A trio of swordsmen guarded over the pair; the others had gone aboard to prep for a quick departure. Most of the men had doffed their helmets and veils, revealing faces raw and scarred. They appeared to be a hard lot, showing no humor, only a barely constrained anger.

  They likely wanted out of here.

  And I’m holding them back.

  The ringing of the dawn bell made Kanthe jump. It clanged across the palace and extended out into the city. Kanthe turned to Symon, who stared apologetically back at him.

  No …

  Rami stiffened, unfolded his arms, and pointed. “Look!”

  Kanthe swung around. From the dark doorway, figures spilled into the stone well, rushing headlong. They all wore byor-ga robes but quickly stripped off their headgear. Kanthe searched the ash-stained faces until he spotted Frell and Pratik.

  He ran over to meet them but stumbled when a small-framed woman shoved to the front, tossing her headgear aside. With a shock, he recognized her.

  Guildmaster Llyra …

  Kanthe blinked as he caught his balance. He remembered Symon saying there was someone trying to help Frell. At the time, he had thought the man meant Pratik, but that clearly was not the case.

  Llyra noted him, too, and offered a mocking bow. “Prince Kanthe.”

  She then swept past him, shouting orders to the others.

  Kanthe reached Frell and grasped him in a hug. He tried to do the same with Pratik but was gently rebuffed.

  “I didn’t think you’d make it,” Kanthe said.

  “We shared that same sentiment,” Pratik said.

  Together again, they followed the last of Llyra’s crew, who had begun shedding their robes. Kanthe collected Rami and Loryn on the way to the ship.

  Rami stared back at the discarded byor-ga garb. “If I ever become emperor, my first order will be to change the policy of dress. It’s clearly a liability.”

  “Keep moving!” Symon shouted, herding them to the ship. “We can wait no longer.”

  They obeyed and clambered up the ramp. Symon stopped at its foot and craned his neck, staring skyward, where a column of fresh smoke marred the blue sky. His expression darkened as he backed away from the ramp.

  Kanthe called from the hatchway, “Are you not coming with us?”

  “No.” He waved dismissively. “I have other matters to attend. I’ll leave you all to the tender graces of Llyra hy March.”

  “But—”

  “Fear not, young prince. I’m sure our paths will cross again.” His eyes glinted with a bit of sly amusement. “No doubt you’ll all throw yourselves into a boiling pot before long.”

  Kanthe couldn’t argue with that.

  Symon turned and headed away with a pair of companions. They all donned their headgear, ready to vanish into obscurity.

  Frell gripped Kanthe’s arm and drew him back, allowing a thick-shouldered crewman to winch the ramp up. “The others headed up to the wheelhouse. We should join them.”

  Kanthe nodded and followed the alchymist through the packed lower hold and over to a flight of narrow stairs that headed up.

  From his study of wingketch schematics, he knew the steps led to a narrow tween-deck that contained a few private quarters, a small cookery, and a large bunkroom that filled the stern. But most of that level was consumed by the wheelhouse at the bow. Above all that stretched a flat open deck, shadowed by its tapered balloon.

  Eager to see it all himself, he hurried up the steep staircase. At the top, he hauled himself into the bustle of the wheelhouse. Llyra huddled with a group of men. Rami and Loryn stood to the side, under the watchful eye of only a single guard now, who kept a palm resting on the pommel of a sword.

  The ship’s captain turned from the large wheel as Kanthe joined them. “Welcome to the Quisl.” She waved to encompass the ship. “While we stole this ketch for this venture, I’ve taken it upon myself to give her a name. In Rhysian, it means roughly Poisoned Dagger. So best watch your step.”

  She tempered this veiled threat with a smile. She was a long-legged woman in Klashean black leather, but her features were snowy, nearly silvery, with ice-blue eyes. He suspected she must hail from the far-off Archipelago of Rhys, near the southernmost turn of the Crown. This was further supported by the smooth fall of black hair tied in a long tail and braided through with tiny silver bells. He knew little about the Rhysians, except it was a matriarchal society renowned for its assassins.

  Even the crew who flanked her, manning the maneuvering cranks and levers, were all women, as was the ketch’s young navigator. They all bore the same complexion and dark hair.

  The captain nodded to him, while not ringing a single bell in her braid.

  Kanthe suppressed a shiver.

  It was said that a Rhysian assassin could move unseen and unheard, even when adorned with those silvery chimes. The only warning of your death was said to be the quiet tinkle of a single bell announcing your end.

  Her smile broadened, amused, perhaps sensing his discomfort. “You’re the last aboard. Come forward if you like and watch us depart. It’s quite the show.”

  Put at ease by her welcoming manner, Kanthe accepted her offer. He crossed to one of the giant curved windows. The alchymy to craft such large domes of strong glass was a guarded secret among Klasheans. As he drew close, it felt like stepping toward open air. The window curved high to show the sky and low to reveal what lay under the ship’s bow. It was unnerving.

  He swallowed and backed a step.

  The captain bellowed, while leaning over to cast her voice through the highhorn to the rest of the ship, “Hold fast! We’re off!”

  She pulled a lever, while gripping the wheel with her other hand.

  Small pops released the tethers. The ropes fell away from the hull. Free now, the ship shot upward. The four flashburn engines roared in unison, casting flames and smoke below the keel. The ship blasted skyward.

  Thrown by the sudden acceleration, Kanthe fell forward, landing his palms against the window. For a terrible moment, he thought he’d fall out, but the glass held. He watched the stone walls blur past the ship’s prow.

  Then they were out of the shadowy well and into the open air. The brightness blinded. Still, he spotted a column of fiery ash and smoke churning upward from the center of a walled garden. Before he could study it further, wings unfurled on either side of the hull, catching the air. The ship angled away, sweeping quickly over the palace towers.

  Other ketches dotted the sky, circling on their wings or whisking away. The earlier gongs must have panicked enough of the imri, the richest among them, who sought to escape and seek safer harbors until the danger subsided.

  Kanthe smiled, appreciating Symon’s plan. The other ships offered the perfect cover for their flight, one ketch among many.

  The captain called to him, her voice teasing, “If you get handprints on my glass, you’ll be cleaning all my windows.”

  “Sorry.” Kanthe pushed off the glass, collected himself, and retreated toward the others, who were gathered at the back of the wheelhouse.

  As he joined them, a noise drew his attention to a closet next to the navigation station where the ship’s maps were stored. The others looked that way, too. Something kicked against the door from inside, accompanied by muffled cries.

  Llyra squeezed past Kanthe. “Looks like someone is awake.”

  The guildmaster pulled the door open. A figure was folded on the floor, bound and gagged. Kanthe stepped closer and looked down in horror, recognizing the face, the raw fury.

  Aalia …

  “Your betrothed proved to be quite the lioness,” Llyra said.

  Kanthe swung toward Rami. “I didn’t know.”

  Rami’s eyes were huge, his face darkening. His fingers ran to his wrists, likely searching for knives that were missing.

  Kanthe remembered Symon’s statement from before, when Kanthe had asked Rami to come with them. Symon had claimed they hadn’t needed a hostage. Kanthe understood now.

  Because they already had one.

  Llyra waved at Aalia. “Extra insurance. We may need it.” She shrugged. “And if not, she’ll fetch a generous ransom.”

  Kanthe breathed hard. He had asked Rami to trust him. He reached for his friend’s arm. “I truly didn’t know.”

  Rami backed away, shunning him. “This is a mistake you all will regret.”

  Kanthe dropped his hand. He could only watch as Aalia was freed. Even with the gag removed, she remained darkly quiet, glaring at him. Her silence was far worse than any curse or slight. She, along with Rami and Loryn, was led out of the wheelhouse to be confined in one of the private quarters.

  Frell sighed and patted Kanthe on the shoulder.

  Pratik simply looked grim, as if he agreed with Rami’s earlier assessment.

  Frell turned to Llyra, his voice somber and serious as he moved on to a more pressing matter. “What is the word out of Hálendii?”

  Llyra gazed across the wheelhouse toward the open sky. “You’re all not as clever as you think,” she said. “Not by half.”

  Frell nodded. “King Toranth clearly knows we’re here. And that Kanthe is betrothed to a Klashean princess.”

  “He certainly does, but that’s not all he knows.”

  “What do you mean?”

  She turned back to them. “Word is that a Hálendiian battle group was sent off into the Frozen Wastes two months ago.”

  Kanthe winced, understanding what this meant.

  Llyra confirmed it. “The king … and worse, that fekking Shrive Wryth … must know Nyx is out in the Wastes somewhere.”

  30

  STANDING IN A shadowed corner of the tourney yard, Shrive Wryth studied the shining figure of the future king of the Hálendii—and tried to stifle his concerns.

  As he pondered his dilemma, he ran a palm over the long silver-white braids tied around his neck like a noose. They marked his status as one of the holy Shriven, as did his gray robe and the tattooed black band over his eyes.

  Not that anyone paid him any heed.

  Across the yard, a raucous celebration raged.

  Ale flowed from a pyramid of tapped barrels. Bards sang of ancient battles and valiant warriors. Minstrels and jesters capered, as drunken as the hundreds of the king’s legionnaires who reveled among the scores of bonfires. All had come out to rejoice in the successful assault on the northern coast of the Klashe.

  At the center of it all stood the focus of their adoration, the young man who led that attack, his first foray following his graduation from the Legionary school.

  Prince Mikaen still wore his full armor. Its sheen reflected the flames, casting the Hálendiian crest on his breastplate into a fiery blaze. The same Massif family sigil—the sun and crown—was also engraved into the silver mask that covered half his face. He made a striking figure and clearly knew it.

  He stood amidst a cadre of Vyrllian Guard. They were the legion’s most elite fighters, battle-hardened with countenances entirely tattooed in crimson, both to mark their blooded status and to strike fear into their enemies. But the nine who kept closest to Mikaen were his personal protectors, the Silvergard. They had altered their appearances, adding black-ink versions of the Massif sigil to their faces, mimicking and honoring the prince.

  Chief among the Silvergard was the mountainous Captain Thoryn, who had rescued Mikaen last summer following a savage ax blow to the prince’s face. Despite the best efforts of the kingdom’s healers, Mikaen remained disfigured, a hideous scarring that was hidden behind the shining mask.

  Wryth knew it was emblematic of the prince’s spirit. Mikaen celebrated with those around him, showing his half-smile to all, but that merriment never reached the young man’s eyes.

  Mikaen remained embittered, which was not unexpected. Yet, that was not all. There remained an ever-growing darkness, a poison that had seemingly seeped into him from that wound and continued to spread. It was a spiteful mix of fury, pride, and ambition. He had no patience for governance or counsel any longer.

  Wryth knew Mikaen would never find peace until his twin brother was dead—and maybe not even then.

  Still, the prince’s temperament was not what worried Wryth. That slice of an ax had not only scarred the prince, but it had cut the tether that bound the Shrive to the young man. For the entirety of the prince’s life, Wryth had been grooming Mikaen to be a king he could control and wield like a sword. But now Wryth had lost his hold on the prince. Mikaen barely spoke to him, ignoring him even here.

  All that effort corrupted by a single blow …

  Still, Wryth held out one hope. He watched Mikaen lean toward Thoryn and point toward the gates out of the tourney yard. The prince must have grown tired of feigning jubilance and looked forward to the journey ahead of him. In the morning, he would set off for the rolling plains of the Brauðlands, where his wife’s family—the House of Carcassa—kept a sprawling ranchhold. Lady Myella continued to reside there, kept under guard.

  Mikaen was anxious to reach there—not so much to bed his beloved wife, but to visit his twins, a boy and a girl, born three weeks ago. The babes squalled out of their mother’s womb only seven months after the two were married. Few knew of their birth, which was kept secret to disguise the fact that they were conceived before the royal nuptials. No one wanted to risk muddying the bloodline with a rumor of bastards. In another month, the birth of the twins would be announced amidst stories of an early labor.

  Still, if Mikaen had his way, he would have already heralded it.

  It was what gave Wryth hope. The prince doted on his boy and girl, all but glowing in their presence, effervescent and happy. Wryth hoped the two babes might be the antidote to the corrupting poison. With their birth, Mikaen had a future to protect.

  Wryth prayed it led to a steadier temperament.

  One I can resume molding.

  Wryth contemplated his options and waited until Mikaen left, escorted by his Silvergard. Once they were gone, he turned his back on the festivities and vanished into the darkness.

  I still have one last concern to address.

  * * *

  DEEP IN THE labyrinthine bowels below the Shrivenkeep, Wryth stopped before a set of ebonwood doors. Still agitated, he needed a moment to center himself before entering the sacred chamber, the very heart of the Iflelen order, a secret buried underground for seven centuries.

  He closed his eyes and gripped his priceless Shriven cryst, a leather bandolier that hung across his chest. It was studded in iron and lined by sealed pouches. It was awarded to those holy men who achieved mastery in both alchymy and religious studies.

  The pockets of most Shriven crysts held nothing but charms and sentimental detritus, each pouch intended to memorialize one’s long path to the holy status of a Shrive.

  Not so his own cryst.

  His fingertips read the symbols burned into the leather. Each of his bless’d pockets hid dark talismans and tokens of black alchymies. Some hid the powdered bones of ancient beasts. Others held phials of powerful elixirs or ampoules of poisons. But the most treasured of all were the scraps of ancient texts scrolled into the tiny pouches, their faded ink indecipherable but hinting at the lost alchymies of the ancients.

  Wryth cared little for the here and now. He sensed this world was but a shadow of an older one, a place of immeasurable power. He intended to gain their secrets. No knowledge would be forbidden to him. No brutality too harsh to acquire it.

  Especially now.

  The Crown was at a pivotal moment, with portents rife and war threatening. In his bones, he knew he was as close as ever to piercing the veil to that ancient font of power. It was why he needed this kingdom—and a prince he could bend to his will.

  Otherwise, he held no fealty to Hálendii itself. It was but another realm that would be ground to dust. He had traveled most of the Crown. Born as a slave in the Dominion of Gjoa, hunted across kingdoms and empires, finally schooled on the Island of Tau. His youth was marked by cruelty, abuse, and humiliation.

  Even now, after achieving so much, he could still awaken that old pain, to a time when he was at the mercy of so many others. It stoked the cold fire inside him, to never again be under another’s thumb. To ensure that, he intended to let nothing and no one stop him from becoming a formidable force, one more potent than any king.

  With that goal in mind, he cast a prayer to the Iflelen’s dark god—Lord Đreyk—for the providence to succeed. Sixty-three years ago, Wryth had bent a knee and joined this order, one that many considered blasphemous and heretical, but such an uncompromising cabal offered him his best chance to realize his ambitions.

  And now I lead them.

  He opened his eyes and reverently touched the sigil inscribed on the ebonwood door. It was a curled asp crowned by thorns. The horn’d snaken of Lord Đreyk.

  More resolute, Wryth pushed open the doors. Before he could cross the threshold, a sharp scream greeted him.

  Inside, a gangly-limbed young acolyte—Phenic—struggled with the thin form of a boy enmeshed in a nest of copper tubes and glassine piping. The child was naked, writhing in agony, his chest cleaved open into a window that showed a beating heart and billowing lungs.

  The gruff voice of Shrive Keres called out from the center of the chamber. “Wryth! Can you see to that commotion?”

  Wryth hurried into the sanctum, a domed chamber carved out of black obsidian.

  Ahead, Phenic fought to hold the child in place and looked panicked. “I … I don’t know what went awry. The boy woke and yanked the tubing from his lips.”

  Upon reaching them, Wryth slipped a dagger from his belt and slit the child’s throat, stopping the plaintive cries.

  Once done, Wryth took a step back and scowled at Phenic. “Do you have another bloodbaerne to replace this one?”

  “Y … Yes.” The acolyte waved at the door. “A girl of nine.”

  Wryth gripped Phenic’s shoulder. “Take a breath. Set about preparing the girl, and I’ll call for someone to remove the boy. It takes practice to properly seat a bloodbaerne. You’ll learn.”