The starless crown, p.50
The Starless Crown, page 50
Still, she stared back up, picturing the great golden-boughed breadth of Oldenmast crashing across Havensfayre.
We should’ve never come here …
Finally, the rumbling and rattling settled to groans that fell farther behind them. Dust still hung in the air, but it thinned as they fled deeper. The spiral of the stairs also grew narrower, pinched as the taproot thinned around them.
Frell noted a disconcerting detail. “We’ve not passed any side tunnels since the blast.”
Jace looked back, his eyes huge, his face streaming with sweat. “That means we’re trapped down here.”
“Still,” Kanthe added, “that also means those hunters can’t reach us. If that’s any consolation?”
From Jace’s aghast expression, it was not.
After several turns of the stairs, the way grew so tight that they had to continue single file. Xan freed herself from the scouts’ help and stamped the last of the way down on her own. Finally, the stairs exited the giant root and entered a domed chamber. Overhead, an arching vein of burnished white wood cut across the roof. The rest of the room was polished black stone.
Nyx stared up. She recognized the vein of wood was actually the trailing end of Oldenmast’s taproot, the one they’d been climbing through. It dove past this chamber, as if avoiding it, and vanished back into the rock. It was as if this room was a stone lodged in a dark river.
Nyx saw why.
Across the chamber, the obstruction around which the taproot passed stood on the chamber’s far side.
Xan crossed toward it.
Nyx and the others gathered behind the elder.
Ahead of them, an oval copper door bulged into the space. Tangles of bronze and gold filaments delved outward along its edges, digging into root and stone. None of it appeared to have been crafted by any hand. It was all flowy, with no straight edges. She imagined it slithering down here and lodging in place, intent on sucking strength and sustenance from the base of the sacred tree.
To Nyx, it looked like the coppery maw of a great beast.
Or maybe a god …
Xan bowed her head before it, leaning on her staff with both hands. She began to sing to it. The chant rose low in her thin chest, as if she were trying to draw something from deep in her heart.
Nyx listened with an ear cocked. She sought the rhythm and melody, but it was unlike anything she had heard before. She took a step forward, but Aamon growled next to her, shifting in front of her, as if warning Nyx that this was not meant for her.
He’s right …
From behind her, the painted woman limped forward. She shed those who had been supporting her, revealing herself fully for the first time as she stepped into the lamplight.
Nyx fell back from the sight.
Jace tried to draw her farther away, while Frell gasped and Kanthe swore.
The Guld’guhlian stretched an arm toward her. “Shiya…”
The Klashean grasped his arm, keeping him from following.
Nyx gulped down her initial shock and studied this strange woman sculpted of metal. Her limbs moved stiffly, as if the bronze fought the intent inside.
As the figure joined Xan, she began to sing, easily finding the rhythm that had escaped Nyx. The fragility of each note awakened the sadness and grief inside her. Still, in that moment, she knew her loss was but a drop compared to the ocean within this living statue.
As the two sang toward that coppery door, shimmering threads flowed outward from the women. The strands wafted toward the door, tangling into a complicated knot, then vanished into the metal.
Without being told, Nyx understood. She remembered her confrontation with the scyther, how she had undone the lock within the helm’s steel by forging a key to open it.
It’s the same here.
A deep atonal note responded to their twined song—and the copper door swiveled on a pivot down its middle, opening like the wooden door far above.
Beyond the threshold lay only darkness.
Xan sagged, exhausted from the effort. The bronze woman—Shiya—stumbled back, only to be steadied by the Guld’guhlian, who rushed forward. The Kethra’kai, along with the man’s two companions, helped him.
Nyx drew closer to the door.
One of the scouts lifted his lamp higher, casting its shine past the threshold. A long tunnel, made of the same copper, extended into the darkness. She remembered Xan’s description of what awaited them below.
An even more ancient root, one belonging to the old gods.
Frell joined her, possibly remembering the same. The alchymist turned to Xan. “This tunnel … where does it lead?”
Still tired, Xan breathed heavily but answered. “To the Shrouds of Dalalæða.” She turned to the bronze figure. “To her home.”
FIFTEEN
THE DEATHLY STONES
Lysten with an open heart,
raþer than a deaf ear.
Sing from eyowre spirit,
raþer than with eyowre breath.
Sculpt each note with resolve,
raþer than with a simple tunge.
Onli then will eyow see the treuth,
ferre better than any eyes can ever show.
—Chant of Pethryn Tol, translation by Rys hy Layc
48
GRAYLIN CROSSED THE meadow toward the shadow cast by the Sparrowhawk. The swyftship hovered in a clearing high overhead. Farther above, mists obscured the balloon. He had offloaded with a handful of the crew earlier. He had helped them anchor the ship’s bow and stern lines to tree trunks along the meadow’s edge.
Darant had scouted out this spot when he circled the Heilsa to ambush the warship. Now they hid and were forced to wait. The crew didn’t need Graylin’s help with the ropes, but he had followed them down the same ladder that had rescued him two bells ago. He could not stand being confined in the swyftship. He longed for the empty, lonely stretches of the Rimewood, just him and his two brothers. The close quarters of the boat only squeezed his anxiety to a tighter knot. He could not escape the image of Nyx and Aamon jumping out of the back of the Sparrowhawk. Worry about their fate ate at his gut.
So, he had joined the crew on the ground, needing to move, to breathe open air, to feel the brush of grass across his legs, to listen to birdsong and the distant howls of the wild forest. Even now, he had no compunction to return to the ship—except for the disturbing blast to the northwest of their position, off by Havensfayre.
The ground had shaken from the explosion, and branches had shivered their gold leaves. He did not know what that explosion portended, but he feared the worst. He waded through the tall grasses toward the Sparrowhawk. Far above, the aft deck lay open to the sky. The lowered door formed a stout platform sticking out of the boat’s stern. He spotted Darant atop there, shading his eyes, scanning the mists. The man was also worried. Then someone called to Darant, and he disappeared inside.
Graylin reached the ship’s shadow and hurried to the ladder. He mounted its rungs and quickly scaled up to the open portside hatch. His arms and legs burned as he climbed. His skin had been cut and blistered by the strike of fiery splinters from the exploded sailraft. He had plucked out as many as he could with the help of Darant’s daughter Brayl, but he still felt wooden slivers imbedded deep. Any further digging for them would have to wait.
At the ladder’s top, he scrambled back into the ship’s hold, only to be nearly bowled over by Kalder. The vargr bounded over and slammed broadside into him, a typical pack greeting. Graylin caught the door’s edge with one hand and patted Kalder’s side with the other. The vargr chuffed, panting hard, his ears high. He knew the beast was as anxious as him. Kalder remained nervous with his brother missing and plainly did not like Graylin being gone, too. And this lengthy confinement was not helping the vargr’s unease.
To reassure his brother, Graylin let go of the hatch’s frame and grabbed Kalder’s jowls in both hands. He bent down and pressed his forehead atop his brother’s furry crown. “I’ll take you with me next time,” he promised.
Kalder bumped him back, hard enough to rock him on his heels. The message was clear: You’d better.
A shout from the top of the spiral stairs echoed across the cargo hold. A few birds in hanging cages squawked back, but the message was for him.
“Graylin! Get up ’ere,” Darant called. “You need to see this.”
Graylin did not like the pirate’s grim tone. He gave Kalder another pat and crossed the hold and took the stairs two at a time. In the passageway above, Darant waved for him to follow and marched toward the ship’s forecastle.
“What’s this about?” Graylin asked.
Darant glanced back. “You heard that blast a moment ago?”
“How could I not? Nearly put me on my arse.”
“It did more than that.”
Darant pushed into the forecastle, which was empty except for Brayl, who was on her back, checking something under her station. The only other crewmember was a grizzled, pock-faced old man, who stood beside a farscope. The instrument was not standard for a swyftship, but clearly the pirate had done some modifications to turn the Sparrowhawk into a better raider.
Darant pulled Graylin over to the old man’s side. “Hyck, show him what you showed me.”
Hyck nodded, checked through the eyepiece, fiddled with some adjustments, then stepped back. “That oughta do it.”
Darant waved for Graylin to look through the scope. “Hyck designed it.”
“That’s right, I did,” the old man said. “I may’ve had my alchymical cloak stripped off a me, but that’s their loss, I tell ya.”
Graylin bent to the eyepiece, trying to fathom what of the surrounding forest could be of interest. As he fixed his face and squinted through the lenses, he had to blink a few times to make sense of what he saw. He was not peering around or under the ship, but over the vast expanse of the mist fields. The clouds spread in a white sea.
Darant explained, “Hyck used tubing, both rubber and bronze—”
“Copper,” the man corrected, his breath smelling of rakeleaf and sour ale.
“And copper,” Darant concurred. “Plus, a complicated slew of lenses, and mirrors. The farscope’s eye can be cranked taller than the balloon, affording us a high view all around.”
Graylin barely heard this explanation, too shocked by what the farscope revealed. The white sea ran off into the distance and crashed into a dark shoal of churning smoke. At the center, a thick black column rose high into the sky, roiling and writhing in a fiery tempest.
A warship hung a league away, near the town’s mooring field.
But he ignored that threat, concentrating on the smoldering column. He knew it must mark the site of the earlier thunderous blast.
“Had to have been a Hadyss Cauldron,” Darant said, possibly noting Graylin’s shoulders drawing tighter to his ears. “I don’t imagine those bastards would’ve dropped a Cauldron without a good reason. Like maybe spotting a certain sprite of a girl.”
Graylin gripped the farscope. Fear made him lightheaded. “The others couldn’t have survived such a blast.”
“We don’t know that,” Darant said. “I’ve been to Havensfayre many a time. That place runs as deep as it stands tall. In some spots, even deeper than the reach of a Cauldron.”
Graylin stared over at him, praying the others had found one of those places. Still, he pictured the warship hovering out there. “We have to stop them.”
“Ah…” He clapped Graylin on the shoulder. “My little hawk has plenty of tricks, but it was never meant for long skirmishes. Attack and run, that’s the Sparrowhawk’s strength. We have only a few firebombs left, and our flashburn tanks are nearly empty.”
“Then what can we do?”
“Exactly what we’re doing. We wait like we planned, rather than running off with our pricks in our hands, challenging anyone with our cocky prowess. We have to trust the others will somehow break through that noose and signal us when it’s safe.”
Graylin clenched his fists and crossed his arms, crushing down the bellow building in his chest.
“Until then,” Darant continued, “we have to remain free and ready if that happens, to dive over, scoop them up, and get our arses out of here.”
“So, we wait,” he said bitterly.
“And not just for them,” Darant added, his voice rising sharply.
The pirate turned and hurried to the pair of bow windows. The shadow of a small skiff glided past the Sparrowhawk’s prow. It marked the safe return of the ship’s second sailraft. The skiff had clearly shaken loose the wolves in the mists beyond the Heilsa and had made it back to the rendezvous here.
Darant pressed both his palms against the bow glass, searching the passing sailraft. “Not a scratch on ’er,” he mumbled proudly.
As the raft lowered, its small window revealed its drover, a white-haired beauty with dark skin.
With a scowl, Brayl joined Darant at the window. “How come Glace got to wreak such mischief, and I was stuck here?”
Darant scooped Brayl to his side. “It’s only because I like her better.”
Brayl punched her father’s chest with a fist.
The pirate let his daughter go, his expression jubilant with relief. But that joy dimmed as he faced Graylin, plainly reading the misery written there.
Darant’s voice firmed with a promise. “If Marayn’s daughter is alive out there, we’ll reach her.”
Graylin stared past the man’s shoulder to the mists beyond.
That’s if she’s still alive …
* * *
DRESSED IN POLISHED light armor, Mikaen rode through the smoldering outskirts of Havensfayre. Two score of knights on horseback accompanied him, along with a battle unit of hardened Vyrllian Guards. The latter kept their steeds close to his, on order of the liege general. Mikaen resented the need for such a personal detachment, but it was the only way he could convince Haddan to let him ride out into the ruins of the town.
Still, even the liege general recognized the necessity for this sojourn.
Mikaen pictured the Tytan listing crookedly over the mooring fields. It hung like a mark of shame for all to see. The legion’s trek here had been meant in part to cast the prince of the realm, the future king of Hálendii, in a shining light. Though only an eighthyear in the Legionary, Mikaen had felt the many eyes of the knights and guards, even a few of the giant Mongers, looking upon him with far more regard, as if expecting him to pull a scepter out of his arse and wreak havoc on the kingdom’s enemies.
Instead, after he could do nothing to stop the cowardly attack upon the Tytan—confined to the forecastle the entire time—he found those same eyes now regarding him with glints of disdain.
Or maybe it’s just a reflection of my contempt for myself.
After the attack, he had done what he could to help with repairs. But hammering fresh planks over the holes blasted through the middeck did little to polish his luster.
Then the Pywll had crashed a Hadyss Cauldron into the center of town. The warship’s commander hadn’t even sent a skrycrow to Haddan asking permission to unload such a fearsome bomb. Such a dispatch was normally reserved for only the direst of circumstances. It was not to be wasted, especially as warships only had one Cauldron each. Mikaen had seen the one aboard the Tytan, strapped in the lowermost hold. The massive drum—as large as a small barn—was more iron than wood. It filled most of the space, hanging over a closed hatch that split the keel at midship.
Still, Mikaen understood why Brask, the Pywll’s commander, had unleashed his most potent weapon. Wryth had ferried over with the explanation when the warship returned to the mooring field. The commander’s brother had been killed by those below. The Shrive had also brought over word of a significant sighting—not only of the bronze weapon stolen from him, but also the possibility of a certain dark prince seen fleeing with it.
Kanthe …
If there was any doubt that his younger twin was fomenting an insurrection with a supposed half-sister, it was now dispelled.
Why else would Kanthe be here, meeting with those murderous thieves?
Upon hearing this, Haddan had ordered half of the Tytan’s forces to search the town and inspect the blast site. Mikaen demanded to go along, to be seen in his armor, saddled tall, going to confront where his traitorous brother was last seen.
Still …
Mikaen glared at the circle of vy-knights around him, ordered to protect him.
Like that’s even necessary.
Havensfayre was a dark tomb, framed by flames. A few lamps glowed through the pall of smoke, but no one was about the streets. The few townspeople spotted in the distance fled from the thunder of the knights’ horses and vanished through doors to hide behind shutters or down into dank cellars, hoping to escape the worst of the flames.
The air still burned, thick with smoke. Their party rode with damp scarves about their faces. Still, the wet cloths could not keep the stench from their noses. Throughout the streets, countless bodies lay broken, trampled, or burned. The legion rode over them and continued toward the heart of Havensfayre.
Their path followed the shattered bole of a huge alder that had crashed across a large swath of the town. Toppled on its side and buried in a nest of broken branches, it rose like a white wall to his left. As they continued along its length, flames appeared amidst the branches, scorching the white wood. When they finally reached its end, they discovered only a jagged, splintered ruin. The end smoldered and smoked, blotting out any sight ahead.
The knights at the lead vanished into that darkness.
Mikaen secured his scarf more firmly as he and his guards followed. The world vanished, and the heat grew scorching. His group followed the rumps of the horses ahead until the pall thinned enough to reveal what had blasted the giant alder.
A huge crater, twice the breadth of a tourney field, stretched ahead. It was half again as deep, all the sides burning and smoking. Mikaen gaped at the enormity of it, awed by the destructive power it represented.
