“What else am I to do?”
“Did it ever occur to you that I might have rescued you for a reason?”
Caile shrugged. “I suppose. What reason?”
Talitha sighed and closed her eyes. “I know you think you’ve already made up your mind, that you have no choice but to head for Kal Pyrthin, but that is not the case. You sit at a fork in the road and you can choose one of many directions. In one direction, yes, you can make haste southward and try to save your father, but that is not the only path before you.”
“You see a better path, I take it?” Caile asked.
“Yes, you could continue with me.”
“And what is there for me along your path?”
Talitha leaned her head back in deep concentration. “Your sister, and perhaps much more.”
“Taera? Where?” Caile edged forward on his bed, a brief glimmer of hope in his heart for the first time in days.
“I see the caverns of ice from my childhood, and my instincts tell me I must return and that I will need your help if I am to succeed.”
Caile narrowed his eyes. “Who are you, really? And why do you insist on speaking in riddles?”
Talitha opened her eyes and smiled. “I am who I said I am, and I am sorry if I speak in riddles. I have great strength in many areas but seeing the future is not one of them. All I can see are images shrouded in fog and doubt. It is left to me to interpret their meaning. But this I am sure about, for I have seen it clearer than any other image in my life. Your sister is captive in the Caverns of Issborg, or will be soon, I am certain.”
“And what does she mean to you?”
“Everything,” Talitha said, “for her fate is tied to mine. Few things are clear to me, but your sister is—or protects—the key to defeating Guderian. That I am certain.”
Caile nodded. “Roanna spoke of a prophecy. She said my sister was foretold to defeat the Emperor. Is it true?”
“Whether your sister is the one, I cannot say. But Roanna is there in the caverns with your sister, and the prophecy she spoke of is no lie. It was foretold by the mightiest seer in Khail Sanctu on Thedric Guderian’s tenth birthday.”
Caile leaned back onto the straw mattress of his bed and rubbed one hand over his face. He had been so certain of himself when he’d left his sister and father in Kal Pyrthin, but now he was certain of nothing. He had thought Stephen and Roanna allies at first, but they had tried to kill him. How do I know I can trust her? he asked himself of Talitha.
“I cannot give you any better token of trust than to beg you for your help,” Talitha said.
“You read my thoughts,” Caile accused, but Talitha shook her head.
“I do not need to read your thoughts, Prince Caile. Your concern is written plainly on your face, and it is not unfounded. There are few you can trust, but I will tell you in all sincerity that I am one who you can trust. I am an enemy of the Emperor. I am a worshiper of Tel Mathir, and I dream of a day when the Sargothian Empire is gone and once again the Five Kingdoms are intact. I dream of a day when those with the capacity to wield magic are not feared and hunted.”
Caile was silent for a long moment as he weighed his thoughts. “I think you are being honest with me, so I will be honest with you. My heart tells me to follow you and help my sister, for I have little love for my father. But still, loyalty drives me to Kal Pyrthin. Casstian is my king and sire. What sort of prince would I be if I let the Emperor kill him without a fight?”
“What if I were to tell you that you could not help your father?” Talitha asked. “What if I told you help was already on the way?”
Parmo woke with a start. “What? What is it?”
Rufous was standing over him shaking his shoulders, and at the bow of the small skiff Gaetan, the other man Parmo had rescued, stood waiving his arms frantically.
“A ship has spotted us,” Rufous said. “We’re saved.”
Parmo pushed himself up from where he lay curled up in the stern of the skiff and looked in the direction his two shipmates were pointing. There was indeed a ship heading right toward them, rising over the ten-foot swells with ease. It flew no colors at its mast and appeared to be a merchant ship. Probably for the best, Parmo surmised. They had spotted land earlier that morning and while Parmo guessed it was the shores of Pyrthinia they saw, he could not be certain, and it was safer to be picked up by a merchant ship than one from the Valarion navy.
It had been six days since Pyrthin’s Flame had burned and sunk into the Esterian Ocean. Parmo and the two sailors he saved had set a course due west, but they had with them only a makeshift sail and none of Parmo’s navigation equipment, so they were relegated to navigating by the sun and stars, which was sufficient for the first two days, but then the winds came and the formless gray clouds blotted out the sky above. To make matters worse, they had been rammed on the third night by a whale or a shark—it had been too dark for them to be sure—and the tiller was ruined beyond all repair. That left them with nothing to do but steer with their oars, no easy task with the strong south-blowing wind filling their sail. It was wearying, imprecise work, and they took turns at using an oar as a rudder and slept when their shift was through. All they were certain of was that they were exhausted and bearing in a somewhat westerly direction, and so they had no idea from where this new ship was approaching them or where it was going.
The ship lowered her sails as she approached, and after a few exchanged shouts back and forth, Parmo informed them they were indeed stranded. The sailors on the larger ship threw down tethering lines, and after securing the skiff in tow Parmo, Rufous, and Gaetan climbed up to the main deck of the larger ship.
“Thank you,” Parmo said to the sailor who helped him over the rail. “Where are you bound for?”
“Kal Pyrthin,” the man replied, but before Parmo could pry further, the captain of the ship pushed his way forward.
“I’ll be the one asking questions,” the captain said. “Where are you from and where are you bound?”
Parmo looked the men over silently for a moment before responding. By their accents and the look of them, he was confident they were Pyrthinian, not Valarion. Valarions were of darker complexion and tended to roll their r’s slightly.
“We are the only survivors of Pyrthin’s Flame,” Parmo said finally. “She went down six nights ago, sabotaged by pirates and put to flame.”
The captain eyed Parmo, unconvinced. “Pyrthin’s Flame is the King’s flagship, and I’ll be a porpoise’s teat if you’re a Pyrthin naval man. You’re a Valarion if I’ve ever seen one.”
“You’re quite right,” Parmo conceded. “I was but a passenger on the ship, but these men are Pyrthin naval men and can vouch to the truth of my statement.”
“Aye,” Gaetan said. “Able Seaman, Gaetan Sodonia at your service.”
“Third Mate, Rufous Delphinos,” Rufous followed. “It is as he says. Someone killed the night crew, barricaded the main hold, and set the ship aflame. It was Parmo here who saved the two us and cut loose the skiff before Pyrthin’s Flame went down.”
“I tried to save the captain first, but the captain’s quarters were the first to go up in flames,” Parmo explained, somewhat by apology.
“This is disturbing news,” the captain said. “Did you see your attackers?”
“They were already fled by time we were awoken,” Rufous said. “All we saw was the shadow of a… a ship of some sort.”
“You seem uncertain,” the captain probed.
“It was night, and we were all half-choked and blind with smoke,” Parmo explained, not wanting to reveal too much. “We saw the silhouette of something retreating to the west. That is all we can say for certain.”
“Something, eh? Perhaps it was the same flying ship people say passed over Kal Pyrthin almost a fortnight ago?” the captain probed.
Rufous shot Parmo a glance but said nothing.
“It was certainly strange, whatever it was,” Parmo answered. “Captain, if I may, I suggest we s
et off for Kal Pyrthin with all due haste. The King needs to know what happened immediately. There was valuable cargo on that ship.”
“I’m afraid we have more strange news for you, friends,” the captain said. “We have been told that King Casstian has been dethroned. For high treason the Emperor’s dogs are saying. Word has spread to Tyrna even, where we are bound from. The entire Kingdom is in disarray.”
“This is dire news,” Parmo replied. “What do we do now?”
20
The Face of Terror
Natarios Rhodas stood silently in the courtyard of Castle Pyrthin watching Wulfram inspect the crowd of women who had been brought up from the dungeons. Since putting out a bounty on sorceresses several weeks prior, mercenaries, cut purses, and all sorts of unsavory characters had been dragging in women in droves. Natarios had kept them locked up in his own scent-hound tower at first, but once King Casstian had been taken captive, he moved them to the dungeon beneath the castle in order to accommodate the sheer number of them. There were forty-seven of them according to his records. Most were harmless, he was sure: old spinsters who gossiped too much, homeless orphan girls, street trollops, and other such guttersnipe. They were a bedraggled and pathetic lot, but Natarios’s orders had been clear; he was to pay the bounties on all of them and let Wulfram sort them out.
They all stood now huddled together in the center of the courtyard, wrists tied behind their backs. Wulfram stalked amongst them, giving most of them no more than a glance. A few he examined carefully, touching their temples with his taloned fingers or sniffing their heads. Some of the younger women were no more than children, and they balled in fear when Wulfram regarded them. Around the perimeter of the courtyard, twenty Pyrthinian archers stood at the ready should any of the women actually turn out to have power of any sort. Their captain stood rigidly at Natarios’s side.
A minor commotion at the main gate distracted Natarios from Wulfram’s inspection, and he turned to see one of his henchmen hurrying his way across the courtyard.
“A raven came from Col Sargoth,” the man said between heavy breaths, thrusting a scroll into Natarios’s hands.
Natarios started to break the wax seal but saw that the scroll was addressed to Wulfram and thought better of it. He instead dismissed the man back to his tower and tucked the message into his robes to await Wulfram. I can’t say that I miss that dank tower, Natarios thought to himself as he watched his courier scurry off. He had assigned the three most trustworthy of his men to stay in the tower and attend to the scent-hound and for himself had appropriated King Casstian’s private quarters. It certainly made it easier for him to attend to daily matters concerning the governing of the city and kingdom in Casstian’s stead, and the comforts were the least he could ask for in reward as far as he was concerned. Wulfram, for his part, stayed in Casstian’s study high up in the tower. Probably so he can fly off in the night to prowl around, Natarios mused.
After what seemed an interminably long time to Natarios, Wulfram finally walked from the throng of woman to join Natarios.
“Find who you are looking for?” Natarios asked.
“No. There are a few women of minor ability among them, but they are of little concern to us.”
“Shall I order their release, My Lord?” the captain of the archers asked, keeping his eyes averted toward Wulfram’s feet.
“No,” Wulfram said without hesitation. “Have your men kill them all.”
The captain’s mouth opened in protest, but the words choked back in his throat.
An emanation of danger prickled across Natarios’s skin. He was no fool. He knew the captain and his men held no loyalty to Wulfram or the Emperor. They obeyed out of fear alone. “Master,” he said in a neutral tone, “there are children amongst the captives. Surely they pose no danger to us? Let us take them back to the dungeons, and then I’m sure the captain will have no reason to object to your commands. Isn’t that right, Captain?”
“No,” Wulfram growled before the captain could respond. “I said kill them all.”
Wulfram’s voice carried throughout the courtyard, and the archers and the captive women both heard his words. A handful of sobs and cries for help sprung from the crowd of women, and the archers shuffled uncomfortably as their eyes darted from one another to their captain to the panicked women. Already sweat had formed on the captain’s brow, and he began to shake his head.
“I can’t, I can’t.”
“Have your men take aim and shoot,” Wulfram commanded.
“No,” the commander replied, stealing what courage he had left and standing straight.
“Have it your way then,” Wulfram said and he turned to face the women. His hand gesture was subtle, and few at first noticed the flames, but within seconds the fire spread from the feet of the captive women to climb up their skirts. The women screamed, at first only startled, but their yells quickly turned to cries of pain as the flames enveloped them. A few of the women at the edge of the fray tried to bolt, but they managed to make it no more than a few steps before tripping to writhe, burning on the ground.
“No!” the captain yelled, unable to stand it any longer. He rushed forward to aid the women in whatever way he could, but before he could take two steps, Wulfram swiped at him with wolf-like quickness and he fell dead, his throat rent open with four mortal gashes.
The cacophony of screaming was near deafening now, and smoke billowed up from the burning women. Around the courtyard, the archers turned away in shock. Some of them vomited at the smell of smoke and cooking flesh.
“Let this be a lesson to all of you,” Wulfram bellowed over the mayhem. “If you wish to show mercy to others then you will obey my orders without question.”
Natarios kept his eyes steadily on the scene of fiery horror before him, but he turned his mind to other thoughts to distract himself. It was a skill he had taught himself long ago to cope with the unsettling acts he was forced to watch. And sometimes perpetrate.
The screams one by one ended, and the women quit struggling as they slowly succumbed to their painful deaths. One girl only, no more than twelve or thirteen years old, continued to struggle after all the others. She had thrown herself to the ground and tried rolling, but the flames were unrelenting, and eventually she too came to a stop as her long blond hair burned away to nothing, and all but her bones were consumed by the flames.
“You have a message for me, I believe,” Wulfram said suddenly.
“What?” Natarios asked, realizing Wulfram was addressing him.
“The message from Col Sargoth.”
“Of course,” Natarios replied, scrambling to reach into his pockets and turn over the scroll. He had completely forgotten about it already.
Wulfram tore open the message and read it, then crumpled it and tossed it aside as it burst into flames. “I must return to Col Sargoth at once,” he said, striding away toward the main keep. “The prince has escaped.”
“But wait,” Natarios said, rushing after him. “What am I to do with the King?”
“Keep him locked up,” Wulfram said. “I will return before long.”
High in one of the five towers of Lightbringer’s Keep, Lorentz retched on his own blood. His neck muscles strained to tilt his head forward, but like the rest of his limbs, it was lashed to the crossbeams of the rack, and he was forced to remain upright and let the blood and bile run over his chin and down his neck.
“Where has he gone?” the Emperor whispered again, leaning in close to Lorentz’s ear. “Tell me.”
“I told you already. He means to rescue his father.”
“And I’ve told you, he’s not passed along the south road. You think I would not expect him to flee for Kal Pyrthin? He has not gone that way. He is in league with sorcerers, I know. Tell me. Where are they? In Norgland? Golier? Valaróz?”
“I don’t know,” Lorentz said.
The Emperor picked up his tongs again. “Don’t make me pull out more teeth, my dear man. This will all be much easier on you
when you tell me everything.”
Lorentz groaned but said nothing, and the Emperor reached toward him again.
21
Lore From the Past
Taera sat bolt upright in her bed and screamed. Across the stone chamber, Makarria jumped up in her own bed, startled by the sudden outburst.
“What’s wrong?” Makarria asked when she gathered her wits and remembered where she was. The wick on their lantern had burned low in the night and all Makarria could make out was Taera’s wide eyes and pale face from across the room. The bed, covers, and walls all were lost in the shadows. Makarria feared that someone or something had snuck into their room. “What is it, Taera?”
“I saw Lorentz. He was in pain. And dozens of women and girls screaming. They were dying, Makarria. They could have been us.”
Makarria let out a small sigh of relief, realizing the danger wasn’t imminent. She threw her covers aside and toed her way across the cold floor to sit beside Taera. “It’s alright, you just had one of your visions.”
Taera could only nod. She hadn’t experienced a vision in days, and these new visions were not the manner in which she had hoped to rediscover her power. “I’m scared, Makarria,” she said, and she realized she was crying.
“I know,” Makarria said, hugging her. “Don’t worry, I’ll help you.”
The next morning in her training chamber, Taera said nothing of her visions to Roanna, but the sorceress too seemed perturbed. “You had a vision, yes?” she asked Taera.
“Yes.”
Roanna pursed her lips grimly. “I do not have the clarity of vision you do as a seer, Taera, but images still come to me on occasion. Last night… their faces were not clear to me, but I saw many women—some of them girls still—in great pain. And I saw enough of their killer to know it was him.”
“Him? Who?”
“Who else? Wulfram.” Roanna drew in closer to Taera, and spoke in almost a whisper. “Always, women with power have been feared. Even Vala, I imagine, was feared and hated by Sargoth, Pyrthin, Norg, and Golier when they came across the Spine to create the Five Kingdoms. In their greed and lust for dominion, men have always gone to great lengths to subjugate women. But at no time in the history of the Five Kingdoms or the Old World have we sorceresses been so hated as we are now, Taera. Do you know why?”
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