Darant turned one eye toward him, then another, like a curious hawk. Then he gave a nod, clapped his hands, and bared his palms. “Done.”
Graylin turned back to the river. “So where is this ship of yours?”
“It’s already here,” Darant said. “Just waiting for us all to come to a satisfactory conclusion.”
Graylin faced around in time to see the blunt nose of a large ship push through the waterfall from behind. He now understood why Symon had shared Graylin’s destination of Havensfayre, a town buried in the highlands of Cloudreach. The passage that Symon had booked for Graylin was not just to the coast of Hálendii.
Graylin gaped as the craft edged out of the cascade, parting through it, revealing the breadth of the balloon and the ship cabled below it. It was not one of the colossal wyndships that plied the skies with cargo and passengers, but a smaller attack craft—a swyftship—used by many armies of the Crown. It had special ballasts of obscure alchymies that when set aflame could drive the ship far faster, allowing it to defy the winds and maneuver deftly during battles.
Darant nudged Symon. “You said you needed a swift ship.”
“You are a man of your word.”
Graylin climbed down from the wagon, signaling Aamon and Kalder to his side. The two vargr watched the ship pass out of the falls, its balloon continuing to shed water that rained into the pool below. A spate of fire, nestled within paddles of draft-iron at the stern, burst forth, and the craft glided smoothly over to hang at the beach’s edge.
Mooring lines were quickly secured. A gangplank pushed out from the portside of the ship and dropped to the sand. Crates, barrels, and casks were loaded.
Darant returned after overseeing his crew. He kept a few steps back from the two vargr. “We’re ready to go.”
Symon turned to Graylin and clasped his forearm. “May the gods bless your path, my friend.”
“Where will you head from here?” Graylin asked.
“Ah, I have other matters that need attending. The Rose is a prickly master.” He wet a finger and stuck it in the air. “Can you not feel that shift in the wind?”
Graylin frowned. The low winds blew ever eastward, the high streams ever westward. That never changed.
Symon lowered his arm with a grin. “Something tells me your actions are but the first move in a much larger game of Knights n’ Knaves.”
Graylin sighed, tired of the enigmatic man. Maybe it’s best from here that I deal with allies who are less cryptic. He finished his good-byes and headed toward the gangplank. Aamon and Kalder trotted to either side, sticking close to his legs.
Only when he neared the beach’s edge did he realize another followed. He turned to find Darant trailing him, hiking a pack higher on one shoulder.
Graylin stopped. “Are you coming with us?”
Darant grinned. “Aye, I plan on keeping an eye on my bounty.” He waved to the two vargr. “Besides, the voyage will allow these fine brothers of yours to warm up to me.”
Both Aamon and Kalder growled, baring fangs.
Darant appeared undaunted by the challenge and passed them both, but not without giving them a wide berth. “Let’s get aboard and underway.”
Graylin stared at the brigand’s back.
So much for ridding myself of cryptic allies.
NINE
THE PATH OF THE FALLEN
The towering cliffs of Landfall split the land of Hálendii like a cruwel knyf, dropping the lands to one side & lifting the other toward the godes. All to keep the highland forest virgine & pur, away from the corruption of man. Onli 3 passes, all rife with cascades and brokyt with treacherous steppes, offer passage to those blessedly wyld lands. To the north, middle, and south. Beware of the latter, for it is curs’d.
—From The Sylvan Dreme, by Queen Praa ry Fai, written one year before her assassination
29
TWO DAYS AFTER abandoning the winter barn, Nyx stood at the edge of her world. She stared off into the steam of the swamps and listened to its croaking, buzzing, and twittering birdsong. She inhaled its mossy, musky brume. She tasted its dark brine on her tongue. It was all she had known her entire life. She hugged her arms around her chest, trying to hold in the strength necessary to leave it.
She turned and craned up at the sheer white bluffs, which disappeared into gray mists far overhead. The cliffs of Landfall marked the eastern edge of the swamps. Directly behind her, a chasm cleaved the wall, carved through by a river that drained out of the highlands of Cloudreach. It descended in a rumble of silvery cascades and a roar of blue falls to finally flow leadenly, as if in defeat, in to the salty murk of the M?r.
Frell and Prince Kanthe gathered at the silty wash to the left of the river, whispering about how best to ascend the Path of the Fallen. Jace waited a few steps back from her, allowing her a private moment to say good-bye.
But it wasn’t just these drowned lands that Nyx would have to forsake.
She crossed the sandy beach and through stiff reeds to reach Gramblebuck. The old bullock stood fetlock-deep in the dark waters. He ripped out a sodden length of pickleweed, shook away the worst of the salty water, and slowly chewed and ground the leaves. He noted her approach with a heavy chuff and waded over to meet her. She had freed him from the sledge earlier and left him to graze at will.
As he reached her, he lowered his huge head, and she lifted her arms to take him in. She hugged her cheek to his forehead, feeling the rumble inside him as much as hearing it. More than anything, he was her home. It was Gramblebuck who had first heard her bawling in the swamp, who had dragged her dah over to the raft of fenweed where she lay. He was the one who had so often comforted her, who had suffered her complaints as they traveled the swamps together. He had been a constant in her life.
And now I must leave you.
She tipped on her toes, high enough to whisper in his ear, “I love you so much. But it’s time for you to go home.” She knew Gramblebuck could trek back on his own to the paddocks. “Find Bastan,” she urged. “Or Ablen.”
Even saying her brothers’ names pained her, threatened to set her shoulders to shaking, to once again wrack sobs out of her. Over the past two days, grief had struck her at unexpected moments. Even when she thought herself wrung and emptied, she would see the bloom of her dah’s favorite sea lavender or hear a loon’s forlorn call, and tears would flood through her, near to drowning her.
She hugged tighter to Gramblebuck. One hand ran down his thick neck, reaching the thick ring of callus where the sledge’s yoke had scarred him. She rubbed there, as if trying to erase that mark.
“Or don’t go back to the paddocks,” she offered to him. “Be free. Find your own heart’s path. You’ve earned it.”
She leaned back and stared into the milky age of his eyes. He nudged her as if to say, My heart is here. She silently answered with, And mine is in yours.
She pressed her forehead to his one last time and made him a solemn promise. “No matter where you go, I will find you again. This I swear.”
Off in the distance, horns resounded across the swamp, echoing off the high cliffs behind her, persistent in their reminder that she could no longer stay.
Gramblebuck bent his neck to the strident blaring. It was also accompanied by the hunting howls of thylassaurs, likely brought over from Fiskur to aid the king’s legion in tracking their group. Those blood-scenters could not be shaken from their trail, but at least the waters kept the curs from running their group down. Thankfully, those beasts—native to the deserts of Guld’guhl—were not good swimmers.