Frell looked appalled. “The ta’wyn.”

  Tykhan sighed, acknowledging this. “But most of us adhered to the original definition of the name given to us. Defenders. War ensued. It lasted for a full millennium, long before the Crown ever formed. The defenders came close to losing, especially as one of our Krysts betrayed us.”

  “Krysts?” Aalia asked.

  Tykhan lowered a palm to his waist. “I’m a Root.” He lifted his hand to his shoulder. “The one you call Shiya is an Axis, a ta’wyn of higher status and knowledge. But a Kryst—” He shoved his arm as high as he could reach. “They truly are undying gods.”

  Aalia shivered, trying to contemplate such a being.

  “It took every defender to finally defeat Eligor. He was as monstrous as any infernal god in the Klashean pantheon.”

  Aalia shared a look with Frell and Pratik. “We saw that name in those pages, too.”

  She pictured the looming figure of a man, holding aloft a thunderbolt.

  Eligor.

  “Though he was defeated,” Tykhan said, “some of his surviving members absconded with his broken body. They fled to distant corners of the world, still wreaking havoc. Before leaving, they damaged or destroyed many of our buried libraries of knowledge.”

  Frell flinched. “I think we saw such vandalism. In a crystal librarie beneath the stones of the Northern Henge.”

  Tykhan looked grim. “Such knowledge is needed by an Axis. They are the only ones who can ignite the massive forges and set the world to turning again. Without it, the Axis rise as newborns. They are driven by an insatiable desire to seek out that knowledge in order to fully restore themselves.”

  “I believe we’ve witnessed that compulsion, too,” Pratik added. “With Shiya.”

  “Unfortunately, continents and landmasses shifted and reconfigured during the long sleep, often separating an Axis from its librarie.”

  Frell frowned, clearly frustrated. “Why didn’t your creators just steep that knowledge into an Axis from the beginning? Why bother with a separate librarie?”

  “Our brains are not like yours. They are resilient, pliant, able to hold vast amounts, but the problem with such flexibility is that our means of storing knowledge is corruptible by time. The crystal arkada that you saw down in the vandalized librarie … if left intact, such volumes can retain their knowledge until the universe goes cold. Knowing that, our creators only instilled a core base of knowledge into us. Even I was greatly confused when I first woke in my eyran.”

  “Eyran?” Kanthe asked. “Do you mean that copper egg?”

  Tykhan scrunched his brow. “I supposed that’s an apt enough description. When I was attacked there, I only survived due to a baseline of self-preservation. That and a Root’s inherent strength and fluidity of form. It allowed me to tear apart my attacker.”

  “We saw a body in your copper egg,” Kanthe whispered.

  “One of the enemy. Besides destroying libraries, they also tried to kill Sleepers. It was why I woke up so early. With my eyran destroyed, I could not return to my slumber. So I traveled down a longer path, one never attempted by a Root.”

  “And what was that?” Aalia asked.

  Tykhan looked at all of them, as if the answer were obvious. “Like any Sleeper, I waited through the passing millennia until I was needed. Though awake this entire time, my core directive remained the same.”

  Aalia frowned. “Which is what?”

  “I’m a ta’wyn, which means my primary goal is to defend.”

  This answer was unsatisfactory to another. Her brother Rami had quietly stepped through the doorway of the stern cabin. He pointed back inside, his voice furious. “Is that what you call defending? What you did to my father?”

  Tykhan lifted a palm. “I said it was my primary directive. Around that, I’m allowed a fair amount of latitude and flexibility. Even for a menial Root. I found the role of Augury useful in manipulating and guiding this quarter of the Crown. All to prepare for the war to come.”

  “With Hálendii?” Aalia asked.

  “No, the greater war that is on the horizon.” Tykhan nodded to Kanthe. “Your seer has already dreamed of it.”

  “Nyx?”

  “Yes. But I wonder … is what she saw a prophecy or simply an inevitability due to your natures?” He shrugged. “I don’t know. But I do know that as moonfall approaches, war will come. So, I became the Augury. To try to steer the path as best I could.”

  Rami stepped forward, challenging him. “So, to accomplish that, you killed the prior Augury and usurped his position?”

  Tykhan frowned with disdain. “There has only been one Augury in Qazen since it was founded. Well, mostly one. As a ta’wyn, I’m untouched by time. I changed faces, voices, attitudes. I skipped a generation now and then to wander the breadth of the Crown, but ultimately, I’ve been the Augury of Qazen for over four millennia.”

  Stunned silence met this announcement.

  “How is that possible?” Aalia finally blurted out. “In all this time, no one discovered this ruse?”

  Her words seemed to confuse him, then his eyes widened. “Ah, when I said I changed faces, that’s exactly what I meant. One feature unique to all Roots—due to the many tasks required of us—is fluidity of form, to change bodily shape to match our varying needs.”

  Aalia remembered him saying something like this when he mentioned the assassin who tried to kill him. “What does that mean?”

  “This.” He tilted his head slightly and the bronze of his face melted and flowed, remodeling and settling into new features, still coldly handsome but very different. “There are limits to such an ability, but it has sufficed to maintain my secret.”

  His features slurred again, returning to the face first presented to them.

  No one spoke for a long time.

  Tykhan used this moment to turn to Aalia and point at the blank strip of parchment and inkwell on the table. “I see you’ve readied yourself as I requested?”

  She struggled for composure after this shock. Before disappearing into the wheelhouse, he had asked her to prepare a message, a note that a skrycrow would deliver to Kysalimri.

  “What am I intended to write?” she asked.

  Tykhan’s eyes shone brighter. “Only the most important note you’ve ever written. One that could save the world.”

  “And say what?”

  “To declare yourself empress of the imperium.”

  72

  “HAS AALIA GONE mad?” Prince Mareesh asked. “Or is she as addled as our father is said to be?”

  Jubayr shook his head, struggling to keep abreast of the rapidly changing events of the past night. He listened as the dawn bells rang over the city, using the moment to compose himself, to try to fathom the intent and meaning in the skrycrow message sent by Aalia a short time ago.

  He sat at the head of the table in the strategy room, a seat normally reserved for his father. The table and room were packed. All eyes stared toward Jubayr: Shield Angelon, Wing Draer, Sail Garryn, a dozen lesser-ranked leaders of the imperial forces, and half of his father’s chaaen-bound and three of his own.

  They all waited for some guidance from Jubayr.

  But it was his brother’s eyes that burned the hottest. Prince Mareesh sat across the table, seated in Jubayr’s former seat. Mareesh had returned yesterday aboard the Falcon’s Wing, victorious in his destruction of the Shield Islands. But there had been no celebration, not with a brother to mourn.

  And now this.

  Sail Garryn, the commander of the imperial naval fleet, cleared his throat. “Could your sister have also been tainted by the Hálendiian poison that debilitated Emperor Makar? Could it have addled her, too?”

  “Something must have,” Angelon agreed firmly. “There has not been an empress of the Klashe in over seven centuries.”

  “But prior to that, it had not been so rare,” Chaaen Hrash added. As the oldest of those bound to the emperor and the closest of his father’s advisers, Hrash was highly respected and his counsel was welcomed by all. “As to her being addled or tainted, I know the curve of her ink. It was steady, her wording cogent, and in Aalia’s distinct tone. To me, she seemed of sound mind, and I know Emperor Makar held his daughter in high regard, not only for her poise and beauty, but also for her intelligence.”

  Jubayr stared down at the curled messages in his hands. The skrycrows atop the tower continued to scream and caw, as if mocking his indecision. The crows had been arriving all night, building the story of what had happened in Qazen. The council had heard it all. Of the safe recovery of Aalia and Rami and the capture of the traitor Prince Kanthe. Of the attack by rebels and baseborn. Aalia’s note reported a gaseous bomb had struck near Emperor Makar, killing his Paladin guards. While their father had survived, the exposure had left lasting damage.

  In the end, nothing of the past days was as it seemed. Aalia’s note described an entirely different stream of events. With the aid of Prince Kanthe, Rami and Aalia had uncovered a plot against the empire, one based in Qazen. Initially, they didn’t know whom to trust, so they fled south under the cover of night to investigate. They could tell no one, fearing members of the emperor’s inner circle were aligned with the enemy. In truth, there had never been any kidnapping. Even the immolation of the Dresh’ri librarie was part of this same nefarious plot in some way.

  And in the end, Aalia and Rami were proven right about a threat in Qazen, but not in time to stem the attack. She and the others had barely escaped Qazen with the emperor. They had fled hastily, avoiding even the remaining imperial guard, fearing who among them might be part of this plot. The Augury and his healers had attended to their father, pulling him back from the edge of oblivion. The esteemed oracle traveled with them. His presence alone added much weight and validity to this story, along with accounts of guardsmen back at the mooring fields who attested to the addled state of Emperor Makar.

  But it was what Aalia wrote at the end of her message that had shocked everyone in this chamber. Though for Jubayr, he could not discount a measure of relief. It had sounded true to his ear and heart.

  Before succumbing to the worst of the poison, knowing he might die or be debilitated for years, Emperor Makar had passed his circlet to Aalia, declaring her empress of the imperium in his stead. She had refused, denying a request that could be their father’s last. But Makar had explained his reasoning, telling her that Jubayr was a wonderful son, gifted in many ways. But he was more fit as a temporary leader, not for the long term. In this time of war and strife, the Southern Klashe needed someone of brilliance, grace, and wisdom to lead them forward—that figurehead could only be the Illuminated Rose, a personage that all of the Klashe adored and revered.

  Still, his sister had refused their father.

  Until the Augury further bolstered Makar’s words, declaring the gods had shown him the next century of the Klashe—with Aalia crowned and leading it to greater glory.

  Only then had she reluctantly accepted the circlet, but she had refused to don it. Not until she sought out the wisdom of the imperial counsel. If they deemed her unworthy or decided to castigate her as a usurper, she would gladly accept any punishment. She truly did not want the crown and would gladly pass it to another.

  Jubayr understood that last sentiment all too well.

  And maybe that humbleness makes her worthier than any of us.

  Wing Draer pressed for an answer. “What do you propose we do? How do we respond?”

  Jubayr stood, drawing up the imperial cloak with him. As he did, the clasp choked his neck, but he kept it in place, asserting the authority given to him by his father before he left. He intended to wield it for the betterment of the empire.

  “My sister has proffered to meet as many of the counsel as would like to attend her in the coastal town of X’or. It is there—among the sanctuary’s healing baths—that the Augury believes my father has the best chance of recovery. Aalia also comes with no army, leaving herself defenseless to our will and decision. I say we take up the mantle she had laid at our feet. To go meet with her, to see firsthand how the emperor fares. Then decide the future of the imperium.”

  His judgement was not met with any resounding agreement, only murmurs and whispers. His face heated, wondering if he had made the wrong decision.

  Still, Chaaen Hrash drew closer and gave him a small nod. Jubayr gratefully accepted this small amount of praise.

  Across the table, Mareesh kept his own thoughts guarded. His eyes remained fiery, but they had tamped down to embers—for now.

  His younger brother had always been hot-tempered. His grief at the loss of Paktan had only stoked that volatility. The two had been closer than brothers, both warriors in the clouds. It was a bond that Jubayr had always envied.

  Mareesh also placed great stock in routine and order. He always had. Even as a child, Mareesh had kept his room meticulously neat. Everything had to be in its proper place. He would cry if it wasn’t. Perhaps such fastidiousness was why he excelled within the regimentation of the imperial forces.

  So, this sudden upending of the hierarchy did not sit well with Mareesh.

  Whereas Jubayr—confined mostly to the citadel alongside his father—had seen Aalia blossom into the Rose she was now. Mareesh had not witnessed her transformation from child to a brilliant woman. Instead, he had flown off into the clouds with Paktan, leaving his other two brothers grounded here.

  Jubayr kept his focus on Mareesh. “We will leave at midday. And judge all for ourselves. Is that understood?”

  The murmurs of agreement strengthened around the room, growing stronger as they spread. Jubayr waited for one other.

  After a long breath, Mareesh slowly nodded—though it looked as if it broke his neck to do so.

  Jubayr straightened his spine, the clasp of the heavy cloak choking him harder.

  “It is decided,” he declared. “We head to X’or.”

  73

  KANTHE WATCHED THE last of the misty forest of the Myre Drysh vanish under the arrowsprite. He remembered longing to vanish under its dark canopy, to set aside his responsibilities and live the simple life of a tracker. It was not to be. Those woodlands and hopes faded behind him.

  As the ship sped onward, a vast patchwork of green fields, pastures, farms, vineyards, and orchards spread before him. The open lands ran to all the horizons, looking endless. Canals crisscrossed and sectioned off vast tracts. Their waters reflected the low light of dawn, turning them into runs of silver.

  “The M’venlands,” Rami said. He was seated across from Kanthe, sharing the window. His voice was sullen. “Its bounty fills the troughs of the Eternal City’s boundless hunger.”

  Kanthe’s somber mood matched the prince’s. “This is not exactly how you wished to show me these lands.”

  What seemed like ages ago, atop Rami’s balcony, his friend had expressed a desire to take Kanthe into the M’venlands, to share with him the blooming fields of tabak.

  Now everything has changed.

  He glanced over to Aalia. She lounged next to Tazar, leaning her head against his shoulder. He held an arm around her, as if trying to protect her from the storm of events.

  “Aalia would make a great empress,” Rami said. “If allowed.”

  “Still, she did not look happy at Tykhan’s offer of the crown. As I recall, she and Tazar had ambitions to end the hardfisted tyranny of emperors—only now she must take on that role herself.”

  “The circlet may chafe, but she’ll be able to make changes, to break chains, to try to stem the decline of a stagnant empire.”

  Kanthe nodded. “I don’t doubt her good intentions. But it is easier to wish for such a goal, even to fight for it, but once the reins are handed to you, lofty dreams become weighted by stony reality.”

  “Like facing my brothers and the imperial council.”

  Kanthe read the worry in Rami’s face. “How will your brothers take such a claim?”

  “I cannot truly say. The Augury’s ploy may end up getting us all killed. That’s if we can even trust him? He is weighted down by secrets as much as all that bronze.”

  Kanthe slowly nodded and stared toward the wheelhouse door. Tykhan had vanished inside after Aalia finished her long missive. It had required multiple strips of parchment to lay out her case. But Kanthe doubted all the parchment in the world could truly accomplish that. Any success depended on the addled emperor and the puppeteer who pulled his strings.

  Tykhan had taken Aalia’s curled and sealed message into the wheelhouse, where he had affixed it to a skrycrow and sent it winging out a window toward Kysalimri. Afterward, Tykhan had remained inside there, leaving many questions on this side of the door.

  Behind Kanthe, Frell and Pratik debated and pondered a hundred subjects concerning the Sleeper of Malgard. For Kanthe, their chatter had faded into a drone. At one point, they had tried to pull him into their discussions, but he had waved them off. To him, it was all spent breaths and suppositions. Any true answers were locked in bronze up front.

  He preferred the patient attitude of Llyra, who picked at a fingernail with a tip of a dagger. Jester and Mead drowsed nearby. Elsewhere, the Rhysians had also given up their game of daggers and sat quietly, looking meditative.

  “How is your father doing?” Kanthe asked Rami, wincing a bit, knowing this was a sore matter for the prince.

  Rami craned back to look at the stern cabin. “When I left him, he had fallen asleep. But I should—”

  The door back there banged open. Emperor Makar burst out, wild-eyed and disheveled. From the dampness at his crotch, he had soiled himself. He rushed out with a shout of fury. He tripped over a table in his haste and sprawled headlong to a crash.

  Rami rushed toward him. “Father!”

  Makar rolled away, lifting his arms. “Who are you all? Where am I?”

  He clearly remained confused, but his words were ripe with command, firm with the authority he once wielded.