“What’s wrong?” Darant asked, stepping closer.

  Rhaif stemmed his tide of profanities and waved to Shiya’s other side. “Best your daughter tell you.”

  Glace crossed around the bronze woman to meet her father. Her almond complexion was flushed darker. She shoved a braided blond tail behind her shoulder with one hand and held forth her other palm.

  “We found this buried amidst the ruins of the forge’s fuel assembly.”

  They all gathered closer. A knot of dark iron lay twisted in Glace’s white-knuckled grip. It looked like a black egg that had burst open. A bitter smell of burnt alchymicals accompanied it.

  “What is it?” Nyx asked.

  Graylin scowled. “A stykler.”

  Nyx gave a small shake of her head.

  Jace explained. “A shell packed full of iron filings and glass that turns molten.”

  Glace kept her eyes upon her father. “Brayl and Krysh are already examining the other two forges, to make sure there are no more bombs hidden there, too.”

  Nyx stared down at the blasted object. “A bomb?”

  “Not just a bomb,” Darant growled, and glared around the room. “It’s sabotage.”

  3

  GRAYLIN GRIPPED THE hilt of his sword. He sought to center himself with its strength and familiarity. Heartsthorn had been in his family for eighteen generations. The blade was as much a part of him as his own arm. Still, his clasp was so hard that the silver thorns of the sculpted pommel stung his palm.

  “We have a traitor amongst us,” Graylin growled to the trio of men gathered around a scarred ironwood table.

  He had already sent Nyx below with Kalder, to bed the beast down in the quiet of the hold. The earlier commotion and anger surrounding the revelation of a saboteur aboard the ship had riled up the vargr, setting him to growling and snapping at everything. Only Nyx could control that wild heart. Jace had gone, too, accompanied by Shiya to guard over them.

  Afterward, Graylin had retired with the three men to a small chart room off the wheelhouse, intent on continuing their deliberations in private. A single lamp hung from a chain overhead, illuminating the cramped space. The walls were covered in hundreds of round cubbies crammed with curled scrolls of countless maps. Atop the table, a drawing of the Frozen Wastes had been nailed to its surface. A sextant rested atop it, along with a sheaf of papers with scrawled calculations in charcoal, marking the labors of the navigator.

  Rhaif leaned against the door, making sure they weren’t interrupted. Or maybe he was simply resting his back. The knees of his leggings were stained black. He reeked of smoke and burnt oil. His fiery hair, grown lanky and long during the voyage, lay plastered with sweat after helping with the wrecked forge.

  “A traitor with us,” Rhaif spat sourly. “As if we don’t have enough trouble.”

  “Live long enough, and you learn life is nothing but trouble,” Darant commented. “Still, the alternative is worse. So best get your joy where and when you can.”

  Graylin frowned over at the man. “You’re taking this revelation of a saboteur in our midst in fair stride.”

  “I’m a brigand. For me, betrayal and duplicity are as common a commodity as coin and sword.” Darant leaned his fists on the table, his eyes flashing with fire. “But don’t get me wrong, I’ll flay whoever damaged the Hawk. That I’ll not abide.”

  The final member of the gathering cleared his throat. Alchymist Krysh was bent over the pinned map with his head cocked to the side, but his thoughts were more likely on the new threat. He glanced up, revealing sharp gray eyes.

  “We must consider the possibility that the saboteur might not be aboard the swyftship,” he said, straightening to his full height.

  Krysh’s complexion was burnished copper, like a sunburn that never faded. His long black hair was tied into an oiled braid, a match to the dark robe of his order. But he was also no frail scholar. He stood a handsbreadth taller than Graylin, and though into his fifth decade, he kept his body well muscled. And no wonder. The man had grown up among the rugged ranchlands of Aglerolarpok, which notoriously hardened its people into leather and bone. Beyond that, Graylin had learned only an abbreviated version of the man’s history, but Frell insisted Krysh could be trusted.

  Despite that reassurance, Graylin’s suspicions jangled through him, stoked by the sabotage.

  How much do we really know about him?

  Rhaif pushed off the door and stood straighter, one brow raised quizzically at the alchymist’s statement. “Krysh, the saboteur must be aboard the Sparrowhawk. Someone had to plant that stykler, yes?”

  Krysh nodded. “Certainly. But a stykler is uniquely designed. It can be packed with a smolder fuse, a cord wound tightly inside and coated in insulating amalgam. Such fuses could be lit and take up to a year to finally reach the bomb’s combustible core.”

  Darant’s eyes narrowed. “Are you saying someone could’ve planted it aboard my ship before we left the Crown?”

  “It’s possible. At least something we should consider. The saboteur could have set a long fuse, wanting us to travel far across the Shield before it blew.”

  “Stranding us,” Graylin muttered.

  Darant rubbed his chin. “Krysh could be right. Back at my camp, our preparations for this voyage dragged on. Word could’ve reached the wrong ears. I know all too well how any trust can be broken under the weight of enough gold.”

  Rhaif looked little convinced and waved at the pirate. “But according to your daughter, the other two forges were not tampered with.”

  “Aye,” Darant agreed. “Brayl wouldn’t have missed anything. She’s got sharper eyes than any eagle. And with my two daughters now guarding those forges, they’ll remain untouched.”

  Graylin understood the thrust of Rhaif’s inquiry. “If the stykler was hidden before we launched, why cripple only the portside maneuvering forges? Why not take out all three? Then we’d be stranded for sure.”

  “Maybe they wanted to keep us from reaching our destination but not kill us outright,” Krysh offered.

  Rhaif huffed. “So a saboteur with a conscience.”

  Krysh shrugged. “Or maybe the intent was to force us to limp back. Where we’d be captured and interrogated once we returned to the Crown. Whoever is trying to thwart us might not know our goal, and if we died out here, that knowledge would be lost.”

  Darant stood stiffer. “All the more reason we keep going, I say.”

  Krysh looked across the group. “Before we make that decision and despite my angle of inquiry, I must caution that I do believe the saboteur is still aboard the Sparrowhawk. As much as we all might wish otherwise.”

  “Why?” Graylin asked.

  “The most likely scenario—which is usually the right one—is that the traitor damaged only the portside forge because he wouldn’t want to die by his own actions. Gold seldom buys martyrdom.”

  “True,” Darant said.

  Krysh continued, “I also find it significant that the saboteur waited until we were faced with crossing the Dragoncryst before making his move. He probably thought crippling us now, with such rough winds ahead, would surely drive us back.”

  Graylin nodded at the alchymist’s logic. It seemed Frell had chosen well in picking this man. “If you’re right, how do we root this traitor out?”

  “We don’t,” Darant answered.

  Graylin scowled over at them.

  Darant explained, “We’re crewed with thirteen men and five women. The traitor could be any one of them. Or even more than one. To ferret out the culprit or culprits would be next to impossible.”

  “What do we do, then?”

  Darant shrugged. “We trust in the saboteur’s love of his own life—as demonstrated so far. I’ll keep my daughters guarding the forges, but I suspect they’re safe for now. If the traitor acts again, it’ll likely be in a manner that doesn’t end up getting the bastard killed, too. We’ll have to be ready for that. To keep a wary watch on those around us.”

  A loud knock drew their attention to the door.

  “We’re nearing the mountains!” Fenn called through to them. “Another bell and we’ll be at the edge of the storms. What’s your orders, sir?”

  All eyes fell upon Darant. The pirate waited until he got nods from everyone, making sure he had unanimous consent—or maybe he wanted to be able to spread the blame if the decision proved disastrous.

  Darant shouted to Fenn, “Warn the ship! We need every loose feather of the Hawk pinned down before we get to those mountains.”

  The pirate faced the group again, pressing the back of his thumb to his lips in a Klashean bid for luck. “Saboteur be damned, we will make it over those mountains.”

  Rhaif looked dubious. “Even if we make it, what’ll we find? Remember that lad’s warning from earlier. Of daungrous peple and gret monsters.”

  Krysh slowly nodded. “If those legends prove true, a traitor amongst us will be the least of our problems.”

  TWO

  A PRINCE IN EXILE

  Kysalimri—the Eternal Citi of the Southern Klashe—is the oldest settlement in all the Crown. Under its deepest roots lies stone & iren that herken to the Forsaken Ages, dread’d seeds of a time lost to historie. But from those seeds, a gret city grew, spreadyng from the Bay of the Bless’d to the foot’d hills of the Hyrg Scarp, crossyng hundreds of leuges in everi direction. It is less a mark on a map than a kingdom alle its own, divid’d by ancient walls, but unit’d by blood & purpose. It is sayd: if Kysalimri æfrer falls, so will the world.

  —From the eighty-volume treatise, . Lyrrasta’s Geographica Comprehendinge

  4

  THE SECOND-BORN PRINCE of Hálendii struggled with his chains as he crossed toward the rail of the pleasure barge. The silver links ran from Kanthe ry Massif’s ankles up to the collars of the two chaaen-bound escorts who trailed behind him. Even after spending a full season in Kysalimri, the Eternal City of the Southern Klashe, he had not acquired the skill necessary to fluidly match his stride to those bound to him.

  His left leg tried to reach out, only to be brought up short by his chained ankle. He flailed his arms in an entirely unprincely manner, attempting to catch his balance, but recognized it was a lost cause. He fell headlong toward the deck—then a firm hand gripped his shoulder and caught him. His rescuer chuckled as he drew Kanthe upright and helped him over to the rail.

  “Thanks, Rami,” Kanthe said. “You just saved me from breaking this handsome nose of mine.”

  “We certainly cannot have that, my friend, especially with your nuptials only a moon’s turn away.” Rami nodded toward a raised dais in the center of the wide boat. “Of course, my sister, Aalia, would not tolerate her beloved to be so marred on her most perfect of days.”

  Kanthe glanced across the deck to the velvet divan. Sheltered under the barge’s sails, Aalia im Haeshan rested atop a nest of pillows, seated on one hip. She was a shadowed rose, adorned in silk robes woven with golden threads. Her oiled braids, as dark as polished ebony, draped her shoulders. An embroidered bonnet bedecked in rubies and sapphires crowned her head. Her black eyes stared askance, coldly, not even once glancing toward her betrothed.

  Kanthe studied her. It was only the fourth time he had laid eyes upon her since arriving on these shores. My future bride, he lamented silently. While only a year older than Kanthe’s seventeen winters, she looked far more mature, certainly more than a prince who had fled to these shores, a prince considered to be a traitor to his own people.

  Contrarily, Aalia was held in the highest esteem. It was evident by those who kept her company. Twelve chaaen-bound knelt around her, six to a side. The dozen, like Kanthe’s two escorts, were cloaked under robes, their heads capped in leather, their faces hidden behind veils tucked into their neck collars. Such Klashean byor-ga garb was required of the baseborn when outside their homes. Only those of the single ruling class, known as the imri, which meant godly in their tongue, were allowed to show their faces. The hundreds of other castes had to remain covered from crown to toe, apparently deemed too unworthy for the Father Above to gaze upon them. This applied also to the Chaaen, who were schooled at the Bad’i Chaa, the House of Wisdom, the sole school of the city, an establishment notorious both for its rigorousness and cruelty. The higher you were among the imri, the more Chaaen were bound to you, serving as aides, advisers, counselors, teachers, and sometimes objects of pleasure.

  Resigned to his fate, Kanthe turned to stare across the Bay of the Blessed.

  Rami kept to Kanthe’s side. Aalia’s brother was accompanied by six Chaaen of his own, three to a side, chained one after the other. Rami im Haeshan was the fourth son of the Imri-Ka, the god-emperor of the Klashe. He was considered of lesser rank among his siblings—unlike his younger sister, Aalia, the emperor’s sole daughter, who was held forth as the empire’s greatest treasure.

  And I’m to marry her on the night of the winter’s solstice.

  He wiped sweat from his forehead with the edge of his gilded sleeve. Unlike the Chaaen, who were required to wear the byor-ga garb, he had been decked in a gerygoud habiliment, which consisted of tight breeches shoved into snakeskin boots and a sleeveless tunic, all covered in a white robe with long-splayed sleeves that reached his knees. A cap of gold finished the outfit. It was the clothing of royalty. The Imri-Ka had granted Kanthe honorary imri status shortly after he had arrived here.

  A better welcome than being thrown naked into a dank cell, I suppose.

  Though with each passing day, he wondered if such a fate might not have been better. He heard the shuffle of Aalia’s entourage as the emperor’s daughter rose from her divan. She crossed toward the ship’s opposite rail, plainly avoiding him.

  The royal assemblage had spent the sweltering morning gliding across the Bay of the Blessed, winding among the Stone Gods, the thirty-three isles and outcroppings that had been carved into representations of the Klashean pantheon, all thirty-three of them. Rami had tried to instruct Kanthe on the deities’ names and their respective domains within the holy hierarchy, but they all blurred together.

  Rami remained determined and pointed ahead, toward a stone sculpture of a naked man with a rather prominent appendage between his legs, who carried a pudgy baby under one arm. Flowers and baskets of offerings lay festooned about his stone feet.

  “Here comes Har’ll, in all his majesty and prominence.” Rami lifted a brow toward Kanthe. “He is our god of fertility.”

  “It’s certainly plain why he gained that reputation.” Kanthe waved past the statue. “Mayhap it’s best for now if we give him a wide berth.”

  Rami laughed. “I’m sure you will sire many children. I’ve seen you in the baths. While you may not be as blessed as Har’ll, you will make my sister very happy.”

  Kanthe coughed at such frankness. His face flushed hot. He tried to stammer away his discomfort. He still flustered at the ease with which the Klashean discussed such matters openly, with nary a bit of shame.

  Unfortunately, Rami wasn’t done. “Of course, that applies to anyone you’d share your bed with.”

  The man’s fingers slid down the rail to touch Kanthe’s hand, the invitation plain. It wasn’t the first hint that Rami would like to explore their relationship beyond their already warm friendship. Rami was a couple of years older, but Kanthe sensed nothing predatory or manipulative. It was simply an open invitation.

  Kanthe had already known about the changeableness of Klashean relationships, both inside and outside of wedlock. Hálendiians ridiculed such behavior and considered it further proof that the Klasheans were immoral. Kanthe had always found such an aspersion to be hypocritical, especially considering the abundance of whorehouses throughout Hálendii, not to mention all the men and women indentured into sexual servitude. Even his father kept a palacio of pleasure serfs at Highmount.

  If anything, Kanthe found the openness here to be more honest. He had talked to Frell about it in their rooms. The alchymist had theorized that the fluidity found here might have something to do with the Klasheans’ strict caste system, one that was rigid and overly complex.

  When one screw tightens, another often loosens, Frell had offered.

  Kanthe patted Rami’s hand and turned to lean against the rail. While Kanthe had been in these lands for a season, he still hadn’t found his way to becoming that loose.

  Rami grinned and took a matching position against the portside rail. He clearly took no offense at Kanthe’s rejection. Aalia’s brother likely had no trouble filling his bed. He was tall, straight-backed, with the same handsomely dark eyes as his sister and a complexion like steeped bitterroot with honey. But more importantly, Rami had proven to be a good friend, acting as guide and teacher on all matters Klashean. And if Kanthe was honest with himself, Rami’s attention was flattering, a boost to his own esteem.

  Especially considering Aalia’s abundant disregard.

  Kanthe glanced across the barge. Aalia stood on the starboard side, shading a hand over her eyes to stare up at the next god gliding past their boat.

  The purpose of the morning voyage had been for Kanthe and Aalia to spend time together, to converse politely under the gaze of a trio of chaperones, to perhaps get to know one another before the solstice. Aalia had only spoken one word to Kanthe: mashen’dray, which meant step aside. He had been blocking her view of one of the Stone Gods. He also noted that she used the word dray, an appellation when one addressed someone of a baseborn caste. It seemed not everyone was willing to accept Kanthe’s honorary imri status.

  Kanthe couldn’t blame her.

  No one who truly knows me would consider me “godly,” certainly not the Illuminated Rose of the Imri-Ka.

  He gave a shake of his head. Even as a prince of Hálendii, he was held with little regard in his homeland. For all his life, Kanthe had lived in the shadow of his twin brother, Mikaen, who had shouldered out of their mother’s womb first, earning his birthright, destined from that moment for the throne. As such, Mikaen had been doted upon and cherished, readying him for his fate as future king of Hálendii.