Chapter 99
99
N YX RODE B ASHALIIA high across the Ameryl Sea. After the talk with the others back in the Crown, she had wanted a moment to herself. She leaned in the saddle that Daal had crafted for her. Her left shin was still in a brace, but after a month, with the winter’s solstice upon them, her leg barely pained her.
She closed her eyes and sang to Bashaliia as he wafted into and out of the glowing mists of the Crèche. Her melody was one of her own creation. Though wordless, she started with the music of the swamps: the scissor-song of crickets, the cronking of wartoads, the pluck-crunk of sprig-frogs, the waddle-splash of mudfish, the silage-belch of bullocks. She folded in the harmony of cracking reeds, the rustling sweep of a breeze through stick-pines, the pattering of a downpour on flat water, and last, the laughs of her brothers as they poled to go fishing.
As her song glowed of home, Bashaliia joined her, echoing her refrain in soft notes and wistful chords. It had been his home, too. She hung with him, sharing their past, warmed by each other. She let the weeks of terror fade and pushed aside what was to come.
She drifted in this moment—until a gust of wind and a stir of mists drew her up in the saddle.
Daal rose atop a raash’ke next to her. His hair swept his cheeks, his eyes bright. He pointed below and called to her. “Graylin! Wants us down! It’s almost time!”
She lifted higher in her saddle and waved her acknowledgment.
Daal led the way, drawing her back to the world, to her responsibilities. Bashaliia tracked behind him, trilling with the joy of flight. She felt the rumble of his pleasure between her thighs. Some of it carried into her.
They had all been waiting for this day.
Picking the winter solstice as a goal.
As they swept down, she stared past the crown of Bashaliia’s head. Like her, he was recovering. But instead of a leg brace, he wore a helm of leather. Under it, a slather of balms and ointments was helping him heal. She and Floraan had also withdrawn the last of those dreadful copper needles.
She repeated her promise to him.
Never again.
She wished the same peace for the Crèche.
Below her, Iskar continued to recover from the raids and assaults. Over the past month, there had been too many trips to the Dreamers with inked bodies wrapped in kelp. Still, some semblance of normalcy had returned. Newcomers from other villages throughout the Crèche had been slowly trickling in, filling the voids left behind, aiding in repairs to help establish themselves here. Others came to see the raash’ke, refusing to believe the miracle until they witnessed it with their own eyes.
For now, both the raash’ke and Pantheans remained skittish of each other. It would take time to reestablish that ancient bond, to learn to trust again.
As Nyx circled to land near Daal’s home, she spotted Henna running through a flock of young bats, no larger than crows. They scattered from her footfalls, keening in playful delight. Then she would turn and run the other way, chased by the same flock.
Nyx smiled at such innocent delight and suspected it was the youngest among them who would forge the strongest bond.
If given enough time…
Daal landed at the edge of Iskar. Nyx alighted in the sand, but she kept her distance. After all that had happened, Bashaliia remained edgy.
Henna spotted her brother and came running up, drawing a score of tiny bats in her wake. Most of the girl’s wounds had scabbed and healed over—but not all of them. According to her mother, Henna still had nightmares and insisted on sleeping in her parents’ bed.
As Henna rushed to her brother, her path drew too close. Nyx felt the fiery flash inside Bashaliia as he snapped at a passing bat, barely missing its wings, sending it fluttering away in a panic.
“Bashaliia, no…”
She ran her fingers through his ruff, down to his skin, and warmed a glow of reassurance in him, tamping down that flash of fire. It had been golden, but for a flicker, she thought she spotted a trickle of emerald. But she couldn’t be certain.
Daal glanced at her, worried.
“He’s fine,” she said. “He’s been through a lot.”
His shoulders relaxed, trusting her judgement. She wished she had as much confidence in her own assessment. They dismounted and headed to Daal’s home. She drew alongside him and slipped her hand into his.
Fire sparked, melding their fingers more closely.
For now, that was as much touch as they allowed themselves. She remembered their kiss back at the dome, but after the tumult of their return, pulled in two different directions, they had held off from exploring more.
He glanced at her, a slight smile shadowing his mouth. She had forgotten how, when melded, he could sense her inner self.
He squeezed her fingers, stoking the fire between them. As he did, she felt his desire, the deepening of his breath, the flaring of his pupils, the blood-firming of his passion. But she also felt his restraint, an inner calm that defied her, a well of patience that both warmed her and slightly irritated her.
His smile only deepened.
She felt her cheeks heating up.
Henna burst between them, shoving them apart. Ahead, a pair of bright firepots welcomed them home. Still, the girl’s exuberance was not about returning here and all about who awaited them.
“Kalder, you bad boy!” she called as she ran at him.
The vargr had stepped halfway out of the doorway, growling upon hearing their approach. Then he spotted Henna barreling toward him. His eyes got wide. He looked terrified.
Henna leaped headlong at him, wrapping her arms around his neck and hooking her legs over his shoulders. “You get back inside, you naughty boy,” she scolded him.
With a weary grunt, the vargr turned and carried her through the draped doorway.
“Maybe I should make that saddle Henna wants,” Daal said.
“I don’t think we’ll be around long enough for that,” Nyx said. She meant her words as a jest, but she saw how the sentiment wounded him.
With their mood slightly soured, they pushed through the drape and into the warm room. Chatter and arguing greeted them. Fenn, Jace, and Krysh stood by the cupboard, where maps and charts were pinned to its doors. All three were in a heated discussion.
By the table, Graylin smoked a pipe with Meryk, the two of them waiting for some consensus to be reached.
Graylin nodded to Nyx, giving her a look up and down, making sure she hadn’t broken anything else while out of his sight.
Kalder carried Henna over to where a sweetcake was warming on a tray. She unlatched from him and went for a taste, unable to resist. It did smell good. Kalder sighed and returned to Graylin. The vargr must have known the temptation of the cake was going to be the only way to get Henna to let go.
“Did they come to any decision?” Daal asked, waving to the trio.
Nyx crossed to the cupboard. She stared at the various routes mapped on the charts. All of them headed deeper into the Wastes, crossing through it to reach the far side of the Crown. They had all decided not to head back the way they had come. With a war growing over there, the safer path was to swing the other way, avoiding Hálendii and the Klashe entirely.
Still, there were several ways to reach the Barrens—and Frell, Jace, and Krysh had settled on different choices.
“You have to pick one,” Nyx warned. “At least for now. We can always shift, depending on whatever we discover.”
“True.” Krysh placed a hand on Jace’s shoulder. “As we’re at an impasse, I throw my support to this young man’s route.”
Jace turned to Fenn. “That’s two to your one.”
“As a ship’s navigator, my vote should count as two, maybe three.”
Jace and Krysh frowned at him.
Fenn finally waved dismissively. “I’ll concede. For now. We’ll have to see how the prevailing winds blow once we’re aloft.”
“Show me which one,” Nyx said.
Jace waved her closer. She shifted next to him, studying him sidelong as she did. He seemed his normal self, as jovial and obsessively focused as always. Still, she couldn’t escape that cold emptiness she had felt inside of him. It had been too strange to fully dismiss.
“Here. This one,” Jace said, drawing her attention back to the map. He ran a finger through the Wastes and across the Crown to a flagged site deep in the Barrens. “To me, with the direction of winds and expected spring storms, this course makes the most sense.”
She nodded, but Fenn stood with his arms crossed. He was staring at the marked path through the Crown. She squinted closer and noted it passed over Bhestya, where Fenn hailed from. He had always been reticent to talk about his past. She wondered if this might be the reason he had argued against this route.
Still, she didn’t question it, fearing it might restart the arguments.
As she turned to the table, she noted the wounded look on Daal’s face as he stared toward Fenn. The navigator had long forgiven him, but Daal hadn’t been able to forgive himself. She knew Daal remained unnerved by his loss of control, how it had nearly killed Fenn. She understood that fear, remembering the feeling of exultant power as she destroyed the Hálendiian barge—and the madness that followed. For her, it had been too easy to free that rage.
But not for Daal.
She knew better, even if he didn’t. She crossed to him and brushed a stray strand from his cheek, leaving a trail of fire across his skin, as if trying to burn that fear out of him.
It didn’t belong there.
She wondered if the Dreamers had chosen Daal for more than just the gift of bridle-song in his Noorish blood. Had they also been drawn to his kindheartedness, his calm spirit, his steady compassion? She could still picture Daal burning in the flame of a lighthouse, guiding her out of madness, willing to sacrifice himself.
Down deep, she sensed the truth in this moment.
It shone in his eyes.
The Oshkapeers had forged more than a font of power for her. They had granted her a far greater gift.
The anchor I will need in the days ahead.
G RAYLIN STAMPED OUT his pipe and stood. “We should all be headed to the plaza. Darant and the others will be disappointed if we aren’t there.”
Meryk rose with him. “He’s right. Floraan should already be waiting for us at the stands.”
Graylin got everyone moving, even Kalder. The vargr deserved this as much as anyone. Graylin guided them out to the street.
Once there, Meryk cursed and ducked back inside. He returned a moment later, struggling to fit a circlet of white stone, adorned with gems, atop his head.
During the battle of Iskar, Rhaif had stumbled upon the Reef Farer’s circlet. He had clearly planned on keeping the valuable crown—until the village had chosen Meryk as Berent’s successor. Only then did Rhaif relinquish his treasure, happy to hand it off to a far worthier Panthean.
Daal smiled and helped his father get the circlet seated securely. “Looks good on you. Like it was always meant to be there.”
Meryk pulled his son into a hug that looked capable of breaking ribs, as if trying to squeeze all the embraces a father would miss into this one hold.
Daal finally broke free, wiping at the corners of his eyes. “Gotta go, right?”
Meryk cleared his throat and waved them ahead, not ready to speak quite yet.
They continued across the village, joining the flow of others heading toward the plaza. As they walked, Meryk hooked his arm around his son, still wanting to keep him close, at least for as long as possible.
Daal cast his father an apologetic look.
“It’s all right, son,” Meryk said. “They’re going to need you. We’ll be here when you get back.”
Graylin stared at the tension in the man’s shoulders. His words were light, but the strain to say them was clear.
A month ago, Graylin had explained all to Meryk and Floraan. Graylin could not do otherwise, not when they were stripping Daal from their sides. They had been terrified at learning the truth about moonfall. Still, they had understood the threat and the necessity of their group’s task. They had also recognized what would happen if the world started turning. It would mean the end of the Crèche.
Graylin had promised to try to send ships if they were successful, to evacuate the Crèche. But no one truly believed him, least of all himself.
It was Floraan who spoke the simplest truth as she touched Graylin’s arm. No one knows their end. The future remains a mystery until it’s written. We’ll live as if we have endless days ahead of us—and none. What else can any of us do?
Graylin and the others finally reached the plaza and crossed through the throngs—made all the easier with a vargr in tow. They climbed the new dais to join Floraan. Daal’s mother hugged her son with as much verve and a touch more composure. Women were always tougher than men when it came to matters of expediency and necessity.
They all crossed to rows of seats facing the sea. There was no longer any throne atop the dais, not even for the new Reef Farer. The docks were still being repaired, but headway was significant.
Graylin hoped Darant and his crew proved as resourceful at repairing their ship. The pirate had a long list of overhauls, restorations, modifications, and patch-ups. All to make them ready for a journey across the scorched lands—which included outfitting Shiya’s cooling units. She was aboard right now with Rhaif, finishing final adjustments. Thankfully, Darant had a few extra hands, both Noorish and Panthean, several of whom had agreed to travel with them, refilling their depleted crew.
Besides the extra men, Daal had also handpicked and trained five raash’ke, who would be coming with them. Graylin had wanted to bring more bats, but the limits of their food larder had to be considered, especially not knowing if there were any martoks or other beasts to keep the predators fed.
No one wanted a flock of ravenous raash’ke aboard with them.
A murmur rose behind him, respectful and slightly awed.
Graylin turned around and stiffened. Two old Panthean women moved across the dais, walking slowly with canes, one more decrepit than the other. They were dressed in matching gray shifts. Beyond their great age, they looked so much like Ularia that it was uncanny.
Meryk noted his attention, his voice growing reverent. “Nys Playa and Nys Regina,” he whispered. “The last of the Nyssians. I can’t believe they traveled so far for this ceremony.”
He and Floraan greeted them and offered them their own seats. The pair accepted them graciously, ending up on either side of Graylin. One looked to be in her eighties and the other well into her nineties, if not beyond.
Graylin nodded to them respectfully, but they must have noted his misgivings and divined the source.
The younger of the two, Nys Playa, patted his knee. “Do not judge our sister Ularia too harshly. She was under much pressure.” She offered an amused glint to her eyes. “As you might imagine, we’re too old to bear children.”
Graylin mumbled that this discussion wasn’t necessary.
Nys Playa ignored him and continued, “Desperation makes one hard and mean. As the last of us who could bear children, Ularia was weighted by the history of the Crèche, the responsibility of passing on our heritage. She saw in you hope—and terror.”
Graylin turned to the woman, not understanding. “What do you mean?”
“We Nyssians know when someone with the proper seed is at hand. It is a gift from the Oshkapeers. As you can tell, we are little different in appearance. So it has been since the first of us. The daughters we birth are simply the rebirth of ourselves. We are little changed. Born with the memories of those before us. So it has always been.”
Graylin stared between the two women.
“The men we choose to spark our next generations do not give our lineage more than the barest snippet of themselves, bits that might enhance us, but not truly change us. As you might imagine, it is a rarity. But in you, Ularia saw aspects that could nurture our lineage.”
“Me?”
“It’s what frightened and angered her. Pantheans sadly consider the Noorish to be unworthy, so for her to be stirred toward you—” She shrugged. “It distressed her.”
Graylin remembered meeting Ularia atop the dais. She had seemed strangely taken by him. He had attributed it to him being new to the Crèche.
The older of the two, Nys Regina, nudged Graylin with her cane. “Ularia was young. But even my bleary eyes can see you are special. There is more to you than just a stout heart.” She lifted her cane enough to point a few rows ahead. “One only has to look at your daughter to know this is true.”
“I don’t know if Nyx is truly my—”
Regina stared hard at him, her eyes bottomless and ancient, revealing one woman going back ages. “She is your daughter, young man. The Dreamers granted us the ability to see the seeds, roots, and branches of a tree. Even yours.” The old woman dismissed him with a wave of her cane. “No wonder Ularia was so confounded by you—someone so blind and foolish that he can’t see his own daughter standing before him.”
Graylin sank back straighter in his seat. He watched Nyx whisper to Daal, her smile bright, so much like her mother’s.
If these two were right, Nyx was not just Marayn’s daughter.
She’s also mine.
N YX SAT ON the edge of her chair with Daal on one side and Henna on the other. Kalder lay at Nyx’s feet, but Henna had a firm grip on the vargr’s ear, as if refusing to let him go.
Around them, the crowd in the plaza anxiously awaited the appearance of Darant and his repaired ship. The entire village had helped this miracle happen in time for the winter’s solstice. So, they all wanted to be here to share in the success, especially after so much misery and death.
Nyx stared across the sea as it glowed with the reflection of the mists overhead. Raash’ke plied the skies and skimmed the waves, scribing ripples with their wingtips over the waters.
She hummed under her breath. It was the melody she had shared with Bashaliia, a memory of home distilled into song. She reached to Daal and took his hand. As his fire melted them together, she shared it with him, to let him feel the longing and grief for a home lost, maybe forever.
She wanted him to know she understood the sacrifice he was about to make. He might never see the Crèche again. She turned to him, to let him know he could stay, that he had done enough.
He smiled, his eyes shining with the grief in her song. Still, he gripped her fingers. Not to share his fire, but to simply let her know how he would survive it, how she would.
Together.
Horns blew loudly, breaking the bittersweet spell between them. They turned to the seas but still held tight to one another.
A murmur spread through the crowd, then settled to an expectant silence.
Horns blared again, louder now, closer.
People stood, staring off into the fog ahead. The glow of firepots appeared first, accompanied by more horns. Drums began to pound on the shoreline, welcoming and guiding the ship home.
Through the mists, a prow pushed into view, lit from behind. The crowd cheered as the draft-iron sculpture of a dragon reared into view, reflecting the flames of the village, its wings spread wide.
Another round of horns drove the colossal ship into view, forges flaming from its sides and stern. It was Rega sy Noor’s ancient ship, reborn again to forge the skies.
Upon returning to the Crèche, the Sparrowhawk had been deemed to be too damaged, and another ship lay waiting for them, preserved in ice. Parts of their former ship had been salvaged to patch this older one, including installing the Hawk ’s maesterwheel at the helm, where it belonged, ready to guide them forward again.
Nyx found the Noorish ship’s name to be especially fitting for this next leg of their journey, a trek into the scorched and sunblasted Barrens.
The Fyredragon.