Deathcaster

by Cinda Williams Chima

  Ash had come to the Desert Coast to find her. And now—he was walking into a trap set by Celestine with Lyss as bait. Lyss pressed her fingers into her forehead. “When—when do you expect him to arrive?”

  “It should be within the week,” Celestine said. Then drove the blade home. “Unfortunately, we’re leaving before he arrives.”

  Lyss looked up and met the empress’s eyes. “What do you mean?”

  “So here is the offer I make to you. You lead my army to the wetlands, and you drive the southerners into the sea. Retake your legacy, and you and your brother can rule the northern queendom on my behalf.” She paused, having offered the carrot, then followed with the stick. “Disappoint me, and I will burn your brother alive before your eyes. Then I will add you to my bloodsworn army.”

  29

  NIGHT VISITOR

  For hours, Evan had lain flat on his back, unable to twitch a finger. The only thing that continued to work was his mind—racing from one implausible escape scheme to another, segueing to one horrible fate after another.

  If I escape this, I’ll never, never, never trust a shiplord.

  The shiplords had carried him from the gallery into a plain stone chamber with windows overlooking the sea. He listened as they fed his stormborn a story that his wetland guests had poisoned him. After that, the blood-bound came and went, bathing him and turning him under the watchful eyes of the shiplords. First Jagger, then Riggs, and now, tonight, it was Jasmina. Evan wondered what had happened to Sangway, the other mastermind.

  Destin’s amulet still rested, hot against his skin, primed with power, but it might as well have been at the bottom of the sea. Amulets were not recognized on this side of the Indio, else they’d never have left it with him.

  He made a mental note—if you survive this, always carry poison. Though the simple act of getting it to his mouth would be as impossible as reaching his amulet. He managed to occupy himself for some time with devising ways around that problem should he survive long enough to try to kill himself again. For instance, he’d heard of assassins and spies who wore hollow teeth full of poison they could bite down on in a pinch.

  He’d be constantly worried that he’d bite down on it by accident. It might be worth the risk if it meant that he could slip through the empress’s fingers.

  Where were Prince Adrian and Talbot? Dead, probably, unless, for some reason, the empress had given orders to keep them alive. Poor Helesa was dead, and he assumed Kel was, too.

  The stormborn wept to see him so helpless, massaged his limbs, stroked his face, changed his linens, cursed the wetlanders for their betrayal. There were times that Evan felt like he would burst, the truth spattering over them like pus from a ruptured boil. But, of course, that didn’t happen, and they finally left when they could find no more excuses to stay.

  For a time after the bloodsworn left, Jasmina stood, staring out of the window, hands clasped behind her back, like a figurehead on a ship. Finally, she turned away from the window, crossed the room, and sat on the edge of his bed.

  What now? Evan thought.

  She leaned down toward him so that their noses were inches apart. “Listen to me, Stormlord. You know, and I know, that Jagger is a fool to trust Celestine. Once she gets hold of you, we are done.” She drew her blade and touched it to the tip of his nose. “I could kill you, and that would keep you out of Celestine’s hands, but then you’d be gone, and with you our protection, and she would be looking for revenge and so would Jagger. I’d probably have to kill him if the empress doesn’t get to us first.”

  She paused, as if waiting for a reply, but of course that didn’t come.

  “So, as you can see, it’s a problem.”

  Try as he might, Evan couldn’t conjure much sympathy for Jasmina and her problem. Especially since her blade was still pricking his skin.

  Evan heard footsteps in the corridor outside, rapidly approaching. Jasmina must have heard them, too, because she swore softly and put the blade up. Sliding her hands under his neck, she lifted the chain holding Destin’s amulet over his head, leaving behind the pendant his father had given him. She tucked the amulet into her pocket and stood, crossing to the window and sitting on the sill.

  Jagger banged the door open and then stood in the entrance, looking from Evan to Jasmina. “Is everything all right?” he said.

  “I hope that you’re here to relieve me before I die of boredom,” Jasmina said. “It’s like babysitting a corpse.” She slid from the sill, her boots hitting the stone floor with a thump. “Are the wetlanders more entertaining? I’m going to go find out.”

  “Leave them alone, Jasmina,” Jagger said. “The empress made it clear that she wants them alive and untouched.”

  “Don’t worry,” Jasmina said, her hand caressing the hilt of her knife. “I won’t damage them very much.”

  “I mean it,” Jagger said. “Find something else to do. Everything is riding on this.”

  “Fine. I’ll call in my crew and sail on the evening tide tomorrow.”

  “No,” Jagger said. “I don’t want anyone leaving the harbor until we receive instructions from the empress.”

  “And when will that be?”

  “Sangway set sail early yesterday. It might be a few days or a week.”

  “Already kissing the empress’s ass, are you? Well, I’m not going to sit around here for another week. I’ve got to make up for lost time. You’re not the harbormaster yet, and neither is she. I’ll do as I please.” Jasmina strode past him, but Jagger gripped her arm and yanked her toward him. The next thing Evan knew they were wrestling on the floor, punching and kicking.

  He wished he could turn his head so he could get a better view. Eventually, the fight ended, apparently badly for Jasmina. She stood, her eye rapidly purpling, sucking in her breath in ragged sobs. They sounded like the angry kind, not the sorry kind.

  That was confirmed by her parting words. “I get it now. You’re hoping to be Celestine’s new favorite. Wait until you find out what happens to her favorites when she tires of them.”

  She banged out the door.

  “That girl is going to be the death of me,” Jagger muttered.

  God willing, Evan thought.

  The cage could have been worse, Ash thought, based on the name. It was small—probably eight by eight, with a straw pallet and a chamber pot. It had one barred window, not large enough to climb through, and too high to reach anyway. The heavy iron door let out onto a gallery overlooking a small exercise yard. It wasn’t a dank, wet dungeon, deep underground, like the kind he’d experienced in Ardenscourt. Maybe because there weren’t many dank, wet places in Carthis.

  At the base of the door was a small slot through which meals were served, and dishes and chamber pots returned. Ash didn’t even get a good look at the person or persons who were coming and going. He tried calling to them when he heard movement in the corridors, but there was no answer. The shiplords were taking no chances.

  Sasha was locked up next door. Though the walls were thick, they could converse by speaking out their windows, but of course there was no way of knowing who else was listening.

  That first night, Sasha said, “Do you think Strangward is dead?”

  “I doubt it. His stormborn would have torn us to pieces if he were.”

  “Maybe the shiplords intend to turn him over to the empress, and tell the stormborn he died, and blame us. Then they’ll tear us to pieces.”

  “Anything’s possible, but I don’t think so. They would have just killed us right away.”

  “I think you’re right,” Sasha said quickly. “Remember, Jagger took your amulet and said that he needed it as a token for the empress.” She paused. “Do you think he took it because it was fancy, or do you think the empress is looking for us, specifically?”

  In other words, did she know all along they were coming? Had they been betrayed?

  That was Sasha—always walking the dark alley of despair.

  Speaking of despair, Ash mourne
d the loss of his father’s amulet with a visceral kind of grief. He’d worn it almost continuously since that day in Ragmarket when Han’s death had launched him south, into enemy territory. At first, it had been his only legacy from his father. Since they’d connected in Aediion, it had become so much more.

  And, of course, it was an heirloom—it had been made for his many-greats-grandfather Alger Waterlow, notorious through the generations as the Demon King, who broke the world.

  He’d held history in his hands, perhaps the key to the survival of the Gray Wolf line, and he’d let it slip through his fingers.

  After that, Ash and Sasha mostly restricted their conversations to “Are you awake?” and “What did you get for breakfast?” The last question was unnecessary, really, because it was always flatbread, fruit, and tay for breakfast, and flatbread, fruit, fish, and tay for other meals. Plus olives sometimes.

  Still, the questions kept coming, whether spoken aloud or not. Why would Celestine want them alive? They’d never met—he’d been in Arden for years, and most people in the Fells still thought he was dead. Did she think he and Strangward were friends, and intend to use that connection somehow?

  You might be disappointed, he thought. Friend is a strong word for what’s between us.

  And yet—their present predicament proved that much of what Strangward had said was true. That he wasn’t working for the empress, that he was doing everything he could to stop her, that he’d come to Fellsmarch for that purpose.

  That when he’d said he’d come to Ardenscourt to help Jenna, he was telling the truth. If Jenna was still alive, he’d succeeded. Awkwardly, badly, maybe—but still.

  Maybe you need to find a way to save Strangward, thought Ash, so he can save Lyss.

  Or maybe they needed to learn to work together.

  How long did they have? How soon would Celestine come? Or would she come at all?

  Where was Strangward? Was he already on his way to the empress?

  One night, when Ash had just rolled up in his blanket for sleep, he heard movement in the corridor that was more stealthy than usual. It was long past time for supper, and their dishes had already been collected.

  Was it the stormborn, there to avenge the stormlord? Celestine’s minions, there to drag them into the presence of the empress?

  The steps paused outside his cell. Moments later, he heard someone fitting a key into the lock, the click of the tumblers. The door eased open.

  It was Jasmina, looking like she’d just come from a vicious street fight. One eye was all but swollen shut, her lip was fat, and a trickle of blood had dried at the corner of her mouth. She scanned the tiny cell with her good eye. “Where’s the other wetlander?” she hissed.

  “Next door.” Ash eyed the shiplord, measuring the distance between them. Even without an amulet, if he could get his hands on her—

  “Stop giving me the side eye,” she snapped. “I earned these bruises getting hold of the keys to your cells. Show a little appreciation and gather your things.”

  “Where are we going?”

  “I’m going to help you escape.”

  Ash hesitated. Was this going to be one of those killed-while-escaping schemes? It didn’t make sense, though. It was not as if the shiplords answered to anyone, now that Strangward was down.

  “Here,” she said, pulling something out of her breeches pocket and tossing it at him so that he reflexively caught it with both hands. It was Strangward’s odd-looking amulet, the one that looked like a small mechanical device. It greeted him, lighting up in his hands. Did that mean that Strangward had died, or—?

  “Will that work for you?”

  “I think so, but—”

  “Try it out. I’m going to go free your giant friend.” Jasmina was out the door again.

  She must be serious, Ash thought. Otherwise she wouldn’t have handed me an amulet. Assuming it actually works.

  Hinges squealed outside as Sasha’s door swung open, and he could hear their low voices in the corridor.

  He needed to test Strangward’s amulet in a non-flashy, non-noisy way. He gripped the device, feeling the welcome current of flash. Would the stormlord’s magic be different from his own? For instance, would he be able to make weather now?

  It appeared to be clan-made, like any other flashcraft. It must have come from the Realms originally.

  Best to start with something familiar. Working quickly, Ash draped a translucent barrier over the doorway. Just as he finished, Sasha came barreling around the corner and all but bounced off it.

  “Scummer in the gutter,” she swore, just managing to keep her feet.

  “Sorry.” Ash quickly dismantled his magical wall. “It works,” he said to Jasmina.

  “Good. You’re going to have to fetch the stormlord while I ready the ships.”

  Hope kindled within Ash. “Strangward is still alive?”

  “He’s alive, but Jagger’s kept him drugged up so he can’t move a muscle. Sangway’s sailed for the Northern Islands to notify the empress. She could be here in a few days.” The shiplord handed Sasha a rough sketch of the palace. “Strangward’s being kept here.” She pointed. “One of the shiplords will be guarding him—I don’t know who. You’ll need to kill the guard and carry Strangward down to that little ketch of his. Kel should be down there waiting. He’ll be able to get you out of the harbor.”

  “Where will you be?”

  “I’m going to create a bit of a distraction,” Jasmina said.

  Ash knew time was wasting, but he couldn’t help himself. “Why are you doing this?”

  “Because I don’t like taking orders from fools, and Jagger is a fool if he thinks he can trust Celestine. Strangward may be a will-o’-the-wisp, but he’s always kept his word to us. Jagger’s the one breaking the bargain. I’m the one keeping it.”

  30

  BEARERS OF BAD NEWS

  Since it seemed that Lila and Shadow had been sentenced to serve an indefinite term in the capital of Fellsmarch, Shadow set up his foundry in the courtyard of Kendall House, so that he could continue to make flashcraft and weapons for the army in the east. It was probably the first flashcraft made outside the camps in the uplands. Clan technique was a closely guarded secret.

  Lila had been dealing Shadow’s work to the Ardenine Empire for more than a year, but she’d never seen much of the actual process. It was a mingle of blacksmithing, ironworking, leatherwork, and jewelry-making. Along with a dash of upland magic.

  Lila began helping Shadow to keep her mind off what might be going on to the east and down to the south. There was nothing like hammering iron and stone to work off frustration. It also kept her out of the taverns and gambling halls.

  To begin with, Shadow allowed her to do only the simplest jobs—the ones that cost the least in time and materials if they went wrong. Gradually, though, he gave her more and more complicated tasks.

  Even here in the north, it was hot work. At day’s end, they both stank of charcoal, sweat, and metal. Then it was into the bath, a quick supper, and to bed, where Lila, at least, slept like a corpse.

  It was strange to be doing such physical work in such a fancy setting. It was as if Shadow had set up a blacksmith’s forge in somebody’s elegant dining room.

  The smell and heat and noise of metalworking at all hours served to discourage other palace guests from lodging at Kendall House. So, most of the time, Lila and Shadow had the guesthouse to themselves.

  Shadow worked at a relentless pace, producing racks of blades of all sizes, dozens of the special collars he’d devised, along with the serviceable talismans they provided to soldiers in the field. At least, in the foundry, they could count up what they’d accomplished at the end of the day. In that, it was a refreshing change from their other job, which was politics.

  Late one afternoon, Lila slid the tray of flasks into the kiln and shut the heavy door, turning her face away from the searing heat. Her skin already stung like she’d been out in the sun too long. Hot as it was, it
would take just a few minutes for the burnout. When the molds were clear of wax, she’d set them on the rack by the centrifuge so they would cool slowly. Meanwhile, Shadow would melt gold, silver, copper—whatever material he was using that day—in a crucible. When it reached the right temperature and fluidity, he poured it into the centrifuge, which flung the metal into the molds, filling every nook and crevice.

  Shadow had stripped to his waist, but sweat still gilded every rugged hill and valley of his back and shoulders, running down his face and between his shoulder blades. Sometimes Lila simply stood and watched as he swung his hammer, bending metal and magic to his will.

  He was well worth watching.

  Lila had tied her mass of curls back with a scarf, and guessed she probably looked like her aunt Jazz after a day at sea.

  Lila couldn’t help wondering if they were wasting their time. Arden was one thing. But she’d seen what had happened in the villages of the coast. What good would a talisman do against an enemy that used brute, fearless, relentless force instead of magic?

  Speaking of Arden, Lila wondered if the Matelons had received her message about the collars. This project had begun in an effort to free Gerard Montaigne’s collared mages. Now that the empress was their most dangerous enemy, she hoped that helping the rebels in Arden’s civil war would lead to a quicker cease-fire.

  Lila lifted a mold from the cooling rack and plunged it into the quenching trough. Steam hissed up into her face as the investment crumbled away.

  She had swiveled to set it on Shadow’s worktable when she noticed that he’d stopped working to watch Lieutenant Ruby Greenholt sprinting toward them across the courtyard. Since the departure of Queen Raisa and Byrne, Greenholt had become their liaison with the queen’s Gray Wolf guard.

  Sprinting bluejackets never bring good news, Lila thought. Good news tiptoes in sheepishly, while bad news charges at you, howling.

  “Pardon me,” Greenholt said breathlessly. “Lady Barrett sent me to fetch you, to tell you that there’s an emergency meeting of the queen’s council. There is news about Captain Gray.”