The Cradle of Ice (Moonfall #2)

Chapter 36

36

K ANTHE LEANED OVER the rail of the wingketch and studied the sweep of verdant forest far below. It called to him in distant whispers of birdsong and sharper cries of hunters. As the Quisl floated over it, scudding through low clouds, he could smell the rich loam and wet leaf.

It was the legendary Myre Drysh, a hunter’s dream. Its bower swept in all directions and washed up against the mountains to the east, the towering peaks of the Hyrg Scarp.

He wished he could forsake this journey and vanish into the forests below. He pictured leading the simple role of a tracker, eking out a living under that shadowed bower—and not just because of his love of woodlands and the challenge of a hunt.

It’s so sarding hot up here.

Sweat dripped from his nose and fell toward the distant canopy. He straightened and scowled at the rise of the Scarp mountains.

For two days, the Quisl had been following those peaks, heading due south. The mountains were too high near Kysalimri, the winds too fierce to risk crossing the range in such a small ship. As they trailed along the edge of the Scarp, the craggy peaks had grown steadily smaller. According to the ketch’s captain, a Rhysian named Saekl, they would head across those craggy peaks later in the day.

Not soon enough for my tastes.

Kanthe glanced back north, wishing the mountains were already between them and Kysalimri—especially considering who was held prisoner on board. He pictured Rami’s features, darkened by thunderheads. The Klashean prince still believed Kanthe had betrayed him. And Aalia’s disdain only grew worse with each passing league. No doubt the Imri-Ka was already hunting for his son and daughter, in ships far swifter than theirs.

Frustrated at their slow pace, Kanthe tightened his fingers on the rail. A ketch was built for quick launches and winged for agile maneuvering. It wasn’t designed for speedy passage over a long distance. The fluttering snap of the Quisl ’s wings reminded him that they were flying as fast as they dared.

A harsh curse—followed by a sharper squawk of complaint—drew Kanthe’s attention to the bow.

Under the draft-iron cables that ran from the curve of the high prow up to the ship’s balloon, Llyra knelt with a slim woman named Cassta, one of the Rhysian assassins. She was the youngest of Saekl’s crew, maybe a year or two older than Kanthe. Her braid was shorter, holding only four bells, marking her as an acolyte.

Cassta pulled a squirming skrycrow away from Llyra.

“Hold it still,” Llyra complained.

“You’re too rough,” Cassta scolded. She frowned at Llyra. “It’s well for you to remember. Nothing is as strong as gentleness.”

Kanthe smiled, surprised at such words from an assassin-in-training. Over the past two days, he had often noted Cassta, more often than he should. She moved with a sultry grace that whispered of hidden strength and talents. He caught her occasionally looking his way, too. But she seemed to stare straight through him.

Llyra, though, was not amused. “Let’s get this message into the winds and be done with it already.”

Cassta held the crow away. “First, take a deep breath.”

This suggestion was met by a deep scowl from Llyra.

Kanthe crossed over, drawn for many reasons. “Maybe I can help.”

Llyra huffed and stood, clearly done with the whole affair. She thrust a hand at him. Her fingers clutched a curled ribbon of oilskin, sealed with a dab of wax. “This message needs to get to Symon, to let him know we’re about to make the crossing toward Malgard. One of his crows arrived earlier, with word that the situation in Kysalimri grows more heated with each passing bell. He wants to know our progress to determine how best to proceed.”

Kanthe took the scroll. Skrycrows had been flitting back and forth as they had traveled along the Scarp. Such swift birds flew faster than any ketch, but eventually the distances would be too great, making communication and coordination difficult once they crossed the mountains. If they wanted any further support from Symon and the Razen Rose, they could not delay any longer.

Llyra brusquely waved for Kanthe to take her stead. He suspected some of the guildmaster’s frustration was not just due to an obstinate skrycrow. Last night, Llyra had come to Kanthe’s cabin, half-drunk, or at least feigning so, and kissed him roughly. She had tried to push him toward his bed, but he had maneuvered her back out before she could do more. Still, his reaction had been more reflex than rejection. Her lips had been soft, her tongue probing. The rise of her breasts pressed against him had not been entirely unwelcome.

Still…

Probably for the best.

Llyra strode across the deck. Once at the hatch, she swept her half-cloak, as if to brush them both off, and vanished below. While Llyra might have wanted to share Kanthe’s bed, he knew another whose ardor had gone ice cold. He regretted the loss of Rami’s friendship and still held out hope that it could be rekindled.

With a sigh, he turned and dropped to a knee across from Cassta. The woman’s face was stoic, but her eyes glinted with amusement, as if she had been listening in on his private thoughts. And maybe she had. It was said Rhysians were capable of reading another by studying the tiniest movements of eye, mouth, and breath. It’s what made them such skilled assassins.

Of course, Kanthe’s hot face hid little of his discomfort—both from last night and now.

Cassta smelled of honeywood and leather. Her silver-white complexion set off the rose of her lips. Her ampleness filled her bodice, especially when she leaned over to hold out the skrycrow toward him.

He stared a breath too long.

“Prince Kanthe,” she said coldly, stating his title with a hint of disdain.

He tried not to take offense. The Rhysians’ matriarchal society notoriously held little regard for hierarchal rule.

He cleared his throat. “Sorry… just a lot in my head at the moment.”

“No doubt.” Cassta’s gaze flicked to where Llyra had vanished. “She is quite handsome in her own hard way.”

Kanthe’s cheeks grew hotter. It was a small ship, making secrets difficult to keep. He lowered his face and concentrated on freeing the capped end on the crow’s message tube, which was harnessed to the bird’s back and positioned lengthwise between its wings. He struggled to accomplish this simple task. The bird fidgeted, still clearly agitated from Llyra’s rough handling.

Trust me, little bird, I feel the same way.

Discouraged, Kanthe sat back on his heels. Then he remembered Cassta’s instructions. Taking a deep breath, he reached a finger and ruffled the feathered crest along its neck. He shushed softly to the bird. The skrycrow fluttered its wings, then seemed to grow calmer.

“There you go,” he whispered.

He uncapped the tube and slid the scroll into place. Once done, he thanked the bird with another ruffle of its crest. The crow twisted its head and rubbed a cheek against a knuckle, raising a smile to Kanthe’s lips.

Cassta drew the bird to her bosom and gently smoothed its crest. “As you can see, it’s the tenderest touch that warms the heart. But after that—” She shrugged. “A firmer touch is often welcome.”

Before he could respond, she stood, crossed to the rail, and freed the crow to the winds. Kanthe watched her—with her arms held high, her back arched—and momentarily forgot how to breathe. Still, he recognized one other detail.

All this time, not a single bell in her braid had tinkled.

It served as a dire reminder that he’d best be cautious with her.

For that pale rose has thorns.

S WEATY AND OUT of sorts—and not just from the day’s swelter—Kanthe climbed down the ladder into the cooler confines of the ship’s tween-deck. He had waited for Cassta to depart first, to leave him a moment to collect himself. She had not said another word, hardly seeming to notice he was still there.

Then again, she is Rhysian and I’m a man.

He shook his head, perplexed and unsure. Had she been teasing him, an amusement to idle away the passing leagues? He suspected Llyra’s interest in him lay along those same bored lines, only the guildmaster was far more forthright about it all. Kanthe found his confusion dissolving into irritation.

He headed down the passageway toward his cabin.

“Kanthe,” a voice called behind him.

He turned to find Frell leaning out the doorway of a cabin he shared with Pratik. The two had been locked in there for most of the voyage. They had been trying to decipher the pages torn from an ancient book discovered at the heart of the Abyssal Codex. The labor had clearly taken its toll. The alchymist’s eyes were shadowed by exhaustion, his chin and cheeks stubbled and dark.

Frell waved to him. “We need your help.”

“My help?”

“Just get in here.” Frell withdrew inside, clearly expecting his former student to obey and follow.

Kanthe shrugged, happy for the distraction. Surely decrypting the inked passages from an ancient tome was easier than understanding the wiles of a woman.

At least for me.

He crossed down the passage and entered the cramped cabin.

“Close the door,” Frell warned.

The alchymist leaned over a small table. Pratik stood on the other side. A stolen page lay between them. Another two had been tacked to the far wall. A pair of bunked beds stood along one side, looking untouched.

Pratik held a large lens in one hand, peering at one of the many images on the page before him. The tiny icon looked like a cracked golden egg with a serpent crawling out of it. The picture was illuminated in bright colors, though the paint was chipped and pocked by age. The lines of writing that wrapped around the image fared worse. The words were barely legible.

But that wasn’t the biggest concern.

“We’re making little progress,” Frell announced. “Pratik knows some ancient Klashean which offered hints of the context. And the pictures help. But what we’ve discerned is muddled and in pieces.”

“What’ve you figured out?” Kanthe asked. “Anything more about that dark goddess that the Dresh’ri worship?”

“No. The pages I stole only mention the Vyk dyre Rha once.”

Kanthe frowned. “And you still think it might be Nyx?”

Frell had shared all that had transpired in the dark heart of the Codex, including his own fears about the identity of the dark rider atop a winged beast.

Then again, Nyx was on all their thoughts, especially after Llyra’s disturbing report two days ago. Somehow, Hálendii had learned that Nyx and the others had set off across the Ice Shield. The kingdom had dispatched ships in pursuit. With no way to warn Nyx’s group, all they could do was fret.

“I’ve no further insight about the Vyk dyre Rha, ” Frell admitted. “But the one mention we found here does tie the Shadow Queen to a concerning image.”

Frell shifted to a page on the wall. He pointed to another of the illuminated icons. This one showed a silvery countenance of a full moon, only its lower half lay shattered, with the broken pieces spilling down the page.

“Could be moonfall,” Kanthe conceded. He waved to the other pages. “What else is in all these scribbles?”

Pratik shrugged. “Nothing that makes sense. Most of it relates to some great war.”

Kanthe pictured the bomb dropped atop Ekau Watch, the smoky flume of that destruction. “Well, a war is starting.”

Frell shook his head. “The battle described is not a prophecy of a war to come. But more like history. Or maybe legend. ”

“Definitely out of the ancient past,” Pratik agreed. He drew Kanthe to the other page on the wall and swept a finger across a swath of passages. “This entire section is written in the tongue of the Elders, the language of the old gods. And here it dates that war.” Pratik ran a fingertip over a few words. “Pantha re Gaas…”

“The Forsaken Ages,” Frell translated. “The time before history. That’s when this war is said to have taken place.”

Pratik nodded. “The battle must be important. Why else include it in an ancient book of prophecies?”

Frell planted his fists on his hips. “More importantly, what does any of this have to do with the Vyk dyre Rha and the threat of moonfall?” The alchymist turned to Kanthe. “That’s why we need you. To help us put it all together.”

“Me? I barely speak Klashean, let alone ancient Klashean.”

“But you know someone who is far more fluent than even Pratik.”

Kanthe backed a step.

Oh, no…

Pratik explained. “Ancient Klashean is said to be the language of our thirty-three gods. Only a handful of scholars at the House of Wisdom are fluent. It is a language reserved for imri royalty, so they can commune with the gods during rituals, reciting passages in that language. It’s why I know so little.”

“But Rami is fluent,” Frell stressed pointedly.

“As is his sister,” Pratik added. “Despite appearances as a pampered daughter of the Imri-Ka, Aalia is well studied, even brilliant.”

Frell faced Kanthe, his eyes desperate. “You must convince them to help us.”