“Because, before his destruction, Eligor forbade it.” He stopped to let that sink in. “I suspect it was the madness of isolation, coupled with despair, that drove the Wastes’ Root to commit such a heinous act, to defy the dictates left behind by the Rab’almat.”

  Frell shook his head, still clearly frustrated. “But why did Eligor forbid anyone from destroying the turubya?”

  “As I said, the ta’wyn could thrive on a barren rock—but not one shattered to pieces. Destroying a turubya risked that happening. Likewise, it remains too early to know how devastating moonfall will be to the Urth. Eligor wanted the turubya preserved in case he needed to intervene should moonfall prove too risky to the planet’s fundamental structure.”

  Aalia stared hard at Tykhan, suspecting he was still hiding something. “That’s not the only reason Eligor wanted the turubya preserved, was it?” she challenged him. “It must have something to do with that third task you said we needed to accomplish.”

  Tykhan smiled. “I chose my empress well.”

  Aalia scowled. “What is it that we’re supposed to do?”

  “I mentioned before, at the end of the war, Eligor was defeated, and his broken body whisked away by a handful of Revn-kree survivors. The end of this story bears on both parties in the months ahead. Those survivors were led by Eligor’s second-in-command, an Axis like Shiya. I believe he, and possibly other Revn-kree, guard the second turubya within the Barrens. That Axis will be far more dangerous than a half-crazed Root.”

  Everyone fell silent, knowing how close they had come to defeat in the Wastes. If an Axis and a small army were entrenched in the Barrens, what hope was there for the world?

  Still, Aalia refused to bow to despair. “This tale of yours … how does it impact us in the Crown?”

  “When the Revn-kree fled with Eligor’s body, there was a piece missing, an important piece.” He stared around the table. “The head of Eligor.”

  Kanthe guessed at the implication. “And that head must be in Hálendii. That’s why you want us to invade. To find and destroy the last of him.”

  “First, it will not require much searching,” Tykhan said. “I know exactly where the head of Eligor is hidden.”

  Kanthe frowned. “Where?”

  “Deep in the Shrivenkeep. Preserved in a great instrument of the Iflelen.”

  Kanthe looked aghast. “How long have they had it?”

  “For many centuries.”

  “Then why haven’t you already stolen it?” Frell asked. “You could have destroyed it long ago.”

  “Because I don’t want it destroyed. And the Iflelen have done a masterful job of protecting and preserving it. I saw no reason to intercede until now.”

  Frell scowled. “I don’t understand. Why did you want it preserved? Why don’t you want it destroyed?”

  “The head alone is harmless. But within that bronze skull is a buried secret. One that will take the ingenuity of a kingdom and an empire to dig out.”

  “What secret?” Pratik asked.

  “When Eligor betrayed us, he stole a component that is necessary to engage and direct the turubya. While those two massive spheres will power the turning of the Urth, what he stole controls them both.”

  “That’s why he forbade the turubya from being destroyed,” Aalia realized aloud. “He wants mastery over them. A power that could rip the world apart as easily as saving it.”

  Tykhan gave her a small bow of his head. “Now you understand. For any hope of stopping moonfall, we must secure the kingdom and that head—then discover where Eligor hid what he stole.”

  “What did he actually take?” Pratik asked. “What does it look like?”

  Tykhan shrugged. “I do not know. Such knowledge is well beyond the scope of a menial Root. All I know is that it must be found. Or all is doomed.”

  Silence settled over the room. Aalia could only imagine how those in the Wastes were handling all of this.

  Tykhan lifted a palm. “I will end our communications with the others here. We each know what we must do. To extend this conversation any longer is too great of a risk.”

  After a long stretch, talk slowly resumed around the table. Aalia remained standing, staring over at Tykhan. She came to another realization and crossed over to keep her words with the Augury private.

  “You are no longer open to the others?” she asked.

  “Correct.”

  She nodded. “The party in the Wastes has an Axis. While you, as a Root, don’t have access to the knowledge we need, she might.”

  “Possibly.”

  “You taught Shiya how to silence her emanations, but she remains damaged. Is there any way to restore her?”

  “Possibly,” he repeated. “But I will not try.”

  “Why?”

  “She is useful enough in her current state to the others. Such efforts could inadvertently damage her further.”

  Aalia stared hard at him, divining that he wasn’t being entirely forthright. “There’s another reason you won’t try fixing her. What is it?”

  He closed his eyes slightly. “When the Revn-kree fled, they didn’t just hunt down Sleepers to kill them—like the one who attacked me. Sometimes, they replaced them, too. Burying poisonous seeds among the Sleepers.” He sighed. “And I fear, in Shiya’s damaged state—”

  Aalia understood. “She could be one of those poisonous seeds and not remember it.”

  Tykhan bowed his head again.

  Aalia turned to the window with a worrisome concern, thinking about Mareesh, about poisonous seeds.

  Who else might betray us?

  * * *

  FRELL HAD MUCH to contemplate as he followed Pratik through the ruins of the Abyssal Codex. Aalia had assigned Pratik to oversee the salvage of the great librarie and to manage the Dresh’ri. Such an elevation wasn’t well received, but after the last of Zeng’s supporters were rooted out and strung up in the gardens, the remaining scholars bowed to her commands.

  In small ways like this, Aalia was slowly shifting the Klashean caste structure. She dared not tear it apart too quickly or risk it fraying into chaos. Over in the lower city, during the reconstruction, she had begun to blur the lines among the baseborn castes and the imri, as they labored and organized repairs, leaning on imperial pride and a common purpose to fold in her changes.

  Even the Shayn’ra found common ground with the imperial guards. After fighting shoulder to shoulder during the attempted overthrow, the two factions had established a grudging respect for each other. And while fractious outbreaks still occurred, those were subsiding, too.

  Still, despite such progress, Frell had grown troubled of late. It was why he had returned to the librarie. Lantern in hand, he continued down into the depths of the Codex. He followed the central spiral stair, leaving Pratik working above. The stench of smoke lay heavy in his nose.

  Still, surprisingly, a large swath of the librarie had been spared. One whole level had miraculously avoided the torch, along with a few isolated islands on other levels. Plus, the Dresh’ri had their own stashes and stacks in their private quarters or scholariums. Pratik had been systematically cataloging what had survived. It served as a reminder that even in the darkest times, knowledge found a way to persist.

  Frell finally descended the last curve of the stairs and reached the bottommost level of this inverted subterranean pyramid. He held his lantern higher and crossed to the tall doors, wincing as he pushed into the inner sanctum beyond. He swore he could still hear the dreaded singing of the Venin. It had been etched into his skull. He paused at the threshold and made sure none of the mutilated creatures were hiding in the shadows.

  Once satisfied, he headed down the short flight of steps into the room.

  Pratik had already cleared out the remains of the two pyres and the bones of the man Frell had tossed into the flames, along with the sacred book. A pang of regret stabbed through him—not at the death, but at the memory of those pages turning to ash.

  Still, he took the lesson above to heart.

  While the book had been burned here, maybe its wisdom persisted elsewhere.

  I’ll keep hunting for it.

  Both to regain that knowledge and to atone for the destruction of that ancient tome.

  Frell crossed the room and stepped to the waist-high slab of stone at the back. He raised his lantern, casting its light over the wall behind it. Glowing emerald veins traced through the rock, all appearing to emanate from a drawing above the altar, sketched in soot and black oil.

  Frell stared again at the huge full moon rising on the wall. Silhouetted against it was the black beast with outstretched wings, edged by fire. He focused on its dark rider, as hunched as the beast itself. The rider’s eyes were stabs of that same vile emerald, glowing with menace.

  Frell named the rider. “The Shadow Queen.”

  He had heard the tale of what had befallen the others in the Wastes. A story of emerald fire and madness, both driven into a winged beast and a small rider.

  Is that what’s depicted here?

  A prophecy drawn on stone.

  As he stared at those baleful eyes, a fear grew stronger inside him—along with a growing doubt.

  Am I on the right side of this war?

  99

  NYX RODE BASHALIIA high across the Ameryl Sea. After the talk with the others back in the Crown, she had wanted a moment to herself. She leaned in the saddle that Daal had crafted for her. Her left shin was still in a brace, but after a month, with the winter’s solstice upon them, her leg barely pained her.

  She closed her eyes and sang to Bashaliia as he wafted into and out of the glowing mists of the Crèche. Her melody was one of her own creation. Though wordless, she started with the music of the swamps: the scissor-song of crickets, the cronking of wartoads, the pluck-crunk of sprig-frogs, the waddle-splash of mudfish, the silage-belch of bullocks. She folded in the harmony of cracking reeds, the rustling sweep of a breeze through stick-pines, the pattering of a downpour on flat water, and last, the laughs of her brothers as they poled to go fishing.

  As her song glowed of home, Bashaliia joined her, echoing her refrain in soft notes and wistful chords. It had been his home, too. She hung with him, sharing their past, warmed by each other. She let the weeks of terror fade and pushed aside what was to come.

  She drifted in this moment—until a gust of wind and a stir of mists drew her up in the saddle.

  Daal rose atop a raash’ke next to her. His hair swept his cheeks, his eyes bright. He pointed below and called to her. “Graylin! Wants us down! It’s almost time!”

  She lifted higher in her saddle and waved her acknowledgment.

  Daal led the way, drawing her back to the world, to her responsibilities. Bashaliia tracked behind him, trilling with the joy of flight. She felt the rumble of his pleasure between her thighs. Some of it carried into her.

  They had all been waiting for this day.

  Picking the winter solstice as a goal.

  As they swept down, she stared past the crown of Bashaliia’s head. Like her, he was recovering. But instead of a leg brace, he wore a helm of leather. Under it, a slather of balms and ointments was helping him heal. She and Floraan had also withdrawn the last of those dreadful copper needles.

  She repeated her promise to him.

  Never again.

  She wished the same peace for the Crèche.

  Below her, Iskar continued to recover from the raids and assaults. Over the past month, there had been too many trips to the Dreamers with inked bodies wrapped in kelp. Still, some semblance of normalcy had returned. Newcomers from other villages throughout the Crèche had been slowly trickling in, filling the voids left behind, aiding in repairs to help establish themselves here. Others came to see the raash’ke, refusing to believe the miracle until they witnessed it with their own eyes.

  For now, both the raash’ke and Pantheans remained skittish of each other. It would take time to reestablish that ancient bond, to learn to trust again.

  As Nyx circled to land near Daal’s home, she spotted Henna running through a flock of young bats, no larger than crows. They scattered from her footfalls, keening in playful delight. Then she would turn and run the other way, chased by the same flock.

  Nyx smiled at such innocent delight and suspected it was the youngest among them who would forge the strongest bond.

  If given enough time …

  Daal landed at the edge of Iskar. Nyx alighted in the sand, but she kept her distance. After all that had happened, Bashaliia remained edgy.

  Henna spotted her brother and came running up, drawing a score of tiny bats in her wake. Most of the girl’s wounds had scabbed and healed over—but not all of them. According to her mother, Henna still had nightmares and insisted on sleeping in her parents’ bed.

  As Henna rushed to her brother, her path drew too close. Nyx felt the fiery flash inside Bashaliia as he snapped at a passing bat, barely missing its wings, sending it fluttering away in a panic.

  “Bashaliia, no…”

  She ran her fingers through his ruff, down to his skin, and warmed a glow of reassurance in him, tamping down that flash of fire. It had been golden, but for a flicker, she thought she spotted a trickle of emerald. But she couldn’t be certain.

  Daal glanced at her, worried.

  “He’s fine,” she said. “He’s been through a lot.”

  His shoulders relaxed, trusting her judgement. She wished she had as much confidence in her own assessment. They dismounted and headed to Daal’s home. She drew alongside him and slipped her hand into his.

  Fire sparked, melding their fingers more closely.

  For now, that was as much touch as they allowed themselves. She remembered their kiss back at the dome, but after the tumult of their return, pulled in two different directions, they had held off from exploring more.

  He glanced at her, a slight smile shadowing his mouth. She had forgotten how, when melded, he could sense her inner self.

  He squeezed her fingers, stoking the fire between them. As he did, she felt his desire, the deepening of his breath, the flaring of his pupils, the blood-firming of his passion. But she also felt his restraint, an inner calm that defied her, a well of patience that both warmed her and slightly irritated her.

  His smile only deepened.

  She felt her cheeks heating up.

  Henna burst between them, shoving them apart. Ahead, a pair of bright firepots welcomed them home. Still, the girl’s exuberance was not about returning here and all about who awaited them.

  “Kalder, you bad boy!” she called as she ran at him.

  The vargr had stepped halfway out of the doorway, growling upon hearing their approach. Then he spotted Henna barreling toward him. His eyes got wide. He looked terrified.

  Henna leaped headlong at him, wrapping her arms around his neck and hooking her legs over his shoulders. “You get back inside, you naughty boy,” she scolded him.

  With a weary grunt, the vargr turned and carried her through the draped doorway.

  “Maybe I should make that saddle Henna wants,” Daal said.

  “I don’t think we’ll be around long enough for that,” Nyx said. She meant her words as a jest, but she saw how the sentiment wounded him.

  With their mood slightly soured, they pushed through the drape and into the warm room. Chatter and arguing greeted them. Fenn, Jace, and Krysh stood by the cupboard, where maps and charts were pinned to its doors. All three were in a heated discussion.

  By the table, Graylin smoked a pipe with Meryk, the two of them waiting for some consensus to be reached.

  Graylin nodded to Nyx, giving her a look up and down, making sure she hadn’t broken anything else while out of his sight.

  Kalder carried Henna over to where a sweetcake was warming on a tray. She unlatched from him and went for a taste, unable to resist. It did smell good. Kalder sighed and returned to Graylin. The vargr must have known the temptation of the cake was going to be the only way to get Henna to let go.

  “Did they come to any decision?” Daal asked, waving to the trio.

  Nyx crossed to the cupboard. She stared at the various routes mapped on the charts. All of them headed deeper into the Wastes, crossing through it to reach the far side of the Crown. They had all decided not to head back the way they had come. With a war growing over there, the safer path was to swing the other way, avoiding Hálendii and the Klashe entirely.

  Still, there were several ways to reach the Barrens—and Frell, Jace, and Krysh had settled on different choices.

  “You have to pick one,” Nyx warned. “At least for now. We can always shift, depending on whatever we discover.”

  “True.” Krysh placed a hand on Jace’s shoulder. “As we’re at an impasse, I throw my support to this young man’s route.”

  Jace turned to Fenn. “That’s two to your one.”

  “As a ship’s navigator, my vote should count as two, maybe three.”

  Jace and Krysh frowned at him.

  Fenn finally waved dismissively. “I’ll concede. For now. We’ll have to see how the prevailing winds blow once we’re aloft.”

  “Show me which one,” Nyx said.

  Jace waved her closer. She shifted next to him, studying him sidelong as she did. He seemed his normal self, as jovial and obsessively focused as always. Still, she couldn’t escape that cold emptiness she had felt inside of him. It had been too strange to fully dismiss.

  “Here. This one,” Jace said, drawing her attention back to the map. He ran a finger through the Wastes and across the Crown to a flagged site deep in the Barrens. “To me, with the direction of winds and expected spring storms, this course makes the most sense.”

  She nodded, but Fenn stood with his arms crossed. He was staring at the marked path through the Crown. She squinted closer and noted it passed over Bhestya, where Fenn hailed from. He had always been reticent to talk about his past. She wondered if this might be the reason he had argued against this route.

  Still, she didn’t question it, fearing it might restart the arguments.

  As she turned to the table, she noted the wounded look on Daal’s face as he stared toward Fenn. The navigator had long forgiven him, but Daal hadn’t been able to forgive himself. She knew Daal remained unnerved by his loss of control, how it had nearly killed Fenn. She understood that fear, remembering the feeling of exultant power as she destroyed the Hálendiian barge—and the madness that followed. For her, it had been too easy to free that rage.