Makarria returned her attention to her grandfather. Though his face was relaxed, it seemed to be creased with more wrinkles than she had noticed before. And his skin sagged loosely from his cheeks and chin. Maybe her father was right. No, she insisted. Grampy’s not going to die. She refused to believe it and instead focused her thoughts on the wonderful things the two of them would do together when he was better. The sails on the skiff needed patching, for one thing, but they would need to get more sailcloth first. Maybe Parmo could sail her to Pyrvino to buy it. He had always promised he would take her there, and her father said he would allow it once she was old enough. She’d had her first moonblood now—how much older could her father expect her to be? Yes, she decided, Grampy and I will sail to Pyrvino. We’ll get new sailcloth. We’ll stay at an inn. I’ve never even seen an inn. And when we get back, we’ll mend the sail and make new traps. I’ll finally let Grampy show me how to tack the skiff, or beat the windward, or whatever he called it. Maybe we can explore Spearpoint Rock. And the ideas came, one after another—all the wonderful things she and Grampy would do.
It became dark as she sat there at her grandfather’s side and the time passed when they would normally eat dinner, but her parents did not stir from their slumber, and Makarria did not want to disturb them even if she was hungry. She could go one night without supper, and she meant to stay at her grandfather’s side all night or until he woke. As if her thinking the idea somehow prodded him, Parmo stirred beside her and let out a low groan.
“Grampy?” Makarria whispered, grabbing his hand. “Are you alright?”
“Makarria?” His voice was a thin rasp, barely audible. He tried to sit up but grimaced in pain and fell back into his pillow.
“I’ll go wake Mother,” Makarria said, but Parmo reached out and grabbed her by the wrist.
“No. Don’t bother her. Help me up, Makarria. I need to go outside.”
There was urgency in his voice, and Makarria obeyed without question. She reached beneath his shoulders and helped him up and onto his feet. He leaned heavily into her as she guided him through the dark living area and to the door. He had to brace himself against the wall while she pulled open the door. When they were outside, the fresh ocean air seemed to invigorate him, and he stood on his own power, only taking her hand for support.
“To the beach,” he said. “I want to be near the ocean.”
They walked together down the hill, along the path through the grass to the pebbled beach, and there Parmo’s strength left him. His legs went limp and it was all Makarria could do to break his fall as she toppled down next to him with a thump. Parmo’s breaths again came in ragged spurts, and he could only open his eyes with great effort.
“Grampy?” Makarria asked. She wanted to run. To get her mother. To make another draught. To do something.
“Stay with me,” Parmo said, holding onto her hand with what little strength he had left. “It’s alright. Don’t be scared.”
“But, Grampy—”
“I know, I know.” He closed his eyes and forced himself to calm his breathing before reopening them. “My time has come, Makarria. I was born of Tel Mathir, and now She wants me back. It’s part of the great cycle. You needn’t be sad.”
Makarria shook her head. “I don’t want you to die, Grampy. You can’t. I won’t let you.”
“That’s enough, Makarria,” he said, though it was getting harder for him to breathe. “Listen to me. Your parents love you. But they don’t understand the danger. You’re special, Makarria. People will fear you. The—” A wracking cough tore through him and his entire body shuddered.
Makarria grabbed onto him and held tight, not knowing what else to do. “Grampy?”
“Go,” was all Parmo could wheeze, too weak to push her away. “Go,” he tried telling her again, but it only came out in an inaudible whisper, and he lost consciousness.
Makarria held onto him, saying his name over and over again as his rasping breaths slowed. She looked at his face and through her tear-filled eyes saw not his withered features but what she imagined his visage to be when he was still young and full of life, when he lived in Sol Valaróz and sailed the Sol Sea in a mighty carrack. His body went limp and his breath become nothing more than a sigh, but still Makarria grasped onto him and held that image in her mind.
6
A Sacrifice From the Sea
The scent-hound bayed, waking the High Houndkeeper in Col Sargoth with a start.
The second howl was so loud the houndkeeper jumped to his feet and stood paralyzed for a moment before remembering what he was supposed to do. When his wits returned, he released the lever that held the inner ring of the giant compass in place, and the scent-hound swung about on the axle protruding through her navel—steel bearings screeching with protest—only to lurch to a sudden halt pointing southeast. The hound bayed again and began whining as her nose centered in on what she smelled. When the compass quit moving altogether, the houndkeeper checked the coordinates, then went to the sprawling map of the Sargothian Empire hanging on one wall. The coordinates were the same as last time: 140 arc degrees off north. The scent-hound was still whining though, whereas last time she’d only fussed for a moment. Whatever this dreamwielder was doing, it was big.
The houndkeeper snatched up one of the steel balls from a rack below the map and rushed to a U-shaped flue pipe in the corner of the chamber that looped up through the flagstone floor and back down again. He opened the door hatch on the flue and placed the ball inside as steam billowed from the opening. He then closed the hatch and turned the valve lever, and a burst of steam shot through the pipe, hurling the steel ball down the flue toward the bottom of the tower where the alarm would be sounded.
The scent-hound bayed again. Yes, whatever this dreamwielder is doing, it’s big, the houndkeeper thought. And this time she’s given herself away. Wulfram is going to be pleased. Very pleased.
Parmo lay on the beach with his eyes open for a long time before he realized he was alive. There were no stars, only lightless clouds above him, but in the distance a thin swath of the black veil was illuminated gray with the promise of an imminent sunrise. He had not expected to ever open his eyes again, and he didn’t trust his senses at first. He could hear the surf at his feet though, and he could smell the salty air and feel Makarria curled up at his side, sleeping in the crook of his left arm. He was surprised to find that he could move his free hand with ease and brush her hair from her face. His breaths came to him in a painless, natural manner. The more he thought about it, the more he realized nothing was causing him pain except for the tingling sensation of his arm falling asleep beneath Makarria’s head.
“Makarria?”
He shook her gently, but she woke with a start and gasp.
“Grampy?”
“I’m here.”
Makarria sat up with the sick feeling that she’d done something horrible, that something bad had happened. When she looked at her grandfather though, she saw that he was alive and well—more than alive and well. Even in the predawn darkness, she could see that he was no longer old and sick, but rather the young man she had seen in her mind. She remembered having fallen asleep with that image burning through her.
“You’re not old anymore,” she said simply.
“What?” Parmo asked, incredulous but realizing even as she said it that it was true. He ran his fingers over his face. The wrinkles were gone. He felt his arms, stout with the sinews of a seafaring man. He breathed in deeply the sea air, and his lungs did not protest. How is this possible? I was dying.
“Grampy?” Makarria said, suddenly noticing the hundreds of small dark shapes on the beach around them. “What’s happened?”
Parmo stood and followed her gaze. All around them—covering the beach for a mile in either direction—were sea creatures. Dead sea creatures. Fish, crabs, squid, gulls, swallows, turtles, jellyfish, starfish, oysters, snails, all of them dead.
“Merda,” Parmo swore in disbelief. The enormity of wh
at Makarria had done slowly hit him. The Emperor must have sensed this.
“What’s happened to them?” Makarria asked, the sick feeling rushing through her body again. “Is it my fault?”
Parmo grabbed her by the shoulders. “No, look at me, Makarria. You saved my life. You made me young again.”
“But how? The fish, they—”
“I’ll explain it all to you later, Makarria. We haven’t time right now. We need to leave. It’s not safe here for you anymore.” He prodded her toward the jetty. “Go, untie the skiff and make ready to set sail. Make as much room as you can. Get rid of all the traps, the pole-hook, and anything else we don’t need to sail. I’ll get supplies from the barn.”
“What about Mother and Father?”
Parmo turned back to face her. “We can’t take them with us, Makarria. There’s not enough room, and they’ll try to stop us besides. They’ll be safer if they don’t know where you are. I’ll leave a message for them so they know you’re safe with me. That’s the best for everyone right now. Alright?”
Makarria didn’t understand, but she nodded in agreement.
“Go then,” he urged and spun away to sprint up the hill to the barn. He was amazed at how effortlessly his legs propelled him up the incline. I’m not an old man anymore, he marveled.
Inside the barn he found what he was after: two wooden chests he had not opened in ages buried in the back corner behind a stack of old harnesses and disused tack for the plough horses. The rusted hinges squeaked as he opened the chests, but the contents inside looked to be unharmed. He threw down two wool blankets from the first chest and piled everything he thought they would need in the middle, including a parcel of salted goat meat from the storage shelves and two skins he filled with fresh water. Lastly he pulled a long object wrapped in burlap from one of the chests. He set it down beside the wool blanket and unwrapped one end of the burlap to reveal the tarnished hilt of a sword. Tied to the hilt with a piece of twine was a ring, almost as blackened with tarnish as the sword hilt. He untied the twine and went to the barn doors. There he tied the ring to the door handle. Prisca would know what it meant. They had discussed scenarios in the past of what to do if Makarria were in danger. Prisca would be livid with him, but she would at least know that Makarria was safely gone with him and know to burn all of Makarria’s belongings—all evidence that Makarria ever existed. Parmo didn’t dare tell Prisca more. It pained him to abandon his daughter this way, but there was nothing for it. There was no time to argue.
His decision made, Parmo ran back to the blanket, grabbed up the four corners to pick up the supplies in a big bundle, then grabbed the still-wrapped sword with his free hand and hurried out of the barn toward the beach. Makarria stood ankle-deep in the surf waiting for him, holding the stern of the skiff nervously. A flood of conflicting emotions ran roughshod through her: excitement; shame at leaving her parents without saying goodbye; dread at the thought of all the dead fish on the beach and floating in the shallow waters around her; but mostly excitement about the adventure of sailing away in the dark. When Parmo got there, he heaved the bundle of supplies into the skiff then helped Makarria in.
“Off we go,” he said, pushing them forward, and they vaulted over the first wave, then the second, and Parmo pulled himself in and took up the oars. “Prepare the sails.”
“Where are we going, Grampy?”
“To the East Islands, Makarria. We’ll be safe there.”
Makarria’s eyes bulged. “The East Islands? I thought you had to have a ship to get there. I mean, a real ship.”
“For any ordinary sailor, yes,” Parmo said with a grin. “But your grandfather isn’t any ordinary sailor.”
Natarios Rhodas, youngest of the three houndkeepers, stared out of his tower window in Kal Pyrthin sick with anticipation. Castle Pyrthin loomed in the distance to the west, and below and between sprawled Kal Pyrthin, a city bustling with people tending to last minute business and errands before nightfall. But Natarios’s concern was not with the city or with King Casstian in the keep. Rather, his eyes were drawn to the northwest, where some thousand miles away stood Col Sargoth. It had been almost twenty hours since Natarios’s scent-hound had gone nearly mad with its howling and crying. The poor beast had worked herself up into such a frenzy Natarios thought she was going to die. Whatever sort of sorcerer she had sensed was powerful. That’s why Natarios was looking to the west, watching and waiting.
When he first saw the fleck on the horizon, he thought his eyes might be playing tricks on him, but the black form approached rapidly, and within minutes he could make out the shape of a raven. He shuddered as the raven loomed larger. I’m a pitiful houndkeeper, he lamented and threw open the shuttered balcony doors. The raven, larger than any bird had a right to be, slowed to a near hover above the tower and glided toward the balcony. Natarios stood clear as the bird swooped inside and skidded to a halt with an ear-piercing squawk. It stood nearly as tall as Natarios and regarded him with its obsidian eyes for a long moment before shaking itself spasmodically. Its feathers began to mottle and bubble, and Natarios could hear tendons and bones rearranging themselves beneath feather and skin. He had to lower his eyes away, lest he vomit. When he looked up, Wulfram stood before him, his fur and feathers now shrouding his human frame like a cloak.
“Master,” Natarios greeted him with a stiff bow.
“Which direction?” Wulfram demanded.
“The southeast. But the hound couldn’t pinpoint it exactly, master. I’m sorry. The scent was strong—it nearly killed the hound.”
“You’re sure it came from the southeast?”
“Yes, Master.”
With a savage hiss, Wulfram grabbed the scent-hound’s nearest foot and sent her spinning wildly on her axle. The hound screamed, a scream more human sounding than canine. Natarios wished there were a way to close his ears as well as his eyes.
“That’s the same reading the hound in Col Sargoth came up with,” Wulfram snarled. “This dreamwielder could be anywhere between here and the East Islands. We need the reading from Sol Valaróz to triangulate her position.”
“It’s a dreamwielder then?” Natarios said, a lump suddenly in his throat.
“What else, you fool?”
“She… she must be close, Master—the scent was strong. Probably right here in Kal Pyrthin, certainly no farther than Pyrvino.”
Wulfram swept his cloak free of his hunched shoulders and moved toward the balcony. “I think not here; it’s too bold. Still, send your agents into the city to find word of any strange happenings. If they find nothing, take your men toward Pyrvino and search every farmstead and hovel along the way. I’ll meet up with you after I go to Sol Valaróz and get the last set of coordinates.”
“Of course, Master,” Natarios said, but Wulfram had already leapt from the balcony.
7
The Dark City
It had been a wearying three-week journey from Kal Pyrthin, first along the River Kylep, then across the border from Pyrthinia into Sargoth and into the highlands past Lepig, and lastly through Forrest Weorcan, which loomed dark and foreboding even though the massive trees had been cleared for a half mile to either side of the high road. Caile’s journey was near complete though, and exhausted as he was, he bristled with nervous energy as Col Sargoth came into view. He had heard stories about the city, of course, but nothing could have prepared him for what he now rode toward. The hair at the nape of his neck stood on end, and his left hand involuntarily gripped tighter at his horse’s reins.
“It’s a dreary looking cesspit, isn’t it?” Lorentz remarked.
Caile could only nod. The city stretched outward before them for miles to the south and east of where the Sargothian River emptied into the Gothol Sea. It looked like some great malignant, black sore spreading over the land, Caile thought. Even the seawaters around the city had turned black, and the white sails of the ships entering and leaving the harbor stood out in stark contrast to the inky backdrop.
&nb
sp; They had been watching two plumes of black smoke loom larger on the horizon for hours as they approached, but now they could see the actual source of the black smoke. Two sprawling smelting factories at the north and south edges of the city belched out sulfurous black fumes from chimneystacks that rose into the air nearly as high as the five towers of Lightbringer’s Keep. The keep itself glimmered like obsidian, and from this distance it looked like a black claw reaching its taloned fingers skyward from the center of the city.
Caile realized that the horses had all stopped of their own accord, and he urged his mount forward toward the south gate of the city. “We best raise our banner and make this official,” he said, and Lorentz ordered the red and gold banner of Pyrthinia be raised.
By the time Caile and his honor guard reached the south gate, their banner had been noticed and a retinue of twelve Sargothian cavalry soldiers was waiting to receive them. The soldiers wore mail coifs over their heads and hauberks with articulated shoulder plates beneath black surcoats emblazoned with the symbol of Sargoth: a white sun radiating five shafts of light. Their riding pants were black leather with steel thigh plates sewn in and shynbalds to protect their lower legs. In addition, each soldier had a round shield and a flail strapped to his saddle. The flails were evil looking, crude weapons—huge spiked heads attached with chains to the long ash-wood handles. Hardly ceremonial weapons, Caile thought.
The captain of the guard, who wore an open-faced helm adorned with ram horns to signify his rank, rode forward to greet them, but the confusion on his face was obvious when he saw only Pyrthinian men before him.
“Where is the Princess Taera?” the captain asked, dispensing with any pleasantries.
“She is ill,” Caile said. “I have been sent in her place.”
“And you are?”
“Prince Caile Delios of Pyrthinia.”
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