Not that I’ve had much more success with her.
While an impasse had broken with Nyx, their relationship remained tentative and wary. He still caught flashes of anger toward him, some brittleness that had not yet softened, if it ever would.
Sighing, Graylin left such matters for now. He edged his pony behind the tumult of cascading water and into the warren of river tunnels and dry caves that spread far into these barbarous lands. Immediately behind the waterfall, a towering grotto climbed in ferny walls to a high black roof. He craned up at the scaffolding surrounding the bulk of the Sparrowhawk as it floated within the grotto. The cavernous space echoed with hammering, shouts, complaints, and the ring of smithies and the low grumble of forges and bellows.
Graylin edged around the chaos. He gaped at how much had changed, even during his short absence. The Sparrowhawk was undergoing repairs after its rough treatment in Hálendii, but it was also being overhauled and reconstructed for the journey ahead.
A loud bark drew his attention to the underside of the swyftship. “Graylin! You’re back!”
Darant climbed out from where he was ducked under the ship’s keel. The pirate wore boots, breeches, and a loose shirt with the sleeves ripped off. Soot and grease streaked the man’s face and clothes; his hands were stained black with oil. Darant patted the Sparrowhawk’s prow and crossed over to him.
Graylin slid from his pony’s saddle to greet him. “I see you’ve made progress.”
“Aye.” Darant glanced back, wiping a brow, leaving it more grimed. “We’ve been riveting rails along both sides of the hull, to support the new draft-iron tanks. We’ll need all the flashburn reserves that my little hawk can carry. Both for her forges, and of course, to keep us from freezing our bollocks off.”
Graylin nodded. The journey across the ice would be a treacherous one, but they all knew the necessity. Shiya had shown them the doom that lay ahead, using a crystal cube that trapped a glowing version of the world inside. He pictured that ruin even now.
Moonfall.
Darant stared over at Kalder. “So, things went well with my vargr?” he asked.
Graylin sighed. Despite all that had happened, the pirate had insisted on sticking to the deal struck with Symon. It felt like ages ago, but Darant had not forgotten. The pirate had kept his word, ferrying Graylin to Hálendii as planned. Though, in the end, Darant had done so much more.
Still, upon returning here, the pirate had demanded his original payment.
One of the vargr.
Graylin glanced over to Kalder, who glared all around, his lips fixed in a threatening snarl at all the banging and commotion. Back when that deal had been struck, Graylin had insisted that he would decide which of his brothers he would forsake to the pirate. Then that choice had been stripped from him back at Dalal??a.
After landing and securing the Sparrowhawk, Darant had stood at this spot, hands on his hips, and pointed to the vargr he wanted.
“Yes,” Graylin answered. “Everything went well. Your vargr is safely buried up in the heartwoods.”
Darant had picked Aamon.
“Good.” Darant stepped closer, hooked a grimed arm around Graylin’s shoulder, and drew him toward the Sparrowhawk. “Let me show you the new talons I’ve added to this fine bird.”
* * *
SWORD IN HAND, Kanthe backpedaled across the sand. Jace pursued him, deftly flipping his ax from one palm to the other.
They both sweated profusely, stripped to just breeches. The sand burned his feet, the sun blinded him, and his chest still ached from the healed sword cut. He wanted to blame all those reasons for why a journeyman from the Shields was besting a prince of the realm.
Kanthe finally conceded, throwing down his sword. “Enough! You’ve already disfigured one prince. Best you not make a matching pair of us.” He placed a palm on his cheek. “This face is too darkly handsome to ruin.”
Jace grinned, puffing hard. “Yes, you do love yourself so.”
Kanthe crossed over and clasped Jace’s forearm. “Well done.” He squinted sourly across the bright sands. “Though at some point, we probably do need to find someone who knows how to wield an ax or sword to teach us what we should be doing.”
“That’s true.” Jace rubbed his shoulder and nodded to the sword in the sand. “You can definitely use more training.”
A shout drew their attention around, coming from the bustle of the town climbing the cliffs behind them. Two figures approached. Frell carried a sheaf of pages and a quill. Pratik hauled a stack of books in both arms.
Kanthe groaned. “Speaking of training…”
Frell nodded his head toward the waterfall, alerting Kanthe that it was time for his lessons. The two alchymists had set up a makeshift classroom behind the falls.
Kanthe picked up his sword, shook off the sand, and with a grumble followed his teachers.
Jace accompanied him. “Klashean is not that hard to learn. The grammar can be tricky, but it’s not dissimilar to Gjoan.”
Kanthe frowned at the journeyman. “You read too many books.”
Jace shrugged. His face and manner grew more pensive. Both knew their time together was running short. Jace was headed to the ice with the others, but not Kanthe. He had his own path from here, one that led far into the Southern Klashe.
“Do you think you can find it?” Jace asked.
“Apparently, that’s why I need to learn Klashean.”
Jace gave him a sidelong grin. “Then we’re certainly doomed.”
Kanthe batted at his shoulder.
Still, his own mood darkened.
He pictured the blue dot on the map Shiya had revealed, marking the possible site of another Sleeper like her. She believed they might need such an ally in the time to come. Frell and Pratik had accepted that challenge, especially as the Chaaen also wanted to pursue an angle of research involving Klashean prophecies tied to an apocalypse, stories found in their most ancient books, written shortly after the end of the Forsaken Ages. Those tomes were secured at the Abyssal Codex, the librarie of the Dresh’ri, said to be buried under the gardens of the Imri-Ka.
To gain the emperor’s cooperation to enter—and hopefully enlist an ally—another needed to accompany the two alchymists. Pratik could not return to the Klashean capital empty-handed. And he certainly could not bring Shiya. Which left only one other choice.
Kanthe sighed.
They needed someone who could intrigue an emperor, maybe sway him to their cause, someone who might serve as a pawn in a war between kingdom and empire.
In other words, they needed …
The Prince in the Cupboard.
* * *
RHAIF PACED AROUND the circular table in the center of the cavern. The blackoak surface was scarred and stained, clearly the site of many heated discussions among brigands, pirates, and rogues. Shortly, it would become the stout platform upon which the fate of the world would be balanced.
He stared at the platter of ripe cheeses, bowls of dewy berries, and steaming loaves as big as his head. There were also flagons of wine and a stack of small casks of ale.
At least we’ll be well fed and can toast the doom to come.
He crossed around again to reach Shiya, who was already seated. She wore a hooded cloak, which helped hide her bronze. Though in this private space, she had the cowl thrown back. Her hair remained soft, stranding in hues of gold and copper. Her lips were perfect pillowed arches. The azure of her glassy eyes tracked his passage around and around the table.