She gasped as her body burned with those energies. It filled every bone, every vein, every organ. She sensed those ancient eyes staring at her from afar, coldly judging what she would do. And still the power flooded into her, until it could no longer be contained.
She had to let it out.
On the steps, she grabbed her skull with both hands and screamed, casting out that force. It burst forth in all directions, stripping the world of its secrets. Nothing could be kept from her sight now. In a blink, she saw every vein of leaf, every weevil that burrowed in bark, every tendril of fungus in soil. The others around her became bones, beating hearts, rushing blood.
But what erupted from her was not only amplified sight. Her scream resonated with all the force of Bashaliia’s brethren, forged into something far greater.
She remembered her nightmare atop the mountain, when that same force had broken stone. She had no such control now.
As the wild wave surged out of her, she was lifted to her toes, maybe even off the stone. Its force blasted away the mists and buffeted the encroaching horde back down the chasm. Her companions tumbled to either side, blown into the shrub and trees.
The nearest queen crumpled on the stair, like a spider burned by a hot ember. The other dark shapes fled as leaves were ripped and branches broken, battering after them. Her new eyes watched the creatures’ rows of tiny hearts squeezing in terror as they abandoned the stairs, seeking the refuge of shadow and rock.
Then it was over.
The strange force emptied out of her, and her heels settled back to the stone. But she had no strength. Her legs could not hold her. Her sharp vision collapsed to shadows, to patches of brightness and darkness, as if she had returned to her beclouded self. Weak, she toppled toward the hard stone, but arms caught her.
“I got you,” Jace said out of the murk.
Then another arm scooped her and lifted her higher. “We can’t wait,” Kanthe warned.
Frell confirmed this. “The queens could return once their initial fright subsides.”
Nyx felt herself carried between the two. Jace on one side, Kanthe on the other. She did not fight them or pretend strength she didn’t possess. She was hauled up the steps, her toes bumping along behind her. She passed out for a stretch, only to be stirred awake again, confused and panicked.
But Jace reassured her.
It also helped that her vision slowly returned. First, the depth of green forest, then details of leaf and branch. Her strength took longer to restore. Her head lolled between the two young men.
Finally, Frell drew them to a stop. “I think we made it. We should be able to rest for a moment.”
Jace helped her over to a fallen log. She struggled with her legs but managed the last few steps on her own. She gratefully collapsed to the makeshift seat. She gazed dully around her at giant trees that vanished into the low clouds. She spotted no sign of cliffs or rocky walls. She realized that Frell must have run them far into the woods beyond the chasm before risking a halt.
Thank the Mother …
Kanthe stared around, too. “We made it to Cloudreach. All my life, I’ve wanted to get my arse up here.” He shrugged. “’Course, maybe not like this.”
“We can’t rest long,” Frell warned. “We still have two or three days of trekking to reach Havensfayre. And these woods can be just as dangerous.”
Jace stared back the way they’d come. “What about the others? Surely the king’s legion isn’t going to be able to breach that chasm.” He glanced at Nyx, his face pale and nervous. “At least not like we did.”
Kanthe answered, “That may be true. But I know the head of the Vyrllian Guard. Anskar has surely dispatched a skrycrow to Highmount. Knowing the path we took means he knows where we’re headed, and it wouldn’t take much to guess we might strike for Havensfayre.”
A sullen silence followed.
She caught the others eyeing her.
Frell began to ask her something, even stepping forward, but Kanthe drew him back with a stern look.
“Later,” the prince urged.
Frell nodded.
She knew they all wanted to inquire about what had happened back there, but they also recognized her exhaustion. Not that waiting would matter. She wasn’t sure she had any answers to give them.
She craned her neck and searched the cloudy treetops.
Jace noted her attention. “We’ve not seen any sign of your brother. Not since when…” His voice trailed off.
“Bashaliia,” she whispered.
As if summoned by his name, a winged shape circled out of the mists overhead and descended toward her. He dropped silently, with no keening or piping.
He must be as exhausted as I am.
Then her brother tipped sideways, fluttered weakly, and toppled toward the ground.
Nyx lunged to her feet and stumbled forward. Kanthe crossed from the other direction. Together, they caught Bashaliia in their arms, careful of his wings, and cradled him to the ground.
She knelt down, her heart at her throat. Bashaliia lay on his back, his chest barely moving, his neck stretched and twisted to the side.
Frell and Jace hurried to them.
“What happened to him?” Jace asked.
Kanthe turned Bashaliia’s head. “The poor bastard never had the protection of that stinking bile like we did. Still, he stayed with us. And suffered for it.”
The prince exposed the row of black spines impaled in her brother’s neck. Frell thumbed a bloody patch of fur, revealing a jagged stinger.
Kanthe looked up at Nyx. “I’m sorry.”
TEN
TACKING INTO THE WIND
Do not fear beyng wronge. But do fear beyng righteous.
—An admonition found in A Boy’s Gentle Book of Wysdoms
32
DRESSED AGAIN IN a Klashean byor-ga to hide his face and form, Rhaif strode down the central passageway of the wyndship. He carried an empty woven basket and headed toward the ship’s cold kitchen to collect their cabin’s midday repast. As with all their meals, it was usually hard cheese, harder bread, and a small bottle of wine to wash it all down.
But Rhaif’s trip to the kitchen now was less about filling his belly than about gathering information.
He and his two companions—the chaaen-bound Pratik and the bronze woman Shiya—had been aboard the wyndship for two days, a craft dubbed The Soaring Pony. Then this morning, word had been tacked to their door, announcing a change to the ship’s route. Originally, the Pony had been slated to travel directly to Trader’s Ferry, a sprawling city at the center of the vast grassy plains of Aglerolarpok. It was a wild, lawless place and offered Rhaif plenty of directions and methods in which to vanish, to maybe even start a new life.
Only now the ship was scheduled to stop in Azantiia in another two bells.
Why?
That’s what drove him out of his cabin, leaving Pratik with Shiya. The change plagued and worried Rhaif, especially as the brief message had not stated how long they would tarry in Azantiia. His entire gambit in escaping Anvil depended on no delays.
He pictured Shrive Wryth sifting through the ashes of the downed Klashean ship and the man’s fury when he discovered the wreckage held no bronze statue. Wryth would surely send a flock of skrycrows in every direction, paying particular attention to the two ships that had left that same eve from Anvil.
Rhaif could not risk one of those crows winging ahead of the Pony and spreading word of a possible thief aboard, along with a bronze treasure like no other. He also worried about the timing of this change. Was it just bad luck—a state he was well familiar with—or something more nefarious?