by Marc Turner
“Of course.”
Of course? Karmel was not so certain. And yet would Mazana tell a lie that could be so easily disproved?
A change had come over Caval. His expression was all hard edges. Senar Sol must have seen it too, for his hand strayed to his sword hilt. An unnecessary gesture, surely: if Caval tried to attack Mazana, the result would doubtless be the same as when he had tried to attack Imerle. But that didn’t mean he wouldn’t try. After Dragon Day he had hoped his days of service to the Chameleon were over. Now it was clear the god thought otherwise. What if Caval just wanted an end to it all? Would he force Mazana’s hand, even if that meant taking Karmel with him?
Apparently not, for his shoulders slumped. The priestess wished she could feel more sympathy for him. But then she wished he had never betrayed her either.
To the emira Caval said, “What’s in it for us if we agree to this mission?”
“Beyond the glory of doing your god’s bidding?” Mazana shrugged. “As I said, one does not leave the Chameleon’s service except on his terms.”
Karmel rubbed her hands along her arms. Was the woman seriously suggesting the Chameleon would release them from their vows? Did she think them so naive? Because contrary to Mazana’s earlier suggestion, if there was anything to be learned from Veran’s example, it was that the Chameleon’s word could not be trusted. What choice did Karmel and Caval have, though? If they refused to go along with the emira’s wishes, they wouldn’t leave here alive. And while they could agree to cooperate with the intention of running later, how far would they have to run in order to escape the Chameleon’s reach?
They were trapped. They had been trapped from the moment they took their vows all those years ago.
Karmel said, “You’re sending us to the Rubyholt Isles?”
“Us?” Mazana smiled. “No, I’m sending Caval to the Rubyholt Isles. You will remain here as my guest.”
As a hostage against Caval’s good behavior? Karmel looked at her brother. Since the events of Dragon Day, they hadn’t spent more than a bell apart. And while on occasion their time together had seemed like one long, uncomfortable silence, whenever they’d been separated, Karmel had found herself hurrying back to him for fear he might have left while she was away. He met her gaze now, his look unreadable. Maybe he was waiting for her to signal her wishes. Or perhaps he didn’t know what he wanted any better than Karmel herself.
Then he turned back to Mazana and said, “No. Either we both go, or neither of us does.”
The emira pretended surprise. “Indeed? Are you so eager to put your sister in mortal danger again, then?”
Karmel’s anger gave her a heat that thawed the cold in her chest. She suspected that whether she stayed or went didn’t matter to Mazana; the woman was just doing this to toy with them. And to think there’d been a time when impressing the Storm Lords had seemed important to her. “Moralizing, Emira?” she said. “Shall we ask your father what he thinks of that?”
Mazana laughed. “Such commendable loyalty, my dear. Though I can’t help thinking it is misplaced. Your brother did try to have you killed, after all. Are you sure you should be spending more time in his company?”
“If the alternative is staying here with you, absolutely.”
“Enough games,” Caval said to Mazana. “You have our answer. When do we leave?”
“This evening. I’ve chartered a merchantman to take you to Gilgamar. You will pick up a Rubyholt guide there before sailing south.”
“What about the dragons? Last time I looked, the creatures were still making a nuisance of themselves.”
Mazana sheathed her knife. “Yes, if only we had some way to keep them out of the Sabian Sea. You needn’t worry, though. I’m sending someone to hold your hand as far as the Isles.”
“This someone … a water-mage?”
“Yes.”
“Ah, a good one, I trust.”
Mazana nodded.
Caval waited for her to explain. When she did not, he added, “And the stone-skin fleet? Since you’re so confident we can destroy it, I assume you have a plan.”
The emira’s slow smile brought a whisper of cold back to Karmel’s chest.
* * *
Ebon watched the four newcomers enter the room—one man and three women wearing the uniforms of Mercerien soldiers. The man was the leader judging by the star adorning his collar. He’d rolled up his shirtsleeves to show off his heavily muscled forearms, and there were cords of muscle in his neck too. No way he’d followed Ebon here from the harbor; he must have been watching the ambassador’s house and seen the prince enter.
Silvar looked at Ebon, waiting for his lead.
“Is there a problem?” Ebon said to the officer.
“I don’t know, is there?” the soldier replied. “Maybe we should ask the ambassador’s men out there.” And he gestured over his shoulder to the hallway where Vale had left the two bodyguards unconscious.
Silvar said, “I commend your initiative in barging in like this, but your help isn’t needed.”
The soldier addressed the three women behind him. “See that?” he said. “The man here”—he pointed to Ebon—“was talking, and he didn’t even have to move his lips.”
“You think I am holding the ambassador under duress?” Ebon said. He drew his sword and passed it hilt first to Silvar, who accepted it with a grimace. “I’d say he is able to speak for himself now, wouldn’t you?”
“Excellent. He can tell me who you are and what you’re doing here.”
“This is a Galitian matter. It does not concern you.”
“I’ll be the judge of that. Or rather my bosses will.” The soldier beckoned Ebon forward with a finger. “You’re coming with us.”
“You’re … arresting me? On what grounds?”
“On the grounds that, if you’re important, my commander will want to speak to you. And if you’re not, well, no one’ll give a copper clipping what happens to you.” His voice hardened. “You’re coming with us,” he said again.
“No, I am not.”
The Mercerien showed his teeth. “Hear that, girls?” he said to his companions. “Got ourselves a tough one here.” Then, to the prince, “This ain’t the Galitian embassy. You can’t hide behind that diplomatic shit.”
Silvar said, “No, but this is my home. And I will thank you to leave before you do something we both regret.” It was said without authority, though. Without intent. And the officer’s smile only broadened in response.
Behind him his female companions shuffled apart to give themselves room to draw their swords.
Ebon studied the Merceriens. Four soldiers didn’t constitute a threat, but could there be more outside? Then again, what did it matter? Four, eight, even twenty, they weren’t going to stop him leaving. Rendale and Lamella weren’t here, so Ebon didn’t want to be either. And he reckoned he’d got as much as he was going to get from Silvar. No point wasting time trying to talk his way out of this. The sooner he made his move, the less likely he’d end up running into Mercerien reinforcements.
He glanced at Vale. No nods or other signals were needed. His look alone conveyed his intent, and the timeshifter’s frown showed he had read it well enough.
On the ride back to Majack from Estapharriol, Ebon had tested the gifts unwittingly conferred upon him by the Vamilian goddess—not just to learn control, but also to explore the extent and the limits of his power. It had quickly become apparent that the abilities he was strongest in were those he’d used most often in the clashes at Estapharriol: shielding himself from destructive sorceries, cutting down foes with waves of glacial cold, hurling from his path anyone who sought to block him. That last skill would serve him well here. And while he was reluctant to reveal his magic to Silvar, what was the alternative? Leave the task of dealing with the Merceriens to Vale? That would mean the timeshifter having to use his own power, and in doing so, cut short his life. Why should the Endorian take the burden when the prince could now bear it himself?<
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Besides, after hearing what had happened to Rendale and Lamella, Ebon couldn’t deny an urge to lash out.
The officer unsheathed his sword with a flourish. He would have expected Ebon’s first move to be to retrieve his own blade from Silvar. Instead the prince gathered his power and pushed at the soldiers.
The officer took the brunt of the attack. He was lifted as easily as if he were made of straw and thrown back toward the open doorway. The back of his head struck the top of the frame even as the rest of his body passed through the opening. His head came forward and down, his legs going backward and up as he disappeared into the hallway beyond.
The women immediately to either side of him fared little better. They were punched back against the wall next to the doorway. Their heads cracked against stone, and Ebon’s power pinned them there a moment before releasing them to crumple into unconsciousness. The final woman had been standing farthest from the officer. She was not so much lifted as spun about by Ebon’s blow. She staggered into the wall, then bounced off and toppled into a statuette on a plinth. It fell to the ground and smashed. The woman landed on top of it, twitched once, and lay still.
Ebon stared at the devastation he had wrought. The floor trembled in the wake of his attack, and ripples of power set the room’s curtains billowing. Truth was, he hadn’t intended to hit the Merceriens so hard. But better too hard than not hard enough.
Assuming he hadn’t killed anyone, of course.
The woman who had knocked over the statuette lay facedown in a pool of blood. When Ebon turned her over, he saw stone shards protruding from her skin. He tugged the largest splinters free, then touched a finger to a gash. When he released his power, the cut faded to a pale scar.
He wasn’t healing her because he felt obligated to the woman; he was doing it because he wanted to hone his fledgling healing skills. Healing was a power Galea had never exercised through him, yet it was one he was intent on mastering. Outside Mayot’s dome in Estapharriol, Ebon had repaired a gash to Vale’s arm. He had the ability, but he needed practice, and so on the ride back to Majack, and with the prospect of healing his father to spur him on, he had taken to cutting his own arm so he could mend it again. Inevitably, his father’s illness had proved a much more complicated beast than a mere flesh wound. It had taken Ebon several bells to get a sense of it, and many more before he’d suppressed it enough to sustain his father while Ebon went off to search for Rendale and Lamella.
Stone chippings crunched under Vale’s feet as he entered the hallway. He tested the officer’s pulse before meeting Ebon’s gaze. “He’ll live.”
“Time to get out of here, then.”
“You reckon?”
Rising, the prince looked across at Silvar. “I’ll leave you to tidy up the mess,” he said.
The ambassador could hardly object, but he nodded enthusiastically all the same. No doubt he was relieved to be rid of his guests. Ebon would be back, though. If the man had betrayed Rendale and Lamella to their deaths, there would be a reckoning.
Outside the house, the street was empty of Merceriens. Ebon made no attempt at stealth as he started retracing his steps to the harbor. He passed along an avenue lined by ketar trees shifting in the breeze off the Sabian Sea. To the east—down the hill toward the port—the buildings basked in the afternoon sunshine. A beautiful city, Ebon had heard Mercerie called, an enlightened city, with its fountains and its arched bridges. Though rumor had it its reputation would change if anyone thought to drain the canals that crisscrossed its Temple District.
“What now?” Vale asked as they passed a shrine to Hamoun.
As if he didn’t know. “Mercerie is west of Dian, so odds are Ocarn’s starting berth will have been west of the city too. If he was able to flee, he’ll have sailed farther west, away from the Dragon Gate. What’s the closest city that way?”
“Kansar. Or maybe Airey. But they’re both in the Storm Isles, so getting there would mean a dash across open waters. If Ocarn kept to the coast, he’ll have headed for Gilgamar.”
“Then that’s where we’ll start our search.”
“And if he ain’t there?”
“Then we ask around, find someone who saw what happened to his ship. If no one knows, we continue on to Dian.”
Vale looked across. “You want us to sail to Gilgamar? Across the Sabian Sea?”
“The overland route would take weeks. It would also lead us across the Waste. You think that road would be any safer?”
“Safer than a tangle with a dragon? Let me think about that.”
“If we follow the coast and keep the land in sight, we can make a run for shore if we have to.”
“And if we’re trapped against a cliff?”
Ebon shot Vale a look to silence him. The Endorian should know better than to try to sway the prince once his mind was made up. Yes, they’d be taking a risk going by boat, but it was worth it for the time they would save. And yes, the chances of them finding Lamella and Rendale alive were slim, but it stood to reason that some ships must have survived the Hunt. Why shouldn’t Ocarn’s be among them?
Whatever the odds, Ebon had a duty to see this through. To follow the trail to its end, no matter where it led.
“The Sabian Sea is huge,” he said. “That means there are lots of places a dragon could be, aside from the stretch of coastline we’ll be following. At the speed we’ll go, we should be able to cover the distance to Gilgamar in less than a day. Chances are we won’t even see a dragon in that time.”
Vale turned his head so his voice wouldn’t carry, but Ebon caught his words nevertheless. “Only if our Shroud-cursed luck changes.”
* * *
Floating in spirit-form, Amerel studied the bailey of Dresk’s fortress. The yard ran southeast to northwest, with the gatehouse at one end and the Great Hall at the other. The hall was the same grisly sight she remembered from nine years ago. Its frontage was covered with mortar into which a collection of black and broken bones had been set. Above the main entranceway were the remains of a human rib cage, the ribs splayed. There were darker patches of mortar among the light, suggesting that someone had recently added new bones to the old. Some of those new bones were tinged red; others had shreds of flesh hanging from them—though a gaggle of limewings was working hard to put that right.
Amerel had seen similar … architecture before, of course: in Renner, and in Nain Deep, and among the ruins of the Gollothir Plains. There were few Guardians who had traveled as widely as she had in search of knowledge that would broaden her understanding of the Will. As a student, she’d found the theory behind the Will more interesting than the practice. So while her fellow novitiates were hacking chunks out of each other in the weapons yard, she’d been in the library learning what little she could from the ancient texts. So much had been lost during the Exile. Now the Guardians were ignorant of the most basic laws underpinning their powers. No one even knew how the Will could encompass such disparate elements as the spiritual art of Will-persuasion with the more physical applications used in swordplay.
Those unaware of how a Guardian’s abilities worked thought that one simply had to wish for a thing to happen, and it would be so. If that were the case, though, why couldn’t Amerel reverse the sun’s path through the sky, or turn the sundial’s shadow back to the time before she’d taken her Guardian’s oath? There were rules governing the use of her power—the same rules, perhaps, as those that governed the forces of nature. Learn those rules, and she might expand the reach of her abilities, for as she’d told Noon on the Whitecap, a Guardian had to truly believe she could do something before she could do it in practice. For centuries that belief had come from knowing other Guardians had done the thing before. But that meant the order had gone stale on past successes. That it had not grown as it must do if it wanted to survive.
The problem was, where was Amerel supposed to find new learning to replace the lost? Scholarship required civilization to sustain it, and which of the empires around Erin E
lal could lay claim to such a lofty ideal? None, she’d assumed. Then two years ago, she had stumbled across a book in a Talenese bazaar. A wondrous book written in High Celemin and containing theories on the movement of the continents, the properties of light, the cycles of the moon. Some of those theories Amerel had since disproved. Some she didn’t understand. But some had expanded her learning in directions she’d never even considered before. And while thus far she had discovered few practical applications for that knowledge, the book in question—according to its cover—was only the first in a series of twelve. Imagine what mysteries she might unlock if she could locate the other eleven.
She’d asked the book’s seller where he had found it, and he’d told her it had come from a barrow outside Arandas. Amerel had been skeptical. Those barrows dated back to the Fourth Age, so any book buried there would surely have crumbled to dust by now. Still, there seemed no harm in looking. It didn’t count as theft, after all, when the tombs’ occupants were dead.
Except that not all of those occupants had been dead.
Amerel’s thoughts had taken her along paths better left untrod, but before she could change course, her gaze caught again on the splayed rib cage over the main entranceway. She felt a twist of agony in her chest. A blood-dream rose up to claim her, and she heard the grinding crack of her own bones as they were snapped back one by one to stand proud from her flesh. A scream bubbled in her throat. She tried to wrest herself free of her memories, but there were more visions waiting to rise in their place. Looking away from the wall, she scanned the bailey for somewhere safe to rest her gaze. It was difficult, though, to find anything that didn’t spark in her a recollection of blood. A warped arrowhead, a splinter of stone, a sharpened stake: in the right hands, all could be used to create pain. And the Deliverer she’d met in that Arandian barrow had been so fabulously creative.
The Deliverers—those self-appointed moral guardians of the world—were said to purify their victims’ souls in the cleansing fires of self-awareness. And perhaps Amerel’s soul had been due a spring cleaning after what she’d done that time in Kal. Even now, though, she couldn’t help thinking that the Deliverer’s treatment of her had been … excessive. Hundreds upon hundreds of deaths he’d inflicted on her mind over the course of twenty-hour harrowing bells. Blade and fire, crucifixion and dismemberment; she’d experienced them all, only to be made whole again so the suffering could begin anew. Her face twisted. Here she was, the mighty Amerel Duquy, greatest exponent of the Will-persuasion to have lived since the Exile, yet she’d been helpless to withstand the images thrown at her that day. Through it all the Deliverer had stared at her with his blue eyes—eyes that burned with a feverish zeal. But it was hardly surprising that centuries of interment should have driven him mad. Immortality was seen by some as the ultimate prize, but try telling that to an immortal who’d been buried alive.
