The gate guards paid little attention when she had entered. She took this as a good sign that no one had connected Ella the scrub girl to the Witch of Melengar. All she needed to do now was cast the spell and walk out again.
She crossed the inner ward to the vegetable garden. The harvest had come and gone, the plants were cleared, and the soil had been turned to await the spring. The soft earth would allow her to draw the circle and symbols required. She clutched the pouch of hair still in the pocket of her kirtle as she glanced around. Nothing looked amiss. The few guards on duty ignored her.
As casually as she could, she began drawing a circle by dragging her foot in the dirt. When she had finished, she moved on to the more tedious task of the runes, which was more time-consuming to do with her toe than with her hand and a bit of chalk. All the while, she worried that her drawing would be obvious from any number of upper-story windows.
She was just finishing the second to last rune when a guard exited the palace and walked toward her. Immediately she crouched, pretending to dig. If he questioned her, she could say that Ibis sent her to look for potatoes, or that she thought she might have dropped the pantry key when she was in the courtyard. She hoped he would just walk by. She needed to be the invisible servant this one last time. It quickly became apparent that he was specifically coming for her. As he closed the distance, her only thought was of Hilfred and how she wished she had kissed him goodbye.
Amilia was in her office, quickly going over instructions with Nimbus. They had ticked off only a few items for the wedding preparations. If she could give him enough to keep busy, she could return to Modina. The urgency pulled at her every minute she was away.
“If you get done with that, then come see me and I’ll give you more to do,” she told him curtly. “I have to get back to the empress. I think she might do something stupid.”
Nimbus looked up. “The empress is a bit eccentric certainly, but, if I may, she has never struck me as stupid, my lady.”
Amilia narrowed her eyes at him suspiciously.
Nimbus had been a good and faithful servant, but she did not like the sound of that. “You notice too much, I think, Nimbus. That’s not such a good trait when working in the imperial palace. Ignorance is perhaps a better choice for survival.”
“I am just trying to cheer you up,” he replied, sounding a little hurt.
Amilia frowned and collapsed in her chair. “I’m sorry. I am starting to sound a bit like Saldur, aren’t I?”
“You still have to work on making your veiled threats sound more ominous. A deeper voice would help, or perhaps toying with a dagger or swishing a glass of wine as you say it.”
“I wasn’t threatening you. I was—”
He cut her off. “I am just joking, my lady.”
Amilia scowled, then pulled a parchment off her desk, crumpled it into a ball, and threw it at him. “Honestly, I don’t know why I hired you.”
“Not for my comedy, I sense.”
Amilia gathered a pile of parchments, a quill, and a bottle of ink and headed for the door. “I’m going to be working from Modina’s room today. Look there if you need me.”
“Of course,” he said as she left.
Not far down the hall, Amilia saw Anna walking by with a tray of food. “Anna,” she called, rushing toward her. “I told you to stay with the empress!”
“Yes, milady, but …”
“But what?”
“The empress asked me to fetch her some breakfast.”
A cold chill shot up Amilia’s spine. The empress had asked her. “Has the empress ever spoken to you before?”
On the verge of tears, Anna shook her head. “No, milady, I was very honored. She even knew my name.”
Amilia raced for the stairs, her heart pounding. Reaching the top and nearing the bedchamber, she feared what she would find. Nimbus was right, perhaps more than he knew. Modina was not stupid, and Amilia’s mind filled with the many terrible possibilities. Arriving at the door, she pushed Gerald aside and burst into the empress’s room. She steeled herself, but what she saw was beyond her wildest imaginings.
Modina and Ella sat together on the empress’s bed, hand in hand, chatting.
Amilia stood still, shocked. Both glanced up as she entered. Ella’s face was fearful, but Modina’s expression was calm as usual, as if expecting her.
“Ella?” Amilia exclaimed. “What are you doing—”
“Gerald,” Modina interrupted, “from now on, no one—and I mean no one—is to enter without my say-so. Understood?”
“Of course, Your Eminence.” Gerald looked down guiltily.
Modina waved her hand. “It’s not your fault. I didn’t tell you. Now please close the door.”
He bowed and drew the door shut.
Amilia meanwhile stood silent. Her mouth was agape but no words came out.
“Sit down before you fall down, Amilia. I want to introduce you to a friend of mine. This is Arista, the Princess of Melengar.”
Amilia tried to make sense out of the senselessness. “No, Modina, this is Ella—a scrub girl. What’s going on?” Amilia asked desperately. “I thought—I thought you might be—” Her eyes went to the broken pitcher and shards of mirrored glass scattered across the corner of the room.
“I know what you thought,” the empress said, looking toward the window. “That’s another reason you should be welcoming Arista. If I hadn’t seen her in the courtyard and realized—well—anyway, I want you two to be friends.”
Amilia’s mind was still whirling. Modina appeared more lucid than ever, yet she made no sense. Maybe she only sounded rational. Maybe the empress had cracked altogether. At any moment, she might introduce Red, the elkhound from the kitchen, as the Ambassador of Lanksteer.
“Modina, I know you think this girl is a princess, but just a week ago you also thought you were dead and buried, remember?”
“Are you saying you think I’m crazy?”
“No, no, I just …”
“Lady Amilia”—Ella spoke for the first time—“my name is Arista Essendon, and I am the Princess of Melengar. Your empress isn’t crazy. She and I are old friends.”
Amilia stood staring at the two of them, confused. Were they both insane? How could—Oh sweet Maribor. It’s her! The long fingernails, the way she met Amilia’s stare, the bold inquiries about the empress. Ella was the Witch of Melengar. “Get away from her!” Amilia yelled.
“Amilia, calm down.”
“She’s been posing as a maid to get to you.”
“Arista’s not here to harm me. You’re not, are you?” she asked Ella, who shook her head. “There, you see? Now come here and join us. We have much to do.”
“Thrace.” Ella spoke, looking nervously at Modina. The empress raised a hand to stop her.
“The both of you need to trust me,” Modina said.
Amilia shook her head. “But how can I? Why should I? This—this woman—”
“Because,” the empress interrupted, “we have to help Arista.”
Amilia would have laughed at the absurdity if Modina had not looked so serious. In all the time she had taken care of her, Amilia had never seen her so focused, so clear-eyed. She felt out of her element. The hazy Modina was gone, but she was still speaking nonsense. She had to make her understand, for her own good. “Modina, guards are looking for this woman. They’ve been combing the city for days.”
“That’s why she’s going to stay here. It’s the safest place. Not even the regents will look for her in my bedroom. And it’ll make helping her that much easier.”
“Helping her? Helping her with what?” Amilia was nearly at the end of her own sanity just trying to follow this absurd conversation.
“We’re going to help her find Degan Gaunt, the true Heir of Novron.”
CHAPTER 14
CALIS
The port of Dagastan surprised first-time visitors from Avryn, who thought of everywhere else as less civilized or uncultured. Calis was generally held, by th
ose who had never been there, to be a crude, ramshackle collection of tribal bands living in mud or wooden huts within a dense and mysterious jungle. It shocked most when they first laid eyes on the massive domes and elegant spires rising along the coast. The city was astonishingly large and well developed. Stone and gray-brick buildings sat densely packed on a graduated hillside rising from the elegant harbor that put Aquesta’s wooden docks to shame. Here four long stone piers stretched into the bay, along which stately towers rose at regular intervals, facilitating the needs of the bustling trade center. Masts of more than a hundred ships, nearly all of them exotic merchant vessels, lined the harbor.
Hadrian remembered the city the moment it came into view. The heat of the ancient stones, the spice-scented streets, the exotic women—all memories of an impetuous youth that he preferred to forget. He had left the east behind without regret, and it was not without reservations that he found himself returning.
No bells rang in the towers along the harbor as they entered. No alarm signaled as the bloodred sails of their Dacca-built tartane entered port. A pilot boat merely issued out and hailed them at their approach.
“En dil dual lon duclim?” the pilot called to them.
“I can’t understand you,” Wesley replied.
“What’s name of your vessel? And name of captain?” the pilot repeated.
“Oh, ah—it doesn’t have a name, I’m afraid, but my name is Wesley Belstrad.”
The pilot jotted something on a handheld tablet, frowning. “Where you outing from?”
“We are the remaining crew of the Emerald Storm, Her Imperial Eminence’s vessel out from the capital city of Aquesta.”
“What your business and how long staying will you be?”
“We are making a delivery. I am not certain how long it will take.”
The pilot finished asking questions and indicated they should follow him to a berth. Another official was waiting on the dock and asked Wesley to sign several forms before he would allow anyone to set foot on land.
“According to Seward’s orders, we are to contact a Mr. Dilladrum. I will go ashore and try to locate him,” Wesley announced. “Mr. Deminthal, you and Seaman Staul will accompany me. Seaman Blackwater, you will be in charge here until my return. See to it that the stores are secured and the ship buttoned down.”
“Aye, sir.” Hadrian saluted. The three disembarked and disappeared into the maze of streets.
“Wonderful luck we’ve had in picking up survivors, eh?” Hadrian mentioned to Royce as he met his partner on the raised aft deck of the ship.
The others remained at the waist or the bow, staring in fascination at the port around them. There was a lot to take in. Unusual sounds drifted from the urban landscape. The jangle of bells, the ringing of a gong, shouts of merchants in a strange musical language, and above it all the haunting voice of a man singing in the distance.
Dockworkers moved cargo to and from ships. Most were dressed in robes with vertical stripes, their skin a tawny brown, their faces bearded. Bolts of shimmering silks and sheer cloth waited to be loaded, as did urns of incense and pots of fragrant oil, whose scents drifted on the harbor breeze. The stone masonry of the buildings was impressive. Intricate designs of flowers and geometric shapes adorned nearly all the constructions. Domes were the most common architectural style, some inlaid in gold, others in silver or in colorful tiles. The larger buildings displayed multiple domes, each featuring a central spire pointing skyward.
For the first time in three days they had found an opportunity to speak alone. “I thought you showed great restraint, and I was impressed with your diplomatic solution to our little civil war,” Hadrian told Royce.
“I’m just watching your back, like Gwen asked.” Royce took a seat on a thick pile of netted ropes.
“It was a stroke of brilliance appointing Wesley,” Hadrian remarked. “I wish I had thought of it. I like that boy. Did you see the way he picked Staul and Wyatt to go with him? Wyatt knows the docks, and Staul knows the language and possibly the city. Perfectly sensible choices, but they’re also the two who would make the most trouble out of his sight. He’s a lot more like his brother than he thinks. It’s a shame they were born in Chadwick. Ballentyne doesn’t deserve them.”
“It’s not looking good. You know that, right?” Royce asked. “What with the weapons and Merrick’s payment going down with the Storm, and everyone in charge now dead. I don’t see where we go from here.”
Hadrian took a seat on the railing beside Royce. Water lapped against the wooden hull of the tartane and seagulls cried overhead.
“But we still have Merrick’s orders and that letter. What did it say?”
“I didn’t read it.”
“Weren’t you the one who called me stupid because—”
“I never had a chance. Wyatt grabbed them first. Then there was this little incident with a burning ship and lots of swimming. Now Wesley has them and he’s hardly slept. I’ve not had an opportunity.”
“Then we’ll have to stick to that letter until either you get a chance to take a peek or we solve this riddle. I mean, what is the empire doing sending weapons to Calis when they need them to fight the Nationalists?”
“Maybe bribing Calis to join the fight on their side?”
Hadrian shook his head. “Rhenydd could beat them in a war all by itself. There’s no organization down here, no central authority, just a bunch of competing warlords. The whole place is corrupt, and they constantly fight each other. There is no way Merrick could convince enough leaders to go fight for the New Empire—most of these warlords have never even heard of Avryn. And what’s with the elves? What were they doing with them?”
“I have to admit, I’d like to know that myself,” Royce said.
Hadrian’s glance followed Thranic as he came topside and lay among the excess canvas at the bow, his hood pulled down to block the light, his arms folded across his chest. He almost looked like a corpse in need of a coffin.
Hadrian gestured toward the sentinel. “So, what’s going on between you and Thranic, anyway? He appears to really hate you—even more than most people.”
Royce did not look in his direction. He sat nonchalantly, pretending to ignore the world, as if they were the only two aboard. “Funny thing, that. I never met him, never heard of him until this voyage, and yet I know him rather well, and he knows me.”
“Thank you, Mr. Esrahaddon. Can you provide me with perhaps a more cryptic answer?”
Royce smiled. “I see why he does it now. It’s rather fun. I’m also surprised you haven’t figured it out yet.”
“Figured what out?”
“Our boy Thranic has a nasty little secret. It’s what makes him so unpleasant and at the same time so dangerous. He would have killed Wyatt, might even have given you a surprise or two. With Staul added to the mix and Bernie slinking about, it wasn’t a battle I felt confident in winning, even if I didn’t have Gwen’s voice echoing in my head.”
“You aren’t going to tell me, are you?”
“What would be the fun in that? This will give you something to do. You can try to guess, and I can amuse myself by insulting your intelligence. I wouldn’t take too long, though. Thranic is going to die soon.”
Wesley returned and trotted up the gangway to address them. “I want volunteers to accompany me, Sentinel Thranic, Mr. Bulard, Dr. Levy, and Seamen Staul and Defoe inland. We will be traveling deep into the Calian jungles. The journey will not be without significant risks, so I won’t order anyone to follow me who doesn’t want to go. Those who choose to stay behind will remain with the ship. Upon my return, we will sail for home, where you will receive your pay.”
“Where in the jungle are you headed, Mr. Wesley?” Banner asked.
“I must deliver a letter to Erandabon Gile, who I am informed is a warlord of some note in these parts. I have met with Mr. Dilladrum, who has been awaiting our arrival and has a caravan prepared and ready to escort us. Gile’s fortress, however, is deep i
n the jungles, and contact with the Ba Ran Ghazel is likely. Now, who is with me?”
Hadrian, who was one of the first to raise his hand, found it strange that he was among the majority. Wyatt and Poe did not surprise him, but even Jacob and Grady joined in after seeing the others. Only Greig and Banner abstained.
“I see,” Wesley said with a note of surprise. “All right then, Banner, I’ll leave you in charge of the ship.”
“What are we to do while yer gone, sir?” Banner asked.
“Nothing,” he told them. “Just stay with the ship and out of the city. Don’t cause any trouble.”
Banner smiled gleefully at Greig. “So we can just sleep all day if we want?”
“I don’t care what you do, as long as you protect the ship and don’t embarrass the empire.”
Both of them could hardly contain their delight. “I’ll bet the rest of you are wishing you hadn’t raised your hands now.”
“You realize there’s only about a week’s worth of rations below, right?” Wyatt mentioned. “You might want to eat sparingly.”
A worried look crossed Banner’s face. “You’re gonna hurry back, right?”
Wesley led them off the ship and into the city, setting a brisk pace and keeping a sharp eye on the line of men. The old man, Antun Bulard, was the only straggler, but this had more to do with his age than his wounds, which had turned out to be only superficial cuts.
Loud-colored tents and awnings lined the roads of Dagastan from the harbor to the square. Throngs filled the paved pathways as merchants shouted to the crowds, waving banners with unrecognizable symbols. Old men smoked pipes beneath the shelter of striped canopies as scantily dressed women with veiled faces stood provocatively on raised platforms, gyrating slowly to the beat of a dozen drummers, bell ringers, and cymbal players. There was too much happening to focus on any single thing. Everywhere one looked there were dazzling colors, tantalizing movements, intoxicating scents, and exciting music. Overwhelmed, the little parade of sailors marched in step with Mr. Wesley as he led them to their promised guide. He and his team were waiting along a paved avenue not far from the city’s Grand Bazaar.
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