A shadow fell over the Parsua’s many decks. A dragon had wandered down from beyond the mountains—one of the green-eyed ones, its great length covered in salt-crusted copper scales. It was either curious or protective. No one would be able to tell for sure, save for the dragon itself. While none of its kind ever harmed those with Nenavarene blood, and they were known to protect the Dominion in dangerous times, they could not be commanded. The dragons were creatures of the aether, even more so than the spectrals that could vanish at will and the sarimans that could nullify magic.
This particular dragon emitted a roar of challenge as it swooped toward the Kesathese ships. Talasyn wondered what Alaric’s reaction was to witnessing such a creature bear down upon him. She wished she could see his face.
She gave a start, accidentally knocking her head against the spyglass. Why was she thinking about Alaric Ossinast’s face?
Mentally castigating herself, Talasyn resumed tracking the dragon’s slithering flight, watching intently as it closed in on the Night Empire’s ranks.
Flares of brilliant amethyst lit up the horizon. The ironclad spearheading Kesath’s formation fired off dozens of huge bolts of void magic, several of which hit the oncoming dragon squarely in its left wing. Talasyn’s cry of disbelief was swallowed up by the leviathan creature’s scream of pain as the rot set in, patches of black decay blossoming over copper scales. Its survival instinct kicked in as it dove into the Eversea with uncharacteristic clumsiness, badly wounded, confused to find itself on the receiving end of the only aether magic in the world that could penetrate its hide.
How—
Alaric, Talasyn realized. He’d taken the stolen moth coracle back to the Continent, and Kesath’s Enchanters must have been put to work extracting the new magic from its aether hearts.
As the dragon disappeared beneath the tide, Talasyn rushed back to the dugout. She no longer cared about secrecy. She had to warn the Roof of Heaven that the Night Empire had developed their own void cannons, and then she had to join Grand Magindam Siuk’s fleet, to help them in the battle that was sure to follow. But no sooner had she activated the dugout’s transceiver when a message rolled in on the aetherwave. It was from the lead Kesathese ironclad, and it overrode all nearby Dominion frequencies.
“Greetings,” a woman’s clipped tones said in Sailor’s Common. “I am Commodore Mathire of the Night Empire. Bringing up the rear is His Majesty Alaric Ossinast. More warships are on their way. I regret that we had to harm your dragon, but it was in the interest of preventing further losses. We wanted to show you that we are in possession of this magic as well, and it would be wise to take the path of least resistance. Before the sun has set, you will send an envoy to discuss the terms of the Nenavar Dominion’s surrender. Or we invade.”
On the bridge of the Deliverance, Alaric stalked over to the aetherwave transceiver and yanked at the lever that put him through to the Glorious, Mathire’s ironclad.
“Commodore.” He kept his tone level, much too aware of the many crew members within earshot. “I gave orders to fire only if it was a matter of life and death.”
“With all due respect, Your Majesty,” Mathire replied, her civility matching his, “the beast was flying right at us. Any leader worth their salt would have made the same call. At least now the Dominion knows that we’re serious.”
Or they’ll declare all-out war because we injured one of their dragons, Alaric retorted, but only in the silence of his own head. He couldn’t argue with one of his officers in public; he was so very newly emperor, after all, and Mathire was one of the old guard. A hero of the Cataclysm. It wouldn’t do to run afoul of High Command’s panel of veterans and their loyalists just yet.
Alaric settled for instructing Mathire to remain on the alert before he signed off. And then there was nothing left to do but wait for Nenavar’s response—and think about the dragon.
It had been truly monstrous. A snakelike hellbeast that blocked out the sky. Many in Alaric’s crew had screamed and gasped to see a myth come to life in the distance, coiling through the heavens, approaching their formation with inscrutable intent. A myth whose claws and fangs suddenly made their dread stormship seem nothing more than a fragile construct, built by mortal hands.
Alaric grudgingly admitted to himself that it was in many ways a relief to have proof of the new cannons working against such a creature. Gaheris had been instantly enamored with the Nenavarene magic and he’d had his Enchanters toil day and night to master it, to spin out enough of it to arm a good portion of the ironclads and the wolf coracles. But the supply was limited, and the former Night Emperor, who was now styled Regent, was eager to gain access to the amethyst dimension’s nexus point. Hence, this expedition southeast, mounted as soon as the cannons were ready to go.
And it wasn’t just that.
With their technology and vast wealth, the Nenavar Dominion would be a fine addition to any empire. Even if it weren’t, this nation had tried to help the Sunstead Lightweavers nineteen years ago, and Alaric knew that they could never be a trustworthy neighbor if he left them to their own devices.
All around us are enemies. Remember this, my son.
Nenavar’s response came much more swiftly than expected. Within the hour, in fact. As though they had anticipated Kesath’s maneuver and had planned for it accordingly.
Alaric regarded their envoy with no small amount of wariness as she swept into the meeting room of the Deliverance as if she owned it.
As indicated in the Dominion’s tersely worded missive, which had been delivered to the stormship via a crested brown-and-white eagle the size of a canoe, the envoy was Niamha Langsoune, the Daya of Catanduc. Her cross-collared peach-and-apricot robes swished gently with every step, celestial patterns embroidered in copper thread bringing out the burnished tones of her smooth skin. Elaborately stylized paints and powders adorned her graceful features underneath a jewel-encrusted scarf that had been wrapped around her jet-black hair like a halo. Alaric did his best not to gawk, acknowledging her flawless curtsy with a nod before gesturing for her to take the seat across from him at the long table. It was a private audience, with both side’s guards waiting outside the closed doors.
“Daya Langsoune,” Alaric began, “I trust that your journey was a pleasant one.” From Port Samout, it had taken all of fifteen minutes for her skerry to reach the Night Empire airships, but he figured that it didn’t hurt to be polite.
“As pleasant as can be expected, with the threat of war looming over our heads.” Niamha’s voice was disarmingly bright and clear, like a glass bell. In truth, she seemed far too young to have been designated envoy for such a delicate matter. Alaric estimated her to be around the same age as Talasyn was, and then he steadfastly banished his treacherous thoughts about the missing Lightweaver from his mind.
“It doesn’t have to be a war,” he told Niamha. “Should the Zahiya-lachis deign to swear fealty to the Night Empire, not a single drop of Nenavarene blood need be shed.”
“I would not be so certain, Your Majesty. Let me tell you something about my people.” Niamha leaned forward, as if about to impart a great secret. “We will not be ruled by outsiders. If Queen Urduja bows, our islands will revolt.”