Jace, standing nearby, looked duly aghast at this line of inquiry, but the young man also turned to Pratik for an answer.

  Pratik simply glanced over at them and lifted one brow, showing not a lick of offense. “How can one miss what one mostly never had? Certainly never used.”

  Kanthe considered this assessment. He had to admit that he had seldom used his own.

  “Still,” Pratik continued, “you should know there are other ways to give and derive pleasure.”

  Kanthe sat straighter. “Truly? Tell me more.”

  Pratik started to answer, when Llyra stalked over to them from where she had been standing near Seyrl, the Kethra’kai scout.

  “Enough of this feckin’ banter. You can learn how to diddle yourself later.” She pointed to the cliffs. “It’s been long enough. What’re you all waiting for?”

  Kanthe scowled at her, but he didn’t need any further prodding. He grabbed his bow and one of the arrows. “Jace, light a taper with the flame in Seyrl’s lamp.”

  The journeyman was prepared for this order, already holding a length of waxed stick in his hand.

  As Jace set flame to taper, Kanthe shifted in front of everyone. He nocked his arrow with the leathery egg hanging from its tip, the fuse dangling below. He angled his bow high, trying to account for the additional weight.

  “Light it and step back,” Kanthe warned. “Don’t know if this will end up exploding in my face.”

  Jace squinted at the fuse, then set the taper’s flame to it. As soon as the fuse started sparking, he danced away.

  Kanthe pulled the bowstring a bit farther.

  No reason to be judicious.

  With a twanging snap, he let the arrow fly. The bolt shot high, sailing through the air and vanishing into the mists. He held his breath. All eyes stared up. They waited, but nothing happened.

  Jace kept staring but called over, “Did it work?”

  Kanthe shrugged. “Impossible to say. As thick as those mists are up there, the signal could have burst like a firecone at a Midsummer festival, and we’d still never know.”

  He turned and grabbed a second arrow. He quickly repeated his effort, only he pulled the bowstring half as taut. With the fuse snapping brightly, he fired again. The arrow sped high, slowing at the top of its arc just under the cloud layer—then exploded with a muffled pop.

  A huge ball of bluish smoke burst under the mists, hung there for several breaths, then spread out under the clouds.

  “That certainly worked.” Kanthe looked around for praise, but he found only worried expressions.

  He understood.

  He glanced back at the misty forest.

  Is anyone even out there to appreciate my fine efforts?

  He could only hope the right eyes saw it.

  And only them.

  “We’ll try again in another bell,” he said.

  “Until then,” Llyra warned, pointing at the cliff home, “we should get out of sight.”

  It was a wise precaution.

  Kanthe gathered his arrows and took his bow. The group trudged toward the shadowy abodes. He studied the slit-like windows and narrow entrances that lacked doors. It wasn’t the most fortified of homes, but from the archways into the cliffs, it must dig deeper.

  He didn’t know how long they would have to wait here, but he intended to put the time to good use. He turned to Pratik. “So, tell me, what are those other ways to pleasure a woman?”

  * * *

  GRAYLIN WOKE, STARTLED by a loud pounding on his cabin door. He shoved up quickly, surprised he had fallen asleep. He’d only planned to stretch his aching body out for a bit.

  Kalder growled from beside the bed, rolling to his paws, hackles shivering.

  Graylin placed a calming hand on the vargr’s flank. “It’s all right, brother.” He called out louder, “What is it?”

  “If you’re done napping, old man,” Darant answered, “get your arse to the forecastle.”

  Graylin heard the excitement in the pirate’s voice. He climbed from the cot with a groan and a stab of pain in his back. He limped the few steps across the cabin, stiff even after his brief drowsing. He opened the door, found the passageway empty, and headed toward the ship’s bow.

  Kalder followed, his hackles still up.

  Graylin felt the same way. As he headed toward the forecastle, his body warmed away some of the pain, but his heart pounded. What had happened? Why had Darant roused him?

  He pushed into the swyftship’s small forecastle. Darant stood next to Hyck. The old man was staring through the farscope’s eyepiece.

  “Come see this,” Darant said, and elbowed Hyck out of the way.

  Graylin took the man’s place. Through the eyepiece, he again found himself gazing across the tops of clouds, but the view was no longer focused on the smoky maelstrom above Havensfayre. Instead, off in the distance, a line of sunlit black cliffs divided the sky, with mists below and darker clouds masking its heights.

  “What am I looking at?” he asked.

  “The ramparts of the Shrouds,” Darant said. “But squint dead center, at the mists under the cliffs.”

  Graylin concentrated there. It took him a few breaths to spot a smoky blemish, like a layer of thick dust on a white marble sill. A slight pall hung over it.

  He tightened his grip and spoke without looking away. “That can’t be the signal we’ve been waiting for, is it?”

  “Could be,” Hyck answered. “All day long, I’ve been watching that dark boil churning over Havensfayre. Looking for some puff of blue smoke. Then a bit ago, something else caught my eye in the other direction. A flash of brightness moving up those cliffs.”

  “What was it?” Graylin asked.

  “Don’t rightly know. By the time I swung my scope that way, it were gone. Still, ever since then, I kept half an eye looking that way. Lucky I did, cuz then boom, a gust of blue smoke blew from over there. Called Darant right off, I did.”

  Graylin straightened and glanced at the two men. “Could it just be a burst of woodsmoke from a campfire?”

  Darant shook his head. “Too blue for that, I’d say.”

  Graylin crinkled his brow. He stared out the bow windows toward where he knew Havensfayre burned. “If it’s Nyx and the others, how did they get all the way to those cliffs? Why did they even go there?”

  “Don’t know,” Darant said. “But there’s only one way to find out.”

  Graylin clenched a fist, his heart hammering. He wanted to burn straight over there, but … “What if it’s a trap? Maybe one or more of the others were captured, tortured into revealing how to signal us. This could be a ruse to lure us out of hiding.”

  “I considered the same,” Darant said. “It’s why I woke your old arse before blazing up our forges.”

  He turned to Darant.

  “Get us over there.”

  * * *

  IN THE FORECASTLE of the Tytan, Mikaen stalked back and forth behind Haddan. The liege general glowered over a crewmember who manned the starboard farscope.

  “What’s your assessment?” Haddan demanded of the navigator.

  Mikaen waited, drumming fingers on his thigh. He had just returned to the warship. He stank of smoke and horse sweat. His eyes continued to burn, and his nostrils felt packed with soot. Still, he was desperate to get back out to Havensfayre, to continue the search of the town. The legion had been rooting out homes and cellars, rousting townspeople, questioning all, trying to discern who else might be involved with an insurrection against the king. Others in Havensfayre must know of Kanthe’s plot. His brother would not have come to this remote town without allies already in place, especially as Kanthe had somehow also acquired Wryth’s weapon.

  Mikaen was certain others were involved.

  Kanthe is too dull-witted to concoct this on his own.

  Mikaen was also anxious to return for a reason that had nothing to do with rooting out his brother’s allies. Back in Havensfayre, he had enjoyed watching the townspeople cower before them. Their screams, protests, and prostrations stirred him hard. His own gauntlet was bloody from beating those who had balked or denied knowledge. He had watched enviously as women were dragged into shadows.

  He longed to rejoin the others, to vent his frustration and enjoy every dark thrill due a conqueror. He had only returned to the Tytan to draw a fresh horse. His own steed had started to stumble, sick from the smoke, lungs surely caked. It didn’t suit for the prince of the realm to be seen riding atop a doddering horse.

  Only once back at the warship, Haddan had summoned him here.

  All because of some wisp of smoke spotted off in the distance.

  The navigator finally turned from his scope. “The tint is too blue. I’m sure of it. That is no trail of a campfire.”

  “So, a signal then,” Haddan said.

  Mikaen stopped pacing. His eyes narrowed.

  What was this?

  “Aye, General.” The navigator straightened under Haddan’s exacting gaze. “But I cannot offer any guidance as to why it was cast, or who it was meant for. It could simply be hunters alerting one another.”

  Haddan stepped toward the vast curve of bow windows and stared toward the cliffs that marked the Shrouds of Dalalæða. The general rubbed the stubble over his scarred chin.

  Mikaen joined him. “Maybe it’s more of my brother’s plotters. They could be trying to signal others in Havensfayre. To rally those loyal to Kanthe to gather there.”

  Haddan huffed through his nose. He glanced sidelong at the sooty state of Mikaen’s armor, lingering a moment on the blood staining his gauntlet’s knuckles. Then he faced Mikaen. “You could be right.”

  Mikaen drew his shoulders back.

  “I’ll send a hunterskiff to investigate.” Haddan began to turn away.

  Mikaen reached to his arm, but then withdrew his hand when the general glowered at such an affront. He quickly stepped back, snapping his legs and back straight. “Let me go with the skiff.”

  Haddan looked ready to dismiss such a thought.

  “A hunterskiff can hold a score of men, even a Monger or two. Give me your best knights, those who idle wastefully here. We’ll flush out those plotters by the cliffs and put them to the question.”

  “They might just be hunters, like Navigator Pryce has stated.”

  “Still, we should know for sure.” Mikaen swept a hand across his ash-stained armor. “A prince of the realm should shine brighter than this. He should be seen rooting through every shadow for those disloyal to the king.”

  Haddan glanced again to the blood on Mikaen’s gauntlet. “And perhaps a prince of the realm shouldn’t be seen beating those loyal to the crown. At least not in front of a century of knights.”

  Mikaen’s face heated at his words, at the accusation behind them, but he knew better than to deny them, to put a lie to what they both knew to be the truth.

  Haddan stared hard at him. “Do not put yourself at needless risk. I’m placing great trust in your judgement. I will assign you the captain of Tytan’s Vyrllian Guard. You will heed his every word. Is that understood?”

  Mikaen struck his steel heels together. “Aye, General.”

  Fearing Haddan might reconsider, Mikaen quickly turned and headed off. He forced himself not to run. He hoped he had enough time to polish his armor before the hunterskiff sailed to the cliffs. He intended to shine his brightest.

  As he left the forecastle, he smiled and rubbed at the cake of blood on a knuckle—not to clean it, but only to create room for more.

  52

  RHAIF CROSSED THE bone field toward the fringe of jungle. He winced at every crack and snap underfoot. Shiya led the way, an unstoppable force. Still, she had already begun to dim under the threatening clouds, her bronze darkening to a leaden sheen. As she walked, her heavy feet crushed bones to dust.

  He cringed as a small skull suffered that same fate.

  Shiya never looked down.

  He shuddered, remembering the claim Xan had shared with Pratik, that Shiya’s bronze form was possessed by the unsettled spirit of an old god, those callous and cruel beings from the Forsaken Ages.

  Ahead, Xan flanked one side of Shiya, along with a scout. Another tribeswoman took up the other side. As they reached the jungle, the Kethra’kai picked out a path barely discernible in the darkness. They slipped through leaves and under a drape of thorny vine—that slithered away with a hiss as Rhaif tried to duck beneath it.

  Aghast, he stumbled ahead.

  Behind him, Frell and Nyx followed, stepping gingerly, their gazes sweeping warily all around. Aamon kept close to the girl’s thigh, his tufted ears pricked so high they looked ready to fly off of his furry head.

  After only steps into the dripping forest, the path behind them vanished. The group drew closer. Ahead, Xan began to sing. There was no brightness to her melody. It was more a dirge, which matched this jungle’s dark temperament.

  The other Kethra’kai found her rhythm and matched it, raising their voices with hers. As they continued, the forest seemed to scream, buzz, howl, and croak in tune with that song. Even the weeping drips added a drumlike tympani to their chorus.

  Rhaif did not complain.

  The wafting of their song seemed to drive creatures from their path. A bush to his right burst apart, each leaf revealing itself to be winged pests that spun menacingly through the air. More of the thorny vipers slithered away. A pack of furry damp beasts shot through the canopy overhead, using curved claws and strangling tails. They yowled down at them, baring rows of needle teeth from purplish leathery faces.

  “Mandrayks,” Frell whispered as they passed. “I thought them all dead from this world.”

  Rhaif, for one, would not mourn their passing.

  A huge log, as high as his waist, blocked their path, frothy with glowing mushrooms and sprouting saplings. Once they drew nearer, its length bowed up, sprouting thick scaled legs, and sauntered off into the jungle.

  Rhaif glanced back at Frell to see if he recognized the creature.

  The alchymist only shrugged, his eyes wide and unblinking.

  As they continued, the forest grew higher. The drips became a steady rain. The clouds darkened. The ground underfoot grew muddier. Only a thick layer of moldering leaves kept them from miring into the muck. Still, it felt like wading over a rotted corpse, one that threatened to give way under them at any moment.

  The only heartening bit was that they’d left the bones behind. Though Rhaif imagined that was only because so few people had made it this far before succumbing to this place.

  The Kethra’kai continued their chanting to the woods. Even Shiya had begun to add her voice, though to his ears there was a sad longing in her wordless strain.

  One singer, though, remained conspicuously absent from this chorus. Fear had surely drowned any music in her heart.

  “Look,” Nyx whispered to Frell.

  She pointed to a forest of ghostly stone pillars that appeared ahead, spreading to either side of the path, disappearing into the shadows. Rhaif imagined them continuing all around this summit in a big ring.

  Rather than quarried out of the black rock of this escarpment, the pillars were made of a bone-white stone. Figures and faces had been carved into their surfaces. Men and women, all writhing in agony. Stark faces screamed at them, as if warning them away. The sight alone left Rhaif shivering. His feet dragged slower.

  What are we doing here?

  It was as if this entire summit had been designed by a god who sought to keep people away by any means. Flora, fauna, weather, and now rock. With every step gained, this landscape pushed harder against them.

  Maybe we should heed such a warning.

  “Do not slow,” Xan called back, her command flowing with her song. “There is worse yet ahead.”

  Rhaif wanted to balk.

  Worse?

  “Everyone will need to use their voices,” Xan intoned to them. “When I tell you, sing. Or hum, if that’s all you can do.”

  With that dire portent and feeble instruction, she led them past the pillars and into the deeper forest. They continued for a long stretch, the jungle weeping atop them. Somewhere distant, light flashed through the darkness, briefly illuminating the underside of the dark clouds. No thunder followed, which only set his teeth further on edge.

  A brittle crackling underfoot drew his attention back down. A knobbed femur poked out of the muck. Rhaif stumbled away, only to crunch through more bones.

  Not again …

  He nearly twisted an ankle as his muddy boot slid off the crown of a yellowed skull, white teeth grinning out of the bone.

  The group slogged through this new graveyard and reached a narrow clearing that cut across their path in a wide arc. The dark skies glowered down at them. The ground ahead was tangled with bones.

  Rhaif breathed heavily, his heart pounding, his vision narrowing in terror.

  I’m not crossing that cadaverous river.

  Even the Kethra’kai slowed, but Xan urged them onward. “Sing now. And do not stop moving.”

  Rhaif had never felt less like singing. His mouth was stuffed with the roughest cotton. He could not catch his breath. Still, he was pushed forward by Frell and Nyx. Nyx meekly added her voice to the continuing choir. Even Aamon growled louder, as if trying to do the same.

  Herded forward to that bony clearing, Rhaif had no choice but to stumble onward.

  Frell coughed and started humming. It was tuneless, with a pitch that could never settle. Still, the alchymist’s poor effort encouraged Rhaif to try to do better. He took a deep breath, held it, and let loose a noise stuttering between a wheeze and a whistle. He sought to steady it but failed.

  Still, the effort distracted him enough to keep moving.

  Halfway across, a skim of mud flowed out of the jungle to either side. It flooded over the bones and coursed toward them. He tried to hurry, fearful of getting mired down. Their group fought faster across the treacherous bone field.