them as a flush crept into her cheeks.
“Enough!” Natshea said, and all eyes went to her. “Step back, Lord Reignholtz, and see justice served. The sword has been thrown. No hand may take it back.”
The crowd applauded.
Shara glared at Mikal, but he shrugged helplessly.
Brezelle shrugged off her father’s hand and walked forward to face Natshea, who stood a full head taller. “I would rather die than take back that sword. I drew it in service of my father, my house, my lord, and my country.”
A ripple of applause ran through the crowd again.
“No doubt in that order, little Reignholtz,” Natshea responded, smiling for the first time.
Reignholtz spoke again, and this time the desperation was gone from his voice. “Prevail, my champion. May truth be your strength, as it is surely on our side. May your sword guide the Waveborn from these stormy seas back to our summer of endless peace.”
“Let it begin,” Vinghelt said.
“Let it begin,” Reignholtz echoed.
Both women raced across the deck. Natshea was faster, her long legs took her to her weapon in two quick strides. She snatched up her blade and spun, lunging straight for Brezelle’s chest.
Brezelle barely wrenched her sword from the wood in time to block Natshea’s first thrust. Steel flashed in the dark afternoon. Natshea’s blade whipped around in an arc, slicing at Brezelle’s calf, but she thrust her sword down, blocking it. The desperate move buried Brezelle’s sword in the deck again.
Natshea spun like a dancer, kicking high. Her boot caught Brezelle in the neck. Coughing, Reignholtz’s daughter stumbled away, wrenching her sword out of the deck as she fell.
Cheers went up from the crowd. So many people stomped boots on the deck that the ship vibrated. Natshea tossed her sword over her shoulder. It sailed a dozen feet and stuck point first into the deck even as she spoke:
“Old in the beard and blind in the eyes
A man accuses a man
‘Lies’ he shrieks, ‘Tradition’ he cries
With his head stuck deep in the sand.”
Brezelle regained her feet and her composure. She tossed her sword away as Natshea had done, and spoke:
“Words from the mouth of a long-limbed shark
Or words from the mouth of a lord
All add up to the same worthless sum
When cut apart by my sword.”
Appreciative cheers erupted from the crowd and both duelists sprinted for their weapons again. Brezelle was faster this time and met Natshea’s charge more readily. Their blades crossed. Natshea lunged. Brezelle parried, riposted, and Natshea slammed the blade away.
Shara faded back into the throng. Those nearest gladly took her spot. Breathing consciously, she cast a mild glamour. No one gave her a second glance as she worked her way through the crowd while Brezelle and Natshea made passes at one another.
Leaving the duelists to their trade, Shara made her way to the far side of the ship. Her breathing was perfect and even. She stilled her thoughts and emptied her mind, letting her feet walk their own course as she slipped through the crowd like a wisp of silk. She reached the forecastle, turned and inched along its face, deep into the shadows. When she was close enough to Jesheks to touch him, she let the spell go.
A sudden surge of anxiety ran through the fat man’s body, but he did not jump. With a smile, he turned his cowled head and nodded to her. The rest of the crowd’s attention was focused forward, watching the duelists cross swords.
“Well done, Shara-lani,” Jesheks said. “I have not been approached unawares in years.”
“It is difficult to remain vigilant when we are so rarely challenged.”
“True. It can be difficult to be a giant among dwarves.” He touched his enormous belly.
“I had hoped we could continue our conversation, so quickly curtailed yesterday.”
“And you also sought to test my strength.”
“That also.”
Standing next to the fat man, Shara glanced back at the duel as the two women completed another pass. Natshea danced back, saluted, but kept her sword as she said:
“Yank the daggers and leave our men
To scrabble as they may
This is how a petty lord
Would lie to make us sway
But justice, truth and courage
Will always win the day
When true sons of this bright sea
Cannot be led astray.”
Again the deck shook with stomping feet, and the cheers were deafening. Brezelle made an overhead gesture with her sword, a long, graceful swoop, before she sp
oke:
“Our heads are deep in sand, you say
Your hands are deep in pockets
Your left mouth talks of gilded truths.
Your right speaks just to mock us
Your fingers run with blood and gold
Your touch befouls the sea
What justice do you speak of now?
What Vinghelt travesty?”
The cheers were the loudest yet, and applause erupted from the crowd. Natshea frowned, her eyes smoldering, and launched herself at the young woman, driving her back with superior strength and speed.
“Your pet project appears to be losing,” Jesheks said.
“I think you underestimate her,” Shara said, her lip curving in a smile. “She is a remarkable young woman.”
“Remarkable or not…” Jesheks adjusted his cowl as a slight drizzle started, “Natshea is the superior blade. She has more experience and a much longer reach.”
Shara watched the combatants cross swords again. “Brezelle seems to be holding her own.”
“Come now,” Jesheks said, squinting up at her with his pink eyes. “An appealing underdog will amuse the crowd for a short time, but in the end, the mob cheers for blood. It is only a matter of time before that girl makes a mistake, and Natshea will have her.”
“I have a different theory,” Shara said. “Brezelle’s strength runs to the bone, her confidence comes from within. Whereas Natshea is nothing more than what you have made her.” Shara looked at him. “Some say that she is so talented it is magical.”
“Do they?” Jesheks murmured.
Shara chuckled. “Tell me, how will your beloved Natshea fare if she is left to her own devices?”
Jesheks’s jowls quivered, and his eyes narrowed as he smiled. “I suppose we won’t know until the moment is upon us.”
The man said no more, and Shara turned back to the duel, though she kept her attention upon the albino. If his ani surged, she would be there to counter it. Today, at least, the dueling on the Floating Palace would be fair.
Shara looked back as Natshea attacked, but this time Brezelle dodged the first swipe instead of parrying. She spun about with newfound energy and lashed out, clipping a piece of leather from the shoulder of Natshea’s vest.
