The Cradle of Ice (Moonfall #2)

Chapter 59

59

K ANTHE SWEATED AND burned at the bottom of a glass well. He stared up at the midday sun as it hung in the open sky above. He had read about the prison of Qazen, but he had never thought he’d experience its cruel design firsthand.

“Stay out of the sun,” Pratik warned. The Chaaen demonstrated this by flattening his body along the only section of the well still in shadows.

Frell helped Mead shift his injured brother to the same spot. Jester’s leg and the side of his head were bandaged. After being ambushed out in Malgard, healers had attended to the man’s arrow wounds. Apparently, their captors wanted their deaths to be harsher and slower.

But thankfully it’s only the five of us.

Back at the entrance to the fissure, Rami had been separated from them. The Klashean prince had promised that he would do his best to get his father to understand—about the circumstances of the abductions and about the danger of moonfall. Afterward, the five of them had been hauled aboard the imperial barge and swept to Qazen, where they were thrown into this honeycomb of a strange prison.

It was designed not only to hold prisoners, but to punish and torture them, too.

Kanthe joined the others in the small curve of shadows. The circular pit—like all the cells here—climbed three stories to the open sky, tantalizing prisoners with the freedom so close. But the walls and floor were sheer black glass, fused from the surrounding sand by alchymies lost to time.

There would be no scaling these walls to escape.

And that was not the worst of it.

Though the sun of the Crown never set, over the course of the year it would make a slow circle in the sky, marking the passage of time. The ancient builders of this spread of pits angled each well in such a precise manner that the circling passage of the sun was mimicked below. The face of the Father Above would wax and wane, heating the pits to searing temperatures, then backing away and letting shadows slightly cool the space. It meant prisoners had to shift with those shadows or risk burning atop the glass floor.

At midwinter, like now, that edge of shadows was razor thin, requiring them to perch on its edge, pressed against the wall. With the five of them in this one cell, there was barely enough room.

Kanthe stood on the tips of his toes to keep them from the sunlight. The glare off the walls seared through his closed lids. Directly across from them, bars squeezed off the tiny door into the pit. A pair of imperial guards watched their struggles to keep from burning with clear amusement.

“Maybe they’d like to cool off,” one said—a Klashean with the tiny black eyes of a sand snake. “We can always crank open the sea valve and give them all a nice bath. If nothing else, it would wash the stink off of ’em.”

The other, who looked more like a lizard with a bulbous nose, laughed.

Kanthe was not amused at the reminder of the other fail-safe for this prison. The entire complex of pits was interconnected by underground tunnels. Pipes led out to the neighboring sea. When their valves were opened, the entire prison could be swamped and drowned. It led to an especially cruel death, leaving prisoners swimming in circles until exhaustion drowned them.

“Serve ’em right,” said the Lizard. “Trying to abduct the emperor’s son and daughter.”

“Too bad we couldn’t nab the lot of ’em,” Snake Eyes groaned.

“Still, thank the merciful gods that Rami and Aalia were safely recovered.”

“True,” the other agreed, touching three fingers to his forehead in gratitude to the heavens.

Kanthe sighed.

The escape of the wingketch had been the only fair tidings of this disastrous morning. While flying to Qazen earlier, Kanthe had eavesdropped on the chatter among their captors and learned what had happened. Saekl must have spotted the approach of the imperial ships and blasted skyward with the renowned speed of the ketches. Still, she took two precautions. She swept low over the neighboring Naphtha pine forest, setting it ablaze, then took advantage of the smoke to cover her escape. She also left behind a treasure that would attract the imperial forces away from their escape.

The Illuminated Rose of the Imri-Ka.

Aalia had been abandoned outside. The furious fires of the ketch’s forges, followed by the torching of the forest, had driven away the clouds of lycheens.

The move forced the imperial soldiers to rescue Aalia, allowing the others time to vanish into the steamy landscape.

“At least we know that Llyra didn’t betray us,” Kanthe said, gasping in the heat.

“That’s not necessarily true,” Frell whispered. “She still could’ve given up our plans, but not informed the ketch’s captain.”

“Or there could be another spy, as you suggested,” Pratik added, his face streaming with sweat.

Kanthe pushed higher on his toes. “Either way, we’re stuck here.”

While perched in place, he clung to a sliver of hope. He prayed for Rami to be successful in his attempt to explain the events of that harrowing night: the burning of the librarie, the escape to the skies, the misguided taking of a hostage. Still, the prospects of success were as slim as the curve of shadows under his feet.

Especially after the guards’ next exchange.

“I heard Emperor Makar is in a frenzy at the Augury’s villa,” the Lizard said with a bit too much glee at the emperor’s distress. “All but pulling his hair out with grief.”

“I don’t blame him. If my son had his head cleaved off by that Hálendiian prince, they’d have to weigh me down in irons to keep me from getting revenge.”

Frell glanced at Kanthe, both brows raised.

Pratik called to the guards, “What happened to one of Emperor Makar’s sons?”

Snake Eyes spat into the cell, his spittle sizzling on the hot glass. “As if you don’t know!”

The Lizard glared at them. “Prince Paktan did not deserve such an ignoble death. Beheaded in chains.” He pointed his curved sword through the bars at Kanthe. “By your fekkin’ brother.”

Stunned, Kanthe slid down the wall. His toes breached the shadows and burned in the sunlight. He hardly felt it.

What did Mikaen do?

Snake Eyes pressed his face to the bars. “No doubt, your head will fall next. Sent to your father before the day’s last bell.”

Kanthe touched his neck.

A commotion sounded down the hall. The pounding of many boots approached with a scatter of shouts. Snake Eyes stepped away to meet them. Kanthe overheard an order for the prisoners to be hauled to the Augury’s villa.

The Lizard lingered at the door and leered in at them. “Seems it might not take until the last bell before that gift is prepared for your king.”

F ROM A HIGH window in Qazen, Tazar watched an imperial procession of guards ride into town on horses and wagons. They entered via the sea road, coming from the distant prison grounds. In the midst of them, a caged cart held five chained captives.

A short time ago, when the second midday bells had chimed, one of Tazar’s men had rushed off the streets with a report that the Hálendiian prince and his cohorts were being transferred to the Augury’s palacio.

Tazar had climbed up to the second story of a small villa to confirm the same. He stared off toward the Augury’s palacio, a grand estate that sat atop a bluff overlooking the ocean. Like most of the town, its walls were salt-encrusted bricks, the crystals reflecting the sunlight into the sparkle of diamonds. The many roofs of the sprawling estate were covered in white slate to keep the worst of the sun’s heat away. The shadowed grounds danced with fountains and sheltered flowering gardens, all dotted with blue pools and tall stands of green palms.

Most dramatic of all, set amidst the gardens, stood the ancient Giants of Qazen. The seven priceless sculptures were made of black glass, forged by lost alchymies. The figures stood taller than the villa’s walls. They depicted stylized giants, adorned with matching seamless helms. Their features were crude and sharp-edged, with eyes depicted by concentric circles. The warriors struck threatening poses: a fist raised, a spear lofted, a bow poised. Age had damaged most. A swordsman carried a broken shield. A boxer only had a stump for an arm. An archer stood posed with half his head gone.

Still, the Giants loomed tall, undisputably intimidating, as if forever guarding this coastline—not that these statues had come from these shores. The collection was said to have been dug up during the excavations of a necropolis far out into the blasted wastelands, beyond the Crown’s edge, where the sun beat down in an endless, merciless fire.

The clatter of hooves and the creak of wheels drew Tazar’s attention back to the road below him. The prison caravan slowly worked through the crowded streets. Vendors and shopkeepers hawked their wares. Soothsayers and seers begged for patrons to visit them, assuring the most accurate guidance and prophecies. All were ignored as the cage trundled through the press of people. The crowd hid mostly under byor-ga robes. A few barefaced imri were scattered among them.

Still, when it came to the prisoners, all divisions of caste broke down. People crowded close, trying to spit through the bars, throwing rotted refuse. Curses flew in even greater numbers.

The guardsmen did little to stem this barrage, only keeping the prisoners from any true harm. That privilege belonged solely to the emperor.

Tazar’s jaw tightened as the cart passed under his post and continued toward the palacio. His fist tightened on the dagger at his belt. His eyes narrowed on the dark figure behind the bars.

Cool fingers touched Tazar’s hand. “We must conserve our forces,” Althea reminded him. “We dare not waste it on him.”

Tazar let his grip drop from his dagger, acknowledging the wisdom of his second-in-command. He glanced back at the two dozen or so Shayn’ra who spread across this wing’s interconnecting rooms. More crowded below. The rest of the Fist of God’s army gathered in outlying buildings or plied the streets.

Tazar had arrived before dawn with all he could muster from Kysalimri after the fiery ambush there. He spread a call throughout Qazen, gathering those who were either of the Shayn’ra or its devoted allies. Still, their numbers were not what Tazar had hoped for when he set off from Kysalimri.

Especially as circumstances had rapidly changed and were escalating with each ring of the day’s bells.

He had learned of the capture of Prince Kanthe and the death of another: the emperor’s son Prince Paktan. The extent of Emperor Makar’s grief and fury could be measured by the flurry of forces that descended onto Qazen. Guardsmen and warriors surrounded the Augury’s palacio and patrolled the streets with the fierce determination to protect the emperor and his two recovered offspring.

Makar was taking no chances.

“Perhaps we should return to Kysalimri,” Althea suggested. “Attempting to reach the emperor now will surely fail and only waste lives. Best we regroup and firm our position back at the Eternal City.”

Tazar could not discount the wisdom of such a plan. The situation was dire enough and was only getting worse the longer they waited. He blamed the Hálendiian prince for all of this. Even captured and defeated, Kanthe continued to thwart his plans.

Tazar tightened a fist as he watched the barred cage vanish around a corner, chased by a litany of curses.

More than any moment in the past, he envied Emperor Makar.

You will get to take that traitorous bastard’s head—not me.

Sharp shouting and startled yelps drew his attention from the window. Beyond the door, a clamor erupted. The sharp strike of steel rang out. A body could be heard crashing down the steps.

Althea signaled, and men swept over to guard the entry. The door crashed open, and a trio of figures barged in, cloaked in byor-ga robes. Similarly shrouded figures guarded their backs.

Tazar had his sword bared. Althea carried long daggers in both hands. No one spoke, all frozen in place.

Then Tazar heard the strange tinkle of a bell behind his shoulder. The tip of a blade pressed against the side of his throat. Though keen-eared and tense, he had not heard anyone approach.

“A quisl, ” the wielder whispered, turning the edge of the blade. “Poisoned.”

Althea noted the threat. She pointed one of her knives at Tazar’s captor and the other toward the intruders.

One of the three stepped forward and stripped off the byor-ga headgear, exposing the stony face of a hard woman. She glared at him. From her size and features, she appeared to be Guld’guhlian.

“Everyone stand down and back a step!” she boomed, letting her voice echo in all directions. She followed her own example and sheathed her two half-swords and held up her palms. “We only came to talk.”

Althea looked to Tazar. He nodded his acquiescence, careful not to cut himself on that poisoned blade.

Its wielder retreated, shaking back a hood, revealing silvery-white features and a long black braid. She could be no more than seventeen or eighteen. She must have come up behind him from one of the connecting rooms. He stared down at the small knife in her hand. He blinked, and it vanished, though he swore she never moved.

He took a step back from her, his heart pounding harder. He turned to the Guld’guhlian. “What do you want?”

By now, the intruder’s companions had shed their headgear, too. Their features matched those of the young woman with the knife, but they were older and looked even more deadly.

“To parley,” the short woman said. “I’m Llyra hy March, guildmaster of Anvil. And I think you might recognize the others as Rhysians of a distinguished sisterhood.”

“Why should I care?” Tazar asked, regaining his composure and most of his anger.

Llyra explained. “At the moment, we share a common foe. Yet, neither of us has the wherewithal or numbers to combat it. So I suggest we combine our forces.”

Althea frowned, her eyes narrowing warily. “You mean to strike for the emperor.”

Llyra shrugged. “I suspect some of our aims have crossed purposes, but yes, ultimately, we mean to raid the Augury’s palacio and secure the premises. At least for as long as possible. Hopefully, long enough to satisfy both of our goals.”

“And what about those crossed purposes ?” Tazar asked.

Another shrug answered him. “Best we accomplish one goal before worrying about the next.”

Althea scowled at the trio and glared at the young Rhysian at Tazar’s side. “I hardly think you have the numbers to help us.”

“I’ll let you be the judge.” Llyra stepped forward, her palms up. She headed to the window. “Not all armies wear armor or stripe their faces with white paint.”

Tazar joined her at the window. He stared out at the crowded street, which looked the same, only more settled after the passage of the prisoner convoy. Hawkers yelled. Seers begged. People milled about between the two.

Llyra waved below. “I’ve been rousing an army more skillful than most. From whorehouses, smoky taverns, dark dens, and thieveries of every ilk. We are everywhere and nowhere. Even here in Qazen. I rallied them days ago when I knew our paths would cross here. Just in case.”

Tazar frowned, staring below. “What army?”

Answering his question, responding to some hidden signal, half the churning crowd stopped all at once. Hundreds of faces turned and stared up at the window.

“That’s only a fraction of ’em,” Llyra commented.

Behind Tazar’s shoulder, Althea whistled softly, appreciatively.

On the street, moving again in unison, the faces dropped, and the figures folded back into the crowd, vanishing away.

Tazar glanced at Althea, lifting a brow. “Well?”

“Maybe we don’t need to return to Kysalimri quite so soon,” she answered.

Tazar held a hand toward Llyra. “Done.”

She shook on their pact, her palm dry and firm. “Best we hurry before more of the imperium crashes down upon this town.”

Tazar nodded, agreeing at the need for haste. Still, a worry gnawed at him, centered on two words.

Crossed purposes.