The Cradle of Ice, page 73
part #2 of Moonfall Series
But not for Daal.
She knew better, even if he didn’t. She crossed to him and brushed a stray strand from his cheek, leaving a trail of fire across his skin, as if trying to burn that fear out of him.
It didn’t belong there.
She wondered if the Dreamers had chosen Daal for more than just the gift of bridle-song in his Noorish blood. Had they also been drawn to his kindheartedness, his calm spirit, his steady compassion? She could still picture Daal burning in the flame of a lighthouse, guiding her out of madness, willing to sacrifice himself.
Down deep, she sensed the truth in this moment.
It shone in his eyes.
The Oshkapeers had forged more than a font of power for her. They had granted her a far greater gift.
The anchor I will need in the days ahead.
* * *
GRAYLIN STAMPED OUT his pipe and stood. “We should all be headed to the plaza. Darant and the others will be disappointed if we aren’t there.”
Meryk rose with him. “He’s right. Floraan should already be waiting for us at the stands.”
Graylin got everyone moving, even Kalder. The vargr deserved this as much as anyone. Graylin guided them out to the street.
Once there, Meryk cursed and ducked back inside. He returned a moment later, struggling to fit a circlet of white stone, adorned with gems, atop his head.
During the battle of Iskar, Rhaif had stumbled upon the Reef Farer’s circlet. He had clearly planned on keeping the valuable crown—until the village had chosen Meryk as Berent’s successor. Only then did Rhaif relinquish his treasure, happy to hand it off to a far worthier Panthean.
Daal smiled and helped his father get the circlet seated securely. “Looks good on you. Like it was always meant to be there.”
Meryk pulled his son into a hug that looked capable of breaking ribs, as if trying to squeeze all the embraces a father would miss into this one hold.
Daal finally broke free, wiping at the corners of his eyes. “Gotta go, right?”
Meryk cleared his throat and waved them ahead, not ready to speak quite yet.
They continued across the village, joining the flow of others heading toward the plaza. As they walked, Meryk hooked his arm around his son, still wanting to keep him close, at least for as long as possible.
Daal cast his father an apologetic look.
“It’s all right, son,” Meryk said. “They’re going to need you. We’ll be here when you get back.”
Graylin stared at the tension in the man’s shoulders. His words were light, but the strain to say them was clear.
A month ago, Graylin had explained all to Meryk and Floraan. Graylin could not do otherwise, not when they were stripping Daal from their sides. They had been terrified at learning the truth about moonfall. Still, they had understood the threat and the necessity of their group’s task. They had also recognized what would happen if the world started turning. It would mean the end of the Crèche.
Graylin had promised to try to send ships if they were successful, to evacuate the Crèche. But no one truly believed him, least of all himself.
It was Floraan who spoke the simplest truth as she touched Graylin’s arm. No one knows their end. The future remains a mystery until it’s written. We’ll live as if we have endless days ahead of us—and none. What else can any of us do?
Graylin and the others finally reached the plaza and crossed through the throngs—made all the easier with a vargr in tow. They climbed the new dais to join Floraan. Daal’s mother hugged her son with as much verve and a touch more composure. Women were always tougher than men when it came to matters of expediency and necessity.
They all crossed to rows of seats facing the sea. There was no longer any throne atop the dais, not even for the new Reef Farer. The docks were still being repaired, but headway was significant.
Graylin hoped Darant and his crew proved as resourceful at repairing their ship. The pirate had a long list of overhauls, restorations, modifications, and patch-ups. All to make them ready for a journey across the scorched lands—which included outfitting Shiya’s cooling units. She was aboard right now with Rhaif, finishing final adjustments. Thankfully, Darant had a few extra hands, both Noorish and Panthean, several of whom had agreed to travel with them, refilling their depleted crew.
Besides the extra men, Daal had also handpicked and trained five raash’ke, who would be coming with them. Graylin had wanted to bring more bats, but the limits of their food larder had to be considered, especially not knowing if there were any martoks or other beasts to keep the predators fed.
No one wanted a flock of ravenous raash’ke aboard with them.
A murmur rose behind him, respectful and slightly awed.
Graylin turned around and stiffened. Two old Panthean women moved across the dais, walking slowly with canes, one more decrepit than the other. They were dressed in matching gray shifts. Beyond their great age, they looked so much like Ularia that it was uncanny.
Meryk noted his attention, his voice growing reverent. “Nys Playa and Nys Regina,” he whispered. “The last of the Nyssians. I can’t believe they traveled so far for this ceremony.”
He and Floraan greeted them and offered them their own seats. The pair accepted them graciously, ending up on either side of Graylin. One looked to be in her eighties and the other well into her nineties, if not beyond.
Graylin nodded to them respectfully, but they must have noted his misgivings and divined the source.
The younger of the two, Nys Playa, patted his knee. “Do not judge our sister Ularia too harshly. She was under much pressure.” She offered an amused glint to her eyes. “As you might imagine, we’re too old to bear children.”
Graylin mumbled that this discussion wasn’t necessary.
Nys Playa ignored him and continued, “Desperation makes one hard and mean. As the last of us who could bear children, Ularia was weighted by the history of the Crèche, the responsibility of passing on our heritage. She saw in you hope—and terror.”
Graylin turned to the woman, not understanding. “What do you mean?”
“We Nyssians know when someone with the proper seed is at hand. It is a gift from the Oshkapeers. As you can tell, we are little different in appearance. So it has been since the first of us. The daughters we birth are simply the rebirth of ourselves. We are little changed. Born with the memories of those before us. So it has always been.”
Graylin stared between the two women.
“The men we choose to spark our next generations do not give our lineage more than the barest snippet of themselves, bits that might enhance us, but not truly change us. As you might imagine, it is a rarity. But in you, Ularia saw aspects that could nurture our lineage.”
“Me?”
“It’s what frightened and angered her. Pantheans sadly consider the Noorish to be unworthy, so for her to be stirred toward you—” She shrugged. “It distressed her.”
Graylin remembered meeting Ularia atop the dais. She had seemed strangely taken by him. He had attributed it to him being new to the Crèche.
The older of the two, Nys Regina, nudged Graylin with her cane. “Ularia was young. But even my bleary eyes can see you are special. There is more to you than just a stout heart.” She lifted her cane enough to point a few rows ahead. “One only has to look at your daughter to know this is true.”
“I don’t know if Nyx is truly my—”
Regina stared hard at him, her eyes bottomless and ancient, revealing one woman going back ages. “She is your daughter, young man. The Dreamers granted us the ability to see the seeds, roots, and branches of a tree. Even yours.” The old woman dismissed him with a wave of her cane. “No wonder Ularia was so confounded by you—someone so blind and foolish that he can’t see his own daughter standing before him.”
Graylin sank back straighter in his seat. He watched Nyx whisper to Daal, her smile bright, so much like her mother’s.
If these two were right, Nyx was not just Marayn’s daughter.
She’s also mine.
* * *
NYX SAT ON the edge of her chair with Daal on one side and Henna on the other. Kalder lay at Nyx’s feet, but Henna had a firm grip on the vargr’s ear, as if refusing to let him go.
Around them, the crowd in the plaza anxiously awaited the appearance of Darant and his repaired ship. The entire village had helped this miracle happen in time for the winter’s solstice. So, they all wanted to be here to share in the success, especially after so much misery and death.
Nyx stared across the sea as it glowed with the reflection of the mists overhead. Raash’ke plied the skies and skimmed the waves, scribing ripples with their wingtips over the waters.
She hummed under her breath. It was the melody she had shared with Bashaliia, a memory of home distilled into song. She reached to Daal and took his hand. As his fire melted them together, she shared it with him, to let him feel the longing and grief for a home lost, maybe forever.
She wanted him to know she understood the sacrifice he was about to make. He might never see the Crèche again. She turned to him, to let him know he could stay, that he had done enough.
He smiled, his eyes shining with the grief in her song. Still, he gripped her fingers. Not to share his fire, but to simply let her know how he would survive it, how she would.
Together.
Horns blew loudly, breaking the bittersweet spell between them. They turned to the seas but still held tight to one another.
A murmur spread through the crowd, then settled to an expectant silence.
Horns blared again, louder now, closer.
People stood, staring off into the fog ahead. The glow of firepots appeared first, accompanied by more horns. Drums began to pound on the shoreline, welcoming and guiding the ship home.
Through the mists, a prow pushed into view, lit from behind. The crowd cheered as the draft-iron sculpture of a dragon reared into view, reflecting the flames of the village, its wings spread wide.
Another round of horns drove the colossal ship into view, forges flaming from its sides and stern. It was Rega sy Noor’s ancient ship, reborn again to forge the skies.
Upon returning to the Crèche, the Sparrowhawk had been deemed to be too damaged, and another ship lay waiting for them, preserved in ice. Parts of their former ship had been salvaged to patch this older one, including installing the Hawk’s maesterwheel at the helm, where it belonged, ready to guide them forward again.
Nyx found the Noorish ship’s name to be especially fitting for this next leg of their journey, a trek into the scorched and sunblasted Barrens.
The Fyredragon.
100
WRYTH STOOD ONCE again in the shadows of the castle’s tourney yard, as yet another celebration was underway for Prince Mikaen. Only, on this night of the winter solstice, the prince carried a new title: Highking Mikaen ry Massif, the Crown’d Lord of Hálendii, rightful ruler of all the kingdom and its territories.
Mikaen had been coronated earlier in the day, but the night’s festivities had drawn him to the royal balcony overlooking the bonfires, the waving banners, the milling celebrants. He was expected to give a speech, his first as the crowned ruler.
Finally, a trumpet sounded, and Mikaen crossed to the balcony rail. He waited for the cheering and horns to fall silent. He was dressed resplendently in velvet and fur. The jewels of his crown sparked in the firelight—as did his silver mask, now adorned with a single tear inscribed there in honor of his murdered father.
When Mikaen reached the balcony rail, he shrugged back his velvet cape to reveal his children, one under each arm. He smiled broadly and for once sincerely. The love he had for his son and daughter was as authentic as that silver tear was false. He hiked the two babes higher to renewed cheers. His name was chanted for a quarter-bell.
Mikaen waited for it to end, then spoke in a booming voice. “See my shining daughter and bright son! They were born on the morning after my father died! As if the Father Above knew Hálendii had been unjustly aggrieved and blessed our lands with new life.”
Wryth scowled, but he still appreciated the sham drama of it all.
He suspected it was Mikaen’s love for his children that had ultimately spurred the murder of his father. After the Hyperium had returned, Toranth had raged at those in charge, but his animus had fallen heavily upon his son, especially upon learning what had befallen Prince Kanthe. In a fit of rage, the king had blustered that he might yet seek a new queen to bear him a new son, one more deserving of the throne. Those last words, spoken out of anger, likely drove that sword down his throat.
Up on the balcony, Mikaen passed his daughter back to Myella, the new queen consort. He faced the crowd and lifted his son high. The babe squalled loudly. Mikaen gazed up with fatherly pride.
“Hear his cry, my legions! Hear him herald the dawn to come. With the light of the new day, a new era will be born as surely as my son.” His voice boomed louder. “It will be a New Dawn! And I will be the New Sun, to bring Hálendii to greater glory!”
The crowd roared again.
Wryth could stand it no longer and turned into the shadows. He knew the coming daybreak wouldn’t herald a New Dawn—but a Dark Age.
And it was already starting.
Before leaving, Wryth had spied the captain of the Silvergard sharing the royal balcony, ever at Mikaen’s side. Only now Thoryn wore the laurels of a liege general on his breastplate. His predecessor, Reddak, currently hung outside the Legionary, unidentifiable now, ravaged by crows and flies.
Many others had met similar ends as Mikaen systematically cleared the palace. Toranth’s chamberlain, Mallock, was found drowned in his own chamber pot. Provost Balyn had been trampled by horses. The mayor of Azantiia had been skewered from arse to mouth and found floating in a sewage bilge. Treasurer Hesst had been spared the purge, likely because the man knew where all the gold was hidden. And in times of war, such men were worth their weight in the same coinage.
Wryth had also survived, strangely enough due to Prince Kanthe. Wryth had heard what had happened aboard the Hyperium. Mikaen was convinced his brother had somehow bewitched one of his crimson-faced Silvergard into aiding his escape. It sounded outlandish, but Wryth knew better than to discourage this belief. As with Treasurer Hesst, Wryth only lived because Mikaen believed he and his fellow Iflelen could be useful, especially when it came to thwarting daemonic witchery.
Still, Wryth remained intrigued by what had happened aboard the Hyperium, wondering what had truly transpired. But it had been a long night, and such mysteries could wait until the morning.
As he headed down into the Shrivenkeep, he pondered ways to turn this to his advantage. Distracted by such thoughts—and still dwelling on the catastrophe from a month ago—Wryth found himself standing before the sanctum of the Iflelen. He touched the sigil inscribed on its ebonwood door: the horn’d snaken of Lord Đreyk. He could not shake the sense of defeat, both above his head and down here.
As he stood there, he heard a mumbling voice from inside, sounding worried and frustrated.
Now what?
With a tired grimace, Wryth pushed inside to find the young acolyte Phenic fussing over a bloodbaerne again. At least this time the child was not struggling to wake. The opposite was true. The boy in front of Phenic lay dead in his cradle, his small features sunken and drained.
“Why haven’t you already replaced this one?” Wryth scolded, irritated at yet another problem.
“I … I did … I mean…” Phenic stammered to explain. “This boy … I consecrated him into his cradle about midday.”
“Preposterous. One this young should have lasted three days, maybe four. You must have done something wrong.”
“I swear I didn’t. And it’s not just this boy.” He pointed to the far side. “Another girl was consecrated yesterday, and she is already empty. And I didn’t perform her rite.”
Wryth waved him back. “Stay here and get this boy removed. I’ll go check on the girl.”
He headed across the obsidian chamber, intending to pass through the great instrument to reach the far side. As he neared its heart, a pain stabbed into his right eye, a reminder of the crystal globe’s blast—and his failure.
He stopped to adjust his eye patch.
This was the first time he had returned to this spot, having little reason to do so before now. He glanced around. The debris had been cleared out and the blood scrubbed away. Even the globe’s pedestal had been carted off.
He stared where it had been, unsure if they could ever re-create the globe again. The design had been Skerren’s, and from his frantic last message and the explosion, the man was assuredly dead. Especially as Wryth could still hear that distant scream of fury that had seemed to shatter the crystal. He frowned, remembering Skerren’s last message.
He whispered it to the quiet room. “She is the Vyk dyre Rha! She has risen.”
As he finished those words, he noticed the room had gone too quiet. All the bloodbaernes had stopped their thumping, not just the two that Phenic had noted.
In the silence, a whisper reached him. “She must be stopped.”
Wryth cringed and stumbled back, striking his shoulder against a corner of the great instrument. Before him, the bronze bust glowed brightly, stirring with energy. He remembered it doing so a month ago, too—after the globe had shattered, as if the blast had transferred power to it.
Only now it shone even more brilliantly.
The bust’s mouth moved faintly. “Must be stopped…”
Wryth took a step closer, balancing between horror and wonder. “Who … who are you?”
Bronze lips formed a name. “Kryst Eligor.”
Wryth leaned closer—then those bronze eyelids snapped open, shining forth with a brilliant azure fire, like two brilliant suns blazing with infernal energies.
