Chapter 12
VARIDIAN
It was against my best interests, the wishes of my legion, and all damned common sense to fly beside the Torn Isle leaders to their island off the southern coast of Ithanys. And yet.
Our fates depend upon it, Chakir had said.
Chakir, who was a man of learning and stern commands, not dreams and whimsy.
Our fates depend upon it—upon you accompanying these people and meeting the Kaldic emissary on the Torn Isle.
Hear what they have to say. Make your own decisions.
Then if you choose to turn your back on them, you do it informed.
We flew in formation over the tree-covered hills between Daurith and the coast, and sailed over the rich blue waters until the Torn Isle’s red terraced houses and silver minarets came into view.
So many buildings and rooftops had been crammed onto the landmass that no greenery remained.
What native forests had lived here were felled centuries ago, but the island’s bustling city seemed to have swallowed even more of the land than the last time I was here.
The largest of the ten southwestern islands, the Torn Isle had been a hub of trade, riches, and noise for longer than I’d been alive.
As long as the Marrakchi family had existed, the Torn Isle had controlled the flow of spices, gold, jewels, and minerals into Ithanys.
Seafood, weapons, and animals, too, found their way off the plethora of boats gathered in the Torn Isle’s main port, through the warehouses and factories owned by the island’s leaders itself, and into the mainland.
As a result of the thousands of people who flowed through daily, the island had a certain energy and feeling to it.
“It stinks of fish guts and vomit,” Shula said the moment we landed.
A certain miasma, too. The stench, the shimmering heat, the overcrowded bustle of it were unavoidable. Riches, it seemed, weren’t possible without an aroma of trout.
“Fear not, darling Shula. It’s easier to breathe the closer you get to the Isle’s heart,” Zaarib said, throwing his arm over her broad shoulders in an attempt to cheer her up.
But it was difficult to feel even an iota of cheer when Nabil had flown with Shula, a constant reminder that Buchra was dead.
When Zaarib draped his other arm over Nabil’s stiff shoulders, I strode to the sleek, muscular wyvern beside Mak.
Habiba narrowed bright eyes on me but didn’t stop my approach.
Her protectiveness set me on alert, and I was already heightened enough by the shadow in my room that tried to kill me—and the second person who snuck into Aliah’s chamber.
She’d drawn their blood, but her attacker evaded her as mine had.
“Aliah,” I murmured, my stomach swooping when I saw her standing dead-still against Habiba’s side, her golden face blank, eyes distant. “If you’re in pain, I want to know now. If that bastard managed to injure you, tell me. I can’t do my job as your commander if you keep secrets from me.”
Hypocrite. Cursed, bastard hypocrite.
Aliah shook her head, her face a shade or two paler than usual, grey-brown eyes blinking three times before they focused on my face.
“I’m not hiding an injury. I saw… actually, I don’t know what I saw.
Wyverns flying through a colourful window.
Through the window. As if it carried them somewhere else.
No glass shattered, and the wyverns were unharmed. ”
“Did they have riders?” I asked, my mind spinning rapidly.
She nodded. “Each one. But I’m not sure… there was a darkness to them, but they didn’t feel the same as those wyverns. The araethawn,” she corrected with a shake of her head.
I knew the exact feeling—disbelief and dread, that the old stories were now part of real life.
They felt like a myth left centuries in the past, but I believed Chakir.
Maybe not the Torn Isle’s leaders, but I trusted the guardian of Daurith.
I trusted my own instincts too, and the word of the lightning soul.
I blew out a rough breath, shoving those thoughts back, and asked Aliah, “Could you make out the faces of the riders?”
Aliah shook her head, glancing up when the others made their way over to us. “I only saw them from behind. I don’t know what it means, but it’s important. And Varidian?”
“Yes?”
“They were followed. Another figure, not on wyvernback, followed them through the archway and wherever the window led. I think that’s what I was supposed to see.”
“Let me guess,” Shula said with a frown, pulling off her riding gloves. “More shit for us to deal with, on top of these smug, pretentious Torn fuckers?”
“Let me deal with the Torn Isle leaders,” I said, pushing my shoulders back, filling my lungs with briny air.
I was Rawiya Marrakchi’s son, heir to a long line of survivors and quiet bravery, and a prince loyal to this empire even if my father had disinherited me.
It was time I reminded people of that. And remembered it myself. “I can handle them.”
There was something to be found on this island, something Chakir wanted us to uncover, and more than that—the lightning soul had been quiet and watchful all morning, biding her time as she assessed every move I made.
All the old forces are merging again, was all she’d said when I pressed her on it this morning.
“Tell them about your vision,” I said to Aliah, giving my legion a quick once-over and unable to ignore the sense of danger dragging its claws down the back of my neck. “I’ll meet with the commanders.”
Nabil refused to let me attend the meeting alone, so it was the two of us who entered the sturdy, straight-edged kasbah on the highest point of the island.
The sandstone glowed in the golden midday sun as a muscular female guard swept an assessing look over our dusty leathers and ragged hair.
I gave my name and reason for visiting, biting back a honed remark at the formalities—we’d just flown in with their own leaders, for fuck’s sake.
I half expected her to throw us out, but instead she pummelled the heavy door with a fist, and it slid back into the fortress, allowing us through.
Nabil and I exchanged a glance, wary but prepared to battle our way out if necessary.
It was why every knife I owned was hidden on my person, the sword of House Marrakchi strapped down my back. Nabil was similarly armed.
Inside, the overpowering scent of fresh-cut flowers hit my senses, the air cool and refreshing compared to the blazing sun outside. Flying in leathers during the height of the day was hell.
“Nice place,” Nabil remarked as another guard in a gleaming grey and silver uniform led us through several antechambers and down a golden hallway with channels of water trickling on either side of our feet.
Water blooms lazily drifted along the current, their perfume tickling my nose.
It was preferable to the fish guts scent of the docks, but slight overkill.
“Very nice place,” Nabil corrected when our path deposited us in the riad at the heart of the fortress.
I made an appreciative noise when the guard led us through an arabesque archway into the garden itself.
The wind off the nearby ocean set unlit lanterns dancing at each tiled arch around the covered walkway, the vivid blue water of the low-slung pool rippling in invitation.
It rivalled the riad at the Diamond, I was a little loath to admit, though not surprised.
There was as much money on this island as in all of Morysen, if not more.
The baking heat didn’t reach us here, only a cool breeze that lifted strands from my forehead and stole a few from the bun on the back of my head.
Magic, without question. Not just rich people—powerful ones.
I’d need to keep that in mind, along with the fact we were outnumbered.
And coming face-to-face with our fucking enemy.
Years, we’d fought tigers and Kaldic warriors at the wall and the towns and villages around it. Years, we’d witnessed the slaughter, senseless and without mercy. I blinked and I saw the child at the Last Guard, heard my wife screaming when we were too slow to save him.
“We can leave,” Nabil said in a voice only for my ears. We’d been friends and legion long enough that he sensed my mood shift the second it happened. “We can turn around right now.”
I clenched my jaw. Shook my head. There was enough conflict and death in Ithanys; if the Torn Isle were anywhere close to a treaty, I wouldn’t fuck that up for them.
If the war would end, if those tigers would stop riding through the passes and attacking our innocents…
I could shove my rage down for a single hour, sit my ass down on one of the padded turquoise sofas where Kanuri now stood to greet us, and listen to what she had to say.
That was all Chakir asked—that we listen.
I shook the woman’s hand, shook the calloused palm of Amuq’ran and the strong, wrinkled fingers of Emmahin too—the others were absent, I noticed—and sat my ass down on a grey sofa between two olive trees.
And I listened.
Even as my stomach churned and I wanted to storm out, to laugh and deny everything as a fantastical story, I listened.