Chapter 86
86
K ANTHE LOUNGED IN a steaming bath within the grounds of the emperor’s palacio. A spring bubbled into the pool. The bath was a natural pond whose rock had been polished and smoothed into seats. With his eyes closed, he listened as the fifth bell of Eventoll rang across X’or.
When it finally ended, Kanthe sighed and wiggled, struggling to find some relief from his tension. Relegated to the mercies of the sisters, he felt abandoned and left trapped in this gilded and fragrant prison. Aalia and Rami had been ferried to Kysalimri, taking Pratik with them. The sense of being jailed here was enhanced by the high walls of the palacio—and the scores of Paladins and imperial guards who patrolled the surrounding woods and hallways.
Kanthe had discovered this small oasis, a tiny garden in a quiet corner of the grounds. The bubbling pool was canopied by a marble pergola, which kept the petals of the surrounding Talniss trees from sullying the shadowed waters. Though, a few floated past Kanthe’s fingers. The petals had been blown in by breezes that also tinkled hundreds of chimes.
Nearby, a lone, caged songbird twittered mournfully into the last of the night.
I know how you feel.
But it wasn’t just being abandoned that made him tense and out of sorts. He lifted his hands and spun a gold ring around his smallest finger. It was the only digit whose knuckles accommodated its slim width. He imagined his mother wearing it, seeking a connection with her. It stirred up hazy memories, but they were not warm enough to dismiss his trepidation.
Firstborn…
It still seemed impossible to contemplate fully. His second-born status had been ingrained deeply into him, by nearly two decades of slights, abuses, and beatings. His bones and flesh were steeped in the certainty of it. He could not so easily dispel it, especially not with the trifling heft of this ring and an old garnet stone inscribed with a winged horse.
He pushed both hands back underwater, hiding them away. He sank deeper with them. The shadowy garden matched his mood. Midnight was only a couple of bells off. The high walls hid the low sun, casting this oasis into a deeper gloom.
Unfortunately, this oasis was not impregnable.
A door opened across the garden. He stirred higher as Frell approached through the manicured hedges and tall pots of flowers and simpering tiny fountains.
Without any preface, except for a scowl, Frell updated Kanthe. “Pratik sent word. Aalia has successfully roused the Klashean fleet. After the battle in the Breath, the northern coast of the Klashe had been left meagerly protected. It hadn’t been reinforced by Prince Jubayr. A mistake by a prince who should have been counseled better. He had been assured that King Toranth would not act so soon.”
“I can see where the imperial council might have that impression. My father was always more bluster than action. But torching the Shield Islands had clearly lit a fire under him. It was a step too far, too fast, even as punishment for Mikaen’s execution of Prince Paktan. My father can only be goaded so far before he explodes. Prince Mareesh should have held back his worst.”
“It was as much Jubayr’s fault. He had removed the reins from his brother, allowing the devastation to happen. Again, his council should have encouraged restraint on the part of both the princes.”
“And Aalia?”
“From what I’ve heard, she listens to the council but leans upon her own astuteness. She was swift in getting the fleet—which had been listless for too long—into the air. She has them moving north in great force. But her armada won’t reach the northern coast before the ships of the royal fleet breach our shores. The hope is to hold the three warships and the Hyperium at a battle line over Tithyn Woods, to keep them from reaching Kysalimri.”
“And what are the chances of that happening?”
Frell frowned. “Prince Jubayr had been lax in his stewardship. Reacting rather than acting. He’s left Aalia in a poor situation. It will be a hard battle.”
“And here we sit, being fed dainties and encouraged to enjoy the luxuries of the baths.”
Frell waved at him. “Which I see you’re taking advantage of.”
“It would be rude not to.”
Frell rolled his eyes. “I’m off to update Tykhan over in the blood baths.”
Kanthe nodded. Like all of them, Tykhan had clearly wanted to go with the others to Kysalimri, but he still needed to stay close to Makar, to keep the emperor under his thumb.
Kanthe made a half-hearted effort to stand. “Do you want me to go with you?”
Frell scowled again. “That’s not necessary. And clearly, you’re much too busy contemplating the status of your navel.”
Kanthe sank back down. “True. I have a navel that requires considerable introspection.”
Frell huffed his derision and set off across the gardens, slamming the door on his way out, punctuating his scorn.
Kanthe smiled, feeling incrementally better.
He lounged back, letting his eyes drift closed, listening to the caged bird’s soliloquy to the night. Through a slight gap under his relaxed lids, he caught sight of a dappled shift of shadows.
He tilted to the side to peek past the marble columns of the pergola. Something ticked off the stone next to him. A glance up revealed a black-cloaked figure, with features hidden behind shadowy wraps, rushing at him. Other shadows swept in behind the first.
What are the Rhysians doing here?
Fearing something was amiss, he sat up. Fiery stings struck his chest and neck. Flinching, he brushed aside a tiny puff of feathers. As he did, the world spun and grew hazy—then he slumped face-first into the water.
A ALIA STOOD ON the private balcony outside of the emperor’s spread of rooms. She preferred the open air. Inside, she still felt like a trespasser. Her father’s presence was everywhere. From the grand treasures he had collected adorning the walls to more personal items: small notions, oddments, trinkets that marked a man’s more private life. But what had struck Aalia the hardest was the discovery of a jeweled comb that once belonged to her mother. It rested at her father’s bedside, as if he were still waiting for her to return. It was an intimacy of heart that her father rarely shared.
It broke Aalia into pieces, knowing what had been done to him.
The smell of him also filled the spaces, as if even in his absence, his grandness refused to be ignored. Standing at the rail, she took deep breaths, trying to gather her thoughts before she returned to the Blood’d Tower, where a war was about to be waged from afar.
“Are you all right, sister?” Rami asked.
Her brother had accompanied her here, as much a Paladin to her as the warriors in silver outside the door.
“What have we done?” she whispered.
She hated to show weakness. All her life, she had hardened herself. A Rose that could never be bruised. Only with Tazar had she let her softness show, but even with him, there was a core she kept hidden, walled off and protected.
Rami crossed to her and drew her into his arms. She hugged him back, needing this brother who was the closest to her heart. She hung there, letting his arms pull her back together when she could not do so herself. She sobbed for several breaths, but she allowed herself no more.
She finally broke free and turned back to the rail. Off in the distance, a storm of fire rolled north. Hundreds of forges blazed the sky, marking the passage of the imperial armada.
She gazed out at their flight.
“How will we survive this?” she whispered.
She wasn’t just talking about the battle to come.
Rami took her hand and answered.
“Together, sister.” He squeezed her fingers with that promise. “Together.”
W IT H A FARSCOPE fixed to his eye, Mikaen stood at the prow of the Hyperium as the mighty ship crested out of the smoky Breath. Fires burned behind the ship, marking the end of a brief skirmish against meager Klashean forces.
As expected, the Klashe had luxuriated in victory following the razing of the Shield Islands. They had not reinforced the coast after the Falcon’s Wing had returned to roost in Kysalimri. It was further proof that his father and the king’s council—including Reddak—had correctly surmised that Prince Jubayr was weak, swayed by those around him, listening rather than leading, tossed about by the council as they debated and argued and delayed.
At this moment, the Klashe was truly leaderless. With the iron fist of Makar loosened by madness, the empire remained rudderless.
Mikaen smiled at the destruction to come. As the Hyperium cleared the Breath’s pall, the coastline of the Klashe rose in the distance. It was a bright green line rising from the blue waters, marking the northern edge of the Tithyn Woods. Far to the west, a huge column of smoke marred the shores, marking where he had dropped a Hadyss Cauldron atop Ekau Watch. The forest there continued to burn.
Unlike Prince Jubayr, I do not hesitate.
He shifted his farscope’s view to the trio of warships leading them, escorting the Hyperium to the coast. One of them was the Winged Vengeance, the ship he had once captained, the wood of its deck still infused with Prince Paktan’s blood. A new Cauldron also filled its hold, to replace the one he had dropped.
Mikaen felt no affection for his former ship. From his current perch, the Vengeance seemed so small. It was a poor stage for a prince who intended to shine the brightest, whose light would sweep through the centuries ahead, es tablishing a line of radiant sun-kings—starting with his son, who would follow Mikaen to the throne.
Mikaen lowered his farscope and turned to take in the breadth of the Hyperium. This made for a far better stage to launch that future lineage.
And what a stage it will be shortly.
As Mikaen pondered the centuries ahead, he noted Reddak, looking agitated, on the opposite side of the flagship’s prow. The liege general crossed to the rail and disappeared into a glare reflecting off the magnificent figurehead that adorned the ship’s bow.
Sunlight flashed blindingly off the draft-iron sculpture of a rearing stallion. It bore wings that swept to either side of the bow. It was dramatic and inspiring. The flagship had been christened as a memorial to his mother by King Toranth, who still held the former queen in great regard. Mikaen’s mother had come from an illustrious family, the House of Hyparia, which gave rise to the naming of the great ship. Even the figurehead represented the Hyparian sigil of a winged stallion.
While Mikaen loved his mother, he considered such dedication to be oversentimental, a weakness that his father always possessed.
Finally, Reddak reappeared out of the blinding glare, coming straight toward Mikaen and Thoryn. Clearly something was amiss. Mikaen narrowed his eyes, wondering if this should concern him or if it was something he could take advantage of.
Reddak joined them, nodding respectfully to Thoryn, then addressed Mikaen. “A large line of Klashean ships just crested the horizon.”
Mikaen stiffened. “What?”
Reddak waved to the farscope in Mikaen’s hand. “See for yourself.”
Mikaen returned to the rail and lifted the instrument to his eye. He focused back on the green spread of Tithyn Woods, which had already grown wider and taller as they swept closer to the coast. He shifted his view higher.
A line of fire blazed across the horizon.
“What does this mean?” Mikaen asked.
“It means we have underestimated Prince Jubayr’s competence and grit. Or Emperor Makar has regained his senses. Either way, someone was able to shut down dissent, rally their forces with astounding speed, and send forth a considerable number of warships and hunterskiffs. More ships are likely already locking down Kysalimri.”
Mikaen savored the frustrated fury in Reddak’s voice.
Any failure would be laid at the liege general’s feet.
Behind Mikaen, Thoryn addressed Reddak. “What is our course from here?”
“We forge on. We may lose a warship, maybe two, but we’ll still break through and reach Kysalimri and pound them flat with our Hammer.”
Mikaen had to respect the liege general’s courage.
Still, no matter the outcome—barring his death—Mikaen would still win. Either he would return in glory and share in the triumph, or he could place the blame for any failure on Reddak’s shoulders. Either outcome would suit him.
Furthermore, Mikaen didn’t intend to return without his own victory.
He lowered his farscope and swept his gaze to a lone figure in black across the deck, a dark sparrow who had been waiting for a crow.
The figure noted Mikaen’s attention and gave a crisp nod, signaling that the skrycrow had indeed arrived—and the message was good.
Mikaen shifted focus and studied the Hyperium ’s open deck.
Yes, this will make for the perfect stage.
H IDDEN UNDER A byor-ga robe, Pratik followed his quarry. The white-cloaked Dresh’ri moved across the imperial gardens of the palace. It was the fifth scholar he had tracked since arriving in Kysalimri. Pratik had lost a few of his targets due to being overly cautious; others had ended up somewhere innocuous.
One of them must lead me to Zeng ri Perrin.
The head of the Dresh’ri remained an unknown variable to their plans in the Eternal City. Zeng had not attended the gathering in X’or—though he was a member of the king’s council.
Over the course of the day, Pratik had made discreet inquiries, but with little result. Shortly after the incineration of the Abyssal Codex, Zeng had faded away. Many believed he had fled due to his fear that eventually the emperor’s mercurial wrath would turn his direction. But now with a new empress on the horizon, Zeng must know his position was even more precarious.
Pratik feared what that might portend. So, he went hunting through the palace and all the usual haunts of the Dresh’ri. Llyra had mapped out the many entrances she knew—both into the Codex itself and into the more extensive lair of the Dresh’ri’s subterranean quarters. Blind searches through that labyrinth would take years. And Zeng might not even be down there. Still, the possibility that he fled the city was too much to hope for.
You’re around here somewhere.
Pratik finally abandoned his inquiries after noting the occasional Dresh’ri poking a head aboveground. If Zeng wanted to know more about what was happening in the palace, he would send only someone he trusted, one of his own, one of his inner cabal. Knowing that, Pratik had begun his hunt, tracking whom he could.
But as midnight beckoned, he might have to abandon the search. A battle was about to be waged to the north and would likely sweep to the walls of Kysalimri. He would need to return to the Blood’d Tower by then. In preparation for the worst, the entire sprawling edifice would be locked down, especially the war-tower. He dared not risk being trapped outside.
As the last bell of the night rang out, he followed the pale shape of the Dresh’ri through the darkest shadows cast by the tall garden walls. His quarry strolled with a casual determination, flanked by a pair of byor-ga servants, who carried books and other boxes. This Dresh’ri seemed no different from the other four Pratik had followed. The man was likely returning to his subterranean quarters after gathering books to read, which were certainly in short supply below.
Pratik was ready to give up his futile search. Then one of the servants stumbled over a loose stone and toppled crookedly to the ground, catching himself from a bad fall on an arm. The servant’s headgear was jarred askew by the impact, but it was quickly reseated.
Shocked, Pratik tripped, too, but collected himself before anyone noticed.
Across the way, in that stumbled moment, a single ear of the servant had been revealed. The sharp point of it was unmistakable.
A Venin…
Pratik pictured the mutilated bridle-singers, with their flailed noses and eyes sewn shut. Though blind, the Venin had shown an ability to cast their gift around, allowing them to navigate. But a loose rock was missed and betrayed the creature’s footing.
Pratik followed through the garden, continuing his disguise of being a servant.
I’m not the only one.
He eyed the second byor-ga servant following behind the white-cloaked Dresh’ri. Pratik knew who must be hidden under the second robe, a figure who moved with far more dexterity.
It was not another Venin.
Zeng…
The Dresh’ri leader must have taken a lesson from their group’s prior attack, choosing to hide in plain sight. Such a course made sense. Zeng wouldn’t trust another’s eyes to canvass the palace and assess the situation. Zeng would only trust himself.
But where are you going now?
Despite time running short, Pratik continued his pursuit, paralleling his quarry through the shadowy gardens. The trio ended up at the ruins of the main entrance to the Codex. A haze of smoke still seeped from below, rising through the collapsed walls and jumble of stone that had once marked the librarie’s water-powered lift.
The three met with a cloaked figure hiding in the smoke-fogged rubble. Zeng shifted forward, casting aside his submissive role. He exchanged words with the other. The cloaked man nodded and took hold of Zeng’s upper arm in a congratulatory manner.
Zeng slipped back. As he did, more robed and hooded figures parted out of the rubble, gathering to Zeng’s side. Pale faces shone in the darkness like macabre lanterns.
The remaining Venin.
The other cloaked figure stepped to the side and lifted a flash of silver to his lips. A whistle blew in three sharp notes. Before the last note faded, it was picked up by another whistle, then a horn, then more horns.
From archways on the far side, armored figures rushed into the garden, sweeping across it at a dead run. On the other side, Paladins posted at the palace doors fell forward, their throats slashed. New Paladins took their places—or at least men wearing such armor.
Pratik retreated out of the way, dropping to his knees in passive submission.
Legs swept past him. Boots crushed gravel. Swords slid from sheaths.
He kept his head bowed until the wave passed and flooded into the palace.
He lifted his face and spotted forges firing across the sky. Ships had vacated the blockade around the palace walls and drove toward the main edifice—all seeming to aim for the Blood’d Tower.
A flash of silver drew his gaze back to the garden.
A cloak was thrown aside, revealing the bright armor beneath. Pratik easily recognized the face, the stance, the imperial manner. Apparently, someone had changed allegiance since the meeting in X’or, deciding on another path to secure the imperium after Makar’s debilitation.
Prince Mareesh pulled free his sword and headed toward the palace.
F RELL PACED THE edge of the crimson bath. Tykhan knelt beside the emperor, who continued to soak in the water. Tykhan gently rubbed Makar’s shoulders—though Frell was unsure if this was to comfort the afflicted man or to firm up the emperor’s enthrallment.
Frell looked toward the door. Abbess Shayr had suggested four immersions a day. Sister Lassan—the nonne dedicated to the emperor—would be returning momentarily to collect Makar and return him to his garden palacio.
“What do you make of Aalia’s efforts so far?” Frell asked. “Is it enough to stop the kingdom’s assault?”
Tykhan continued his massage. “Are you asking me as a strategist or as an oracle?”
“Are you not a little of both?”
“Perhaps, but during times of conflict this unpredictable and chaotic, I am neither. Even I can’t track so many variables, trends, and potential outcomes. I can forecast a collision but not necessarily how the rubble will land. That’s where we’re at now. In the flux of possibility.”
Frell frowned at this answer.
Tykhan stood up and turned to the door. “This is one example, I fear.”
Distracted, Frell had missed the muffle of voices, but as they grew more heated, even he could not miss it.
The gold door swung open, and two dark-cloaked figures rushed in. They came so swiftly that Frell backed away and nearly fell into the bath.
The two Paladins posted outside pounded in after the intruders.
It took an extra breath for Frell to identify the two Rhysians, Cassta and Saekl. The two women skidded to smooth stops. The two Paladins closed on them, but Tykhan cut them off with a raised hand and a voice booming with authority.
“Fear not, Paladins! All is secure. These two are known to us and welcome. Their arrival is as predicted!”
The Paladins stumbled to a stop, looking confused, but they mumbled apologies, respecting the seer’s abilities. The pair retreated to the door, closing it on their way out at an urging from Tykhan.
“What’s wrong?” Frell asked, recognizing the Rhysians’ restrained panic.
“Prince Kanthe is gone,” Saekl said. “Taken.”
Frell stammered through all of his questions at once. “When… how… who?”
Cassta stepped forward and opened her palm, revealing a single black barb with a tuft of dark feathers. “We found this floating in his bath after one of our sisters caught a glimpse of shadows where they shouldn’t be.”
Frell pinched his eyes in suspicion. “That looks like a dart from one of your pipes. Was he attacked by one of your sisters?”
Both Saekl and Cassta looked aghast at this suggestion.
“Then who?” Frell pressed them.
Cassta tossed the feathered barb aside. “Such craftsmanship is distinct from our own, but also well-known. It’s the handiwork of the Brotherhood of Asgia.”
Frell knew that name and their connection to the Archipelago of Rhys. The Brotherhood was the dark mirror to the Rhysian sisterhood. Their group splintered away long ago, even before the matriarchy had been established across the Archipelago. It had less to do with an issue of gender and more to do with philosophy.
Both sold their talents, but Rhysians tempered their choices with consideration and a sense of justice. The Brotherhood operated with no such restraint. Purely mercenary, brutal, and cruel, they were as feared and as efficient as the two women standing before them.
“Someone must’ve paid them to grab Kanthe,” Frell said. “But who?”
Tykhan frowned at him, clearly disappointed. “Surely you can guess.” He shook his head sadly. “As predictable as he is, I thought we had more time. Still, it cannot be allowed to stand. It will mark the end of everything.”
“Then what should we do?” Cassta asked.
“I chose X’or for more reasons than just its luxurious baths.” Tykhan turned to Saekl. “So far, you’ve proven yourself adept with both wingketch and arrowsprite. How would you like a greater challenge, one with considerable risk?”
Saekl’s eyes gleamed, reflecting the blood-red waters.
“Then we must hurry. A collision is about to happen, and I have no idea how it will end—or the rubble it will leave behind.”