by Jack Massa
“More likely, torn down,” Amlina said, with a meaningful glance at Zenodia.
The priestess was staring at them all, dumbfounded. Suddenly, she dropped to her knees and seized Amlina’s hand. “You have fulfilled our greatest hopes,” she cried in the Nyssanian tongue. “I pledge to support your rule in every way I can.”
Aghast, Amlina snatched her hand away. “No. No! I have no intention of taking Beryl’s place.”
“What did she say?” Karrol demanded.
“I think she just offered Amlina the throne,” Wilhaven said.
Amlina nodded curtly, then spoke to the priestess in Nyssanian. “I intend to leave Tallyba at once. I will take only the Cloak of the Two Winds and …”
Distracted, she looked around the chamber. Thralls kept by Beryl as attendants had come awake. Two had dropped to the floor, moaning. Two others wandered around in confusion. The treeman, Grellabo, was nowhere to be seen.
“… There are also some scrolls that the Archimage stole from Larthang,” Amlina said. “Oh, and we’ll take a modest measure of gold, to recompense my brave companions.”
Eben grinned wolfishly. “Did she just mention loot?”
Zenodia was still on her knees. “But, if you don’t take her place, there will be chaos, factions fighting for control …”
“No doubt.” Amlina gathered the Cloak in her arms. “You seem like a capable woman. I expect you could be influential.” She waved a hand, indicating the magical lair. “Especially with all of Beryl’s books and tools to help you.”
Zenodia eyes followed the witch’s gesture. Realization seemed to dawn in her. “Yes. You are right.” She struggled to her feet. “I am a priestess of Tysanni—and for now, at least, I have access to the temple treasury. I will devote myself to reestablishing the old gods, to bringing our nobility back from exile.”
“You are speaking like a leader already,” Amlina said, as she hunted for the scrolls. “I’d be careful with the narcotics, though. In the end they will muffle, not sharpen your powers.”
Zenodia hastened over to the witch’s side. “Yes. I will. I promise you.”
Amlina rummaged through one of Beryl’s chests. The Archimage possessed so many interesting trinkets and documents. How tempting to examine them all at her leisure, to take more than a few things with her … But no, her intuition was awake and definite: She must get herself and her friends away from Tallyba as soon as possible, taking only the Cloak and the Nine Scrolls of Eglemarde—the national treasures Beryl had stolen long ago from the House of the Deepmind.
“Can I help you?” Zenodia asked. “What can I do to repay you?”
Amlina considered. With Beryl’s demise, she could feel the city beginning to stir. “Can you arrange an escort to take us back to the harbor?”
Zenodia touched her chin, brow lowered. “I suppose so … Yes. The temple guards will obey me. I will say that I act on the queen’s authority.”
She turned to leave, but hesitated. “One thing I must ask you, Amlina. The oracle of Tysanni made a prophecy. She said the tyrant would rule for a thousand years, unless three prevailed: ‘The student who returns, the queen who was already dead, and the spear that was melted and forged again.’ I thought you must be the student, which is why I expected your return. But does any of the rest ring true?”
“Aye,” said Wilhaven, who stood nearby. “That queen would be the lady I served, Meghild of Demardunn. She sacrificed her life so Amlina could cast the mighty Mirror.”
“Indeed,” Amlina replied. “And it was the last energy of the Mirror, encased in a trinket, that turned Beryl’s vile magic back on herself and caused her defeat.”
“Was it so?” the bard cried. “Then I have a fitting end to my noble queen’s song.”
“That matches the prophecy truly,” Zenodia said. “But the final part, the spear that was melted and remade?”
“That’s easy.” The witch pointed her chin across the chamber to where Glyssa stood rejoicing with her mates. “That would be Glyssa, a mage true and skillful, and the bravest soul I have ever met.”
* O *
One hour later, Zenodia climbed the steps of the Bone Tower, leading three of her assistants. Clerics from the office of the treasury, they wore orange gowns and sandals, their faces and scalps dyed red. Arms folded in sleeves, they followed, mute and obedient, though Zenodia knew they must be terrified. For lower-ranking clerics to be summoned to the palace at all was a rarity, but to the tower of the tyrant queen—never. Zenodia could not even imagine what they must think.
She had woken them by pounding on their doors, ordered them to follow her as soon as they could dress. Emerging on the temple’s main portico, they had been joined by a company of guardsmen.
Acquiring the guards had been more difficult. The captain on duty had looked askance when Zenodia ordered him to turn out a company in the middle of the night. This coming on the heels of the queen’s bizarre command, requiring the whole city spend the day behind locked doors and shuttered windows. But Zenodia had refused to explain, only repeated her order coldly, and stated that she spoke with the authority of not only the temple council but the queen herself. The captain had not dared to refuse.
Arriving at the palace with three clerics and thirty guardsmen, Zenodia had found Amlina and her followers emerging from the corridor behind the throne. The barbarians carried sacks Zenodia knew must contain treasure. Small enough recompense, she thought, for slaying the tyrant. She kept her promise, dispatching ten men to escort the witch’s party to the harbor. The rest she left to guard the audience hall, telling the captain that the queen was involved in deep magical work and must not be disturbed on any account.
Now Zenodia turned at the top of the stairs, the entrance to Beryl’s lair. The assistants stared up at her, their faces confused and distraught. Two were in their early twenties, a young man and woman, neophytes whom she had elevated and who owed her loyalty for that alone. The third was Ilse, a middle-aged woman Zenodia had known for years, a fellow worshipper of Tysanni.
“As you may have guessed,” she said, “I was not entirely truthful with the captain. There is momentous good news for our land, which will be known to all soon enough. But for these next hours—however long we are undisturbed—I need your help. We will make an inventory of the books and artifacts in these chambers, and begin to ascertain how these things may be used as we seek to re-establish a just order in Tallyba.”
The clerics stared as if she had gone insane.
“But … where is the queen?” Ilse managed.
Zenodia smiled. “Come, I will show you.”
Hesitantly, they followed her to the place where the body lay—a pink, shriveled thing in a puddle of blood. Nearby, the severed head showed Beryl’s ghastly countenance. The clerics stared in shock and revulsion.
But the sight no longer troubled Zenodia at all. Amlina has made a strong impression on me, she thought, her composure, her fearless determination. From now on, Zenodia would emulate those qualities.
“It is true,” she said. “The tyrant is dead, slain by that young witch and her followers, who even now are leaving the city. And so, we have a chance to rebuild our land.” She nudged the bloody, flippered thing with her foot. “This atrocity, we shall burn.”
A rustle of movement drew her attention. The treeman crept from under a bookcase, hissing softly, staring at them with frightened eyes.
“Her familiar,” Ilse said.
“Yes.” After a moment, Zenodia knelt and held out her hand. “Come here, Grellabo. Come here. It’s all right.”
The creature hesitated, glancing nervously at the clerics, at his dead mistress’ remains. Anxious, flinching, he edged toward Zenodia’s hand.
The moment he came within reach, she grabbed the fur on his back. Grellabo hissed and spat, tried to scratch her with his claws. But Zenodia stood calmly, holding him away from her body.
Deliberately, she walked to the hole at the center of the floor, her assistants shu
ffling behind. The treeman screeched and tried to writhe out of her grasp. Zenodia extended her arm, holding the creature over empty space.
She opened her hand. The treeman plummeted, twisting and tumbling through the air, his howl of terror fading.
Zenodia watched as the body was smashed on the stones far below. The three assistants looked at her, open-mouthed. She loosed a sigh of relief.
“So let all the tyrant’s evil be destroyed.”
* O *
Dawn slipped over the sky in shades of maroon and gold. Glyssa marched with her klarn, exhausted but happy, along the quay toward their boat. The Iruks carried spears and sacks full of loot. Amlina walked in their midst, holding a satchel of Larthangan scrolls and the Cloak of the Two Winds folded in her arms. Ten temple guards accompanied them as escort.
In the long corridor across from the tower, they had discovered all of the wall panels rolled away. Beyond them lay vaults stuffed with treasure. Only Amlina’s insistence that it was dangerous to remain long in the city kept them from picking through it all. In the end, except for a few rings and a jeweled cup, they agreed to limit their loot to gold coins. They filled seven sacks—more than enough, Eben judged, to keep them all in meat and drink the rest of their lives.
Reaching the Phoenix Queen, they made haste to load the treasure on board. While the mates handed the sacks of coins over the rails, the temple guards stood watch, shielding their activities from a growing crowd of curious spectators. The city was waking up, people returning to the streets and quays. Did they sense something in the air, Glyssa wondered, or was word already spreading of the queen’s death?
Karrol went to open the rear hatch. Suddenly, she jumped back, drawing her sword. “Whoever you are, come out of there!”
The Iruks stopped their work and reached for their weapons. They glared as a figure crept from under the rear deck—a small, bearded man with boney shoulders, wrapped in one of their bed furs.
“My apologies, but I found myself naked and had to put on something. Perhaps one of you can lend me a garment?”
“Who in the Mother’s name are you, and what are you doing on our boat?” Lonn demanded.
But Amlina, standing by the mast, smiled affectionately.
“Hello, Kizier.”
Epilogue
East of Alone
“I am thinking again that this course was not the best decision.” Karrol grunted, marching with two water casks balanced on her shoulders.
“You were anxious to get home,” Glyssa replied, trudging behind her on the beach. “A straight course is the fastest way.”
“That’s obvious,” Karrol answered. “But it hasn’t been so fast, has it?”
Six of the mates walked single file along the shore, carrying water and sacks containing a few shellfish and eggs they had managed to scavenge. The Phoenix Queen rode at anchor in a cove a short distance away. The island, named Alone, was as barren and desolate as the tales told—a pile of rock in the midst of the ocean, home only to seabirds, crabs, and ferocious fire turtles. At least the dry grasses and stands of stunted conifers would provide fuel. They’d be able to cook tonight.
“Just be happy we found the island,” Draven told Karrol. “We won’t starve or die of thirst.”
“I am grateful for that,” Karrol allowed. “But it’s hard to be merry anticipating many more days on skimpy rations.”
“Aye, and with our ship riding heavy with sacks of gold,” Wilhaven mused. “It’s tragic, mates, as if the Fates were mocking us.”
“We’ll be in Fleevanport soon enough,” Lonn said. “Then you’ll have all the meat and mead your bellies can hold.”
That thought lifted their spirits. Laughing, trading rough jests, they carried the supplies across the shallow water and hoisted them onto the boat.
Leaving the harbor at Tallyba, the klarn had decided to head straight out to sea. Word of the queen’s overthrow would spread quickly along the coasts, Amlina had warned, with turmoil and lawlessness sure to follow. A cranock, laden with treasure and carrying a small crew, would make a tempting target for pirates or naval squadrons suddenly unleashed from disciplined command. Besides, sailing southwest was the most direct route to the Iruks’ home seas. They had decided on Fleevan as their destination, a Tathian colony where they could hold up and rest.
The plan had been for Amlina to use the magic cloak to summon the freezewind and drive them expeditiously over frozen seas. But the second day of the voyage, Amlina fell sick. Exhausted by her confrontation with Beryl and the long ordeal of carrying blood magic, the witch had fainted on deck while wielding the Cloak. For two days she lay unconscious, and the mates had feared for her life. Draven or Glyssa sat with her constantly, sponging her brow, stroking her hair, calling on the klarn-soul to strengthen and heal her.
Finally, she had awakened. Yet now, after a full 17 days at sea, she was still too weak to leave her bed. So the mates had sailed on soft water, the prevailing northerly winds on the starboard stern. Navigating by the stars, they had arrived at this near-mythical island just in time to replenish their fresh water.
Climbing aboard the cranock, the mates set about sorting the supplies, lighting the cook stove, and boiling water to make soup and tea. As twilight gathered, they sat in a circle on deck, sharing the light meal and musing on what they would do after arriving in Fleevanport.
Eben bragged that he meant to drink mead all day and night for a year—perhaps buy his own tavern. Wilhaven said he would likely rest in the colony for some time, before arranging passage back to Gwales. He still had much work to complete Meghild’s saga—and also, he hinted, other songs that were tugging at his mind.
Kizier for his part planned to stay with Amlina and, when the time came, accompany her back to Larthang. He aspired to write a detailed account of their voyages together and the far-flung places they had seen. Kizier spoke softly, looking uncomfortable in his ill-fitting Iruk garb. He was finding it difficult, Glyssa knew, to readjust to human form. He still spent long periods seated on the rear deck with the two remaining windbringers, seeking to attune his mind with theirs.
Lonn and Draven were noncommittal as to their plans, saying only they would wait and see. Draven, Glyssa thought, had become more subdued and reflective since being wounded and nearly dying at Valgool. But he felt bound to Amlina—as did Glyssa herself—and would no doubt stay with her, at least until she recovered.
Only Karrol and Brinda were intent on returning to Ilga, the klarn’s home island. With all the loot they had won, there would be plenty to pay off any reparations the tribal elders deemed they owed to their neighbors. It was almost a year ago that the klarn had left the hunt and plundered Amlina’s ship—then later been forced to refuse to share their catch with the other boats of the hunting fleet. Of course Glyssa herself had not witnessed that confrontation, having been enthralled by the sorcerer and carried away to Kadavel …
Sitting close to her mates, she put those evil memories aside. The nights of Third Summer were warm and pleasant, especially in these mid-latitudes. With myriads of stars overhead and the bright sea lapping gently at the hull, Glyssa felt calm and content, whatever the future might bring.
* O *
Amlina moaned and opened her eyes. A dream had disturbed her—or rather, an intuition of danger. From the stillness of the boat, she could tell they were still anchored off the island.
She felt terribly weak, even after so many days of rest. The ebbing of the Mirror’s power had drained her vitality, far more than she would have expected. In retrospect, the attempt to heal herself by entering deep trance had been a mistake. Once scattered by the dark immersion, her soul had resisted coming back to itself. The Bliss of Unknowing had proved all too tempting. She might have dissolved entirely, a gentle path to death sometimes taken by witches, except…
She gazed fondly at Draven, asleep on a cushion, his head and arm resting on the edge of her bunk. Her will to live was still strong, because of the time she wished to spend wi
th Draven, and with her other friends. Also, she still had ambitions, to return the Cloak and the Scrolls of Eglemarde to Larthang, to claim just honors … though all of that seemed less important now. Amlina let her fingers toy with Draven’s black hair.
He raised his head and gave her a sleepy smile. “Are you all right?”
She reached for his hand to kiss.
Loud pounding shook the hatch.
“Amlina, Draven!” Glyssa called. “You’re needed on deck. There’s trouble.”
The witch bolted upright. Shaking off a wave of dizziness, she reached for a robe. Draven helped her pull it on over her nightdress. They crept across the low cabin and onto the deck.
It was morning, the sky deep blue with towering white clouds. The island rose to the west in tumbled boulders and crags. To the north, a line of ships was coming around the headland. Legs weak, Amlina gripped the rail and stared. Ten—no, twelve—of the vessels appeared to be drommons, Tathian galleys. Farther away, a pair of galleons were visible on the horizon: supply ships.
“Sure, and it’s a Tathian war fleet.” Wilhaven stood at the witch’s elbow. “But by the Three Sisters, what are they doing here at the end of the world?”
“Hunting for us,” Amlina replied with a dread certainty.
The Iruks were on deck, strapping on harnesses and weapons. They had already raised the anchor stone.
“Should we hoist sail?” Lonn asked the witch. “Try to outrun them?”
“No chance of that on soft water,” Wilhaven answered solemnly. “Not with forty oarsmen per vessel.”
“Well, we plainly can’t outfight them,” Lonn said.
The whole party stood at the rails, watching the oncoming fleet. Each drommon carried a troop of marines armed with bows, lances, and swords. The galleys featured high fighting decks fore and aft, and iron-shod prows for ramming.
“Perhaps an offer to parley?” Kizier suggested. “Let them know about the power that we hold.”
Amlina fought to keep her head clear. “Yes. I will attempt to bluff them. If that fails, I will have to use the Cloak.” She turned to Lonn. “I suggest you hoist sail and come about. Approach to within hailing distance.”
