Had it been possible, the boy would have seen his faceless master smile. “Well done,” the mystery man said. “Now apply that answer to nature’s entirety, rather than just the two animals you watched struggling to kill each other.”
As the boy thought, long moments passed. “Only the strong survive,” he said, praying that he had finally been right.
“Yes,” the master answered. “You have grasped it. It is a lesson that you must always remember.” But this time the master’s words sounded strangely hollow, as though they were coming from far away.
“Only the strong survive,” he repeated, his voice echoing strangely through the room. “Only the strong survive…only the strong survive…only the strong…”
His face and naked body covered with sweat, Vespasian Augustus bolted upright in his bed. Instinctively grabbing the jeweled dagger lying on his nightstand, he launched from the bed and charged toward the far corner of the room. As his naked skin touched the balcony draperies he cried out, as if the harmless cloth were trying to entangle him and kill him. Although still asleep, his eyes were wide open. In a manic haze he slashed at the draperies like a madman.
Persephone leapt from the bed to stare at her enraged husband. His recent dreams had been terrifying, but nothing like this had happened to him before. An accomplished sorceress, she correctly guessed that he needed to be awakened before he hurt her or himself. But given the great strength of Vespasian’s blood, she hesitated.
Screaming again, Vespasian caught Persephone’s shadowy form out of the corner of one eye. Believing that she was the threat he so feared, he raised his dagger and charged at her. Realizing that she had no choice, Persephone sent a weak azure bolt directly toward the emperor.
Her bolt struck Vespasian squarely in the chest, lifting him off his feet and sending him crashing to the floor some three meters away. Hoping against hope, she immediately ran to him.
Vespasian’s chest was singed, but he looked otherwise unharmed. The sudden pain had broken his terrifying reverie and fully awakened him. With a groan, he dropped the dagger to the floor. Desperate with worry, Persephone kneeled and took her husband in her arms.
For several moments she lovingly cradled her stricken husband. Then the silence was shattered as royal bodyguards started pounding on the bedroom door. Persephone cleverly used her nightgown train to cover Vespasian’s chest burns.
“Be still, my love,” she whispered. “I will protect your secret.”
She looked up to see that the magnificent oak door was starting to give way and soon it would surrender altogether. It would do no good to try and call the legionnaires off, for the disturbing noises coming from the bedroom had been too great to explain away.
In a hail of shattered wood and sprung crossbraces, the door finally gave way. Their swords drawn, two legionnaires charged into the room.
“Is everything all right, my lady?” one of them shouted as he looked around warily. After Persephone told him that Vespasian was unharmed, he turned to see the ripped draperies. Then his eyes went to the dagger lying on the floor.
“Was there an intruder?” he asked.
“No,” Persephone insisted. “Your emperor suffered a bad dream—nothing more. I am quite able to tend to him.”
The legionnaire looked closely at Vespasian’s drained face, then back at Persephone. “The emperor looks ill,” he protested. “Does your grace wish me to summon a physician?”
Persephone shook her head. “No,” she answered. “Leave us now. First thing in the morning, arrange to have the shattered door repaired. If I change my mind about the physician, I will call for you.”
“As you wish,” the legionnaire answered. With that, the bodyguards saluted her and reluctantly exited the room.
As Persephone looked down into Vespasian’s sweaty face, she watched him go unconscious. Closing her eyes, she placed her palm to his brow. His mind had gone deep, but he was unharmed. Then she looked around the ravaged room.
This was far more than a bad dream, she realized. The craft has been at work here. But why, she wondered, and on whose orders?
Deciding to speak to no one about this until Vespasian regained consciousness, she stood. Raising one arm and calling the craft, she gently levitated her husband’s body back onto the bed. She would lie with him until morning. If by then he didn’t awaken, she would use the craft to gently rouse him.
She knew that the only surefire way to protect Vespasian’s secret would be to have the two guards killed. It was a pity, for she knew them well and they had only been doing their duty. Even so, she couldn’t allow the slightest hint of this episode to surface—especially so close to the start of Vespasian’s massive new campaign.
As she lay beside him, she silently gave thanks to the all-powerful Vagaries flame that Vespasian had not unconsciously used his powers. Had that happened, he might have killed them both and destroyed the entire royal residence. Once she knew that Vespasian was well, as a token of her gratitude and devotion she would order the Priory maidens to slaughter a white bull in the Rotunda. Still worried about her husband, she held him closer.
She would remain that way until dawn.
CHAPTER IX
AS TYRANNY OF THE HOUSE OF WELBORNE STOOD AT THE bow of the Tammerland, the sun’s rays started warming her back. Her fleet of four Black Ships was heading west and fighting a fierce headwind. Every hand had been awake all night.
With the Eutracian coast nearing, Tyranny could smell land. As usual, she planned to moor the Conclave fleet in the Cavalon Delta bay, where the ships could reprovision and take shelter against the unpredictable Sea of Whispers. It would be good to be home.
Despite how she loved being at sea, she would find an indulgent bath and one of Shawna’s wonderfully prepared meals very welcome. Although Tyranny preferred living aboard her flagship, Tristan had granted her personal quarters in the palace. When not at sea she often availed herself of the royal luxury. Even so, not one Conclave member would dare to call her a landlubber.
The fleet of Black Ships had been at sea for the past week. Of the six original vessels, two had been sunk while trying to attack Serena’s island stronghold. The late Vagaries Queen had somehow conjured a massive tidal wave that surged west, smashing the Florian and the Malvina into matchsticks.
The Tammerland, the Ephyra, the Cavalon, and the Illendium had survived, but each suffered damage. Only the Tammerland had remained seaworthy enough to sail home straightaway; the other three needed to stay in Parthalon for repairs. Tyranny and Adrian had sailed the Tammerland home ahead of the others. After the Minion shipwrights declared the work on the other three vessels finished, the remaining acolytes had piloted the ships home. While she awaited the arrival of her fleet, Tyranny had prowled the palace like a caged tigress. When they finally arrived, she took immediate action.
Although the Minion shipwrights were immensely skilled, they knew that their workmanship must pass Tyranny’s muster. After giving the vessels a sharp visual inspection, she had insisted on a full week of sea trials. Traax and four Minion phalanxes had accompanied her.
Adrian empowered the Tammerland, while the acolytes Astrid, Phoebe, and Marissa piloted the other Black Ships. Tyranny pushed the women hard and ordered the Minions to perform rigorous combat drills in the sky and on deck. During the trials the Minions’ seafaring fighting skills had sharpened and the sisters’ abilities to fly the great vessels improved markedly. With the trials all but over, Tyranny felt confident that she could give her Jin’Sai a report that soundly testified to the fleet’s readiness. The report would also recommend that the same four Minion phalanxes be assigned to the fleet on a continual basis, and that Adrian, Phoebe, Marissa, and Claire become the Black Ships’ permanent pilots.
Tyranny looked northward. Their dark shapes glinting in the rising sun, the three sister ships were also flying high over the waves. Sailing through the sky was an exhilarating feeling and one that the Conclave privateer wasn’t entirely accustomed to. She ha
d spent most of her life bounding atop the waves, not flying over them. She smiled. Her life had been nothing if not eventful.
After a hard run of nonstop flight yesterday, she had ordered the four acolytes to empower the ships all through the night as well. That had set a precedent. She hadn’t issued the harsh order because she felt hurried to return home; rather, she needed to know whether the sisters could endure the effort. Like the other Conclave members, Tyranny hoped that the threats to the Vigors east of the Tolenkas had finally been quashed. Even so, Tristan had taken her aside and told her that he wanted the acolytes and the Minions pushed to the limit during these trials. Like Tristan, she suspected that the fleet would be instrumental in somehow crossing the Tolenkas and finding Shashida.
Tyranny reached into her leather jacket and retrieved her new cigarillo case. It was solid gold and inscribed with the letters TW. She removed a cigarillo and a match, then returned the case to its resting place. She was proud to be a member of the prince’s Conclave, and her adventures had made her the richest woman in all Eutracia. But she had come to realize that her seat on the Conclave meant far more to her than her wealth ever could.
For the first time in her life she felt like a valued part of something greater than herself, and so she had marked the occasion by buying the gold case. The privateer had been careful to avoid letting her newfound wealth turn her head; the case was one of the few purchases she had allowed herself. To this day her vast hoard of kisa—the gold coin of the realm—lay behind locked doors in the depths of the Redoubt.
As she turned her gaze westward she stabbed the cigarillo between her lips. Any time now, the Eutracian coastline would materialize and she would order the acolytes to put the ships down onto the sea. Reaching down, Tyranny prepared to strike the match against one of her knee boots.
“I can help you with that,” a familiar voice called out. Turning, Tyranny saw Sister Adrian approaching. The acolyte was carrying two cups of hot tea.
As she neared, Adrian called on the craft. At once the tip of Tyranny’s cigarillo glowed bright red. After inhaling a deep lungful of smoke, the privateer smiled.
“That’s a neat trick,” she said, raising her face to blow the smoke skyward. “If I had endowed blood, I would ask you to teach it to me. It would save much time, not to mention the wear and tear on my boots!”
Adrian laughed and handed Tyranny a teacup. “But I wouldn’t do it!” Adrian answered. “It would only make poisoning yourself with those things all the easier!”
Tyranny snorted out a short laugh. After taking a welcome sip of tea she tossed the unused match overboard.
During the past week, Tyranny and Adrian had become fast friends. Their relationship had matured far beyond the fact that each woman served on the Conclave. Despite being opposite personalities, they shared a common goal, and during the sea trials each had impressed the other with her unique abilities.
Adrian was as modest and thoughtful as Tyranny was brash and outspoken. Tyranny’s defenses were her wits and her weapons, while all Adrian needed to defend herself was the craft. Moreover, the two women bore not the slightest physical resemblance to one another. They were an odd couple, but one that commanded respect from friend and foe alike.
Clearly the prettier of the two, Tyranny was tall with an attractive figure. Her short, dark, urchinlike hair moved with every turn of her head. Her wide, dark blue eyes rested above high cheekbones. She wore tight striped pants, a short leather jacket with a high collar, and worn knee boots. A gold hoop earring dangled from each earlobe. A sword hung at her left hip, and a sheathed dagger lay tied to her right thigh. A brass spyglass hung across her chest from a leather strap around her neck. Even her pungent cigarillos seemed to suit her rakish nature.
In contrast, the First Sister was short and plump. Her dark red acolyte’s robe, tied around the middle with the traditional black knotted cord, did little to change that impression. She had a pleasant but unremarkable face, soft brown eyes, and loads of curly sandy hair. What she lacked in stature she more than compensated for with dignity, bravery, and an ever-growing command of the craft. As the First Sister of the acolytes and a respected member of the Conclave, she was quickly becoming a force to reckon with.
Tyranny took another sip of tea. “You and the other acolytes have done well,” she said. “I didn’t know whether you could empower the ships all night, but you did. I also see that you four have acquired the ability to fly the ships while walking about and doing other things as well. Before now I had seen only Wigg, Faegan, and Jessamay do that.”
“Thank you,” Adrian answered. “The craft is much like anything else. The more one practices, the better one becomes.” Reaching into her robe, she produced three small parchments and offered them to the privateer. “You should know that I just heard from the other sisters by way of Minion messengers. They are exhausted, but they should be able to empower the ships the rest of the way to the coast.”
Tyranny decided that there was no need for her to read the messages. Instead, she nodded her understanding and took another pull on her cigarillo. She turned to look aft, down the Tammerland’s seemingly endless topside. Although Tyranny had been commanding these great vessels for more than a year, they still held her in awe.
Each ship was an inky black color and built largely of magically enhanced hardwoods held together with cast iron fittings. They had been constructed by the late Directorate of Wizards more than three centuries ago, during the height of the Sorceresses’ War. The vessels were largely impervious to battle damage and could survive tremendous storms. With ten full masts each and spars as thick around as several tree trunks combined, every ship was easily quadruple the size of a standard man-of-war.
Each vessel held eight full lower decks, allowing for the simultaneous transport of thousands of Minion warriors and enough food, water, supplies, and weapons to fight a protracted sea campaign. A massive hinged door took up the stern of each ship. The doors could be opened and lowered to a safe distance above the waves much the same way a drawbridge could be lowered from within the walls of a castle. Even the sails were black, and each was adorned in its center with a bright red image of the Paragon. Hundreds of male and female warriors swarmed over her topside, masts, and spars, and among her eight lower decks.
Despite their massive size, the ships’ greatest advantage was their amazing speed. They could sail atop the waves like normal vessels, and when they did their progress was astounding. But when taken aloft and empowered by a trained mystic, the sea drag on their hulls was eliminated and their airspeed was even greater, easily rivaling that of the swiftest Minion fliers. At one time crossing the Sea of Whispers had taken at least thirty days. Now the voyage could be done in less than six. The ships could soar with equal efficiency over land.
On Tristan’s orders, four massive wooden cradles were being built on the palace grounds so that the ships could rest in them and be easily maintained, supplied, and taken aloft at a moment’s notice. When Tyranny had word that the cradles were finished, she would order the vessels overland to their new resting places. She smiled wryly as she imagined the incongruous sight. Like fish out of water, she thought, and sighed. With the ships stationed full time in their cradles, she would probably give in for good and stay in her luxurious palace quarters permanently.
Just then the two women heard the warning bell ring out three times from the Tammerland’s forwardmost crow’s nest. Because of the vessels’ great size, when a warrior shouted out from so high above, his or her voice was often lost to the elements. Recognizing the problem, Tyranny had worked out a series of bell signals. Three loud clangs meant that land had been sighted off the bow.
The Minion scouts I ordered aloft two hours ago have finally sighted land, she realized, and they have returned to inform the warriors manning the crows’ nests. Grasping her spyglass, she pulled open its brass cylinders and looked to the west.
As was often the case at dawn, the Cavalon Delta bay was heavily shrouded
in fog. Tyranny lowered the spyglass, thinking. She had two choices. She could order the ships to fly in circles as she waited for the rising sun to burn away the fog. They could then approach the coast with confidence and moor the fleet. But she also knew that the acolytes needed rest, and she was eager to get the ships down as soon as possible.
The second choice was to set the ships atop the waves straightaway, then take soundings as they cautiously approached the coast through the fog. When the depth was right they would lower the anchors and let the ships swivel into the wind, digging their anchor blades firmly into the seabed.
As Tyranny considered her options, Traax walked up. He was accompanied by Scars, Tyranny’s giant first mate, who had been with her long before she became a member of the Conclave. The two had heard the warning bells.
Tyranny lowered her glass and looked at Scars. “Your opinion?” she asked.
Scars rubbed his chin, thinking. To those who did not know him well, his fearsome appearance overshadowed his sharp, seafaring mind. At nearly seven feet tall he seemed more like some freak of nature than a human being. His head was shaven and he wore only ripped trousers with no belt. His feet were continually bare. When asked why, his only response was that bare soles gave him a better feeling for the movements of the great ship. A ragged scar—the result of wrestling sharks during his youth—ran down his forehead, near one eye and down the length of his left cheek. Yet more such scars graced his arms and chest.
“I say we descend and take soundings,” he answered, in his unexpectedly erudite way. “The sisters are near exhaustion. Should they lose control, the result might be unpleasant. Besides, my sailor’s bones tell me that the fog bank does not extend all the way to the waves.”
“I agree,” Tyranny said. She turned to look at Traax.
The Minion second in command was an even more fearsome presence than Scars. Tall and muscular, he was also clean shaven—something of a rarity among male warriors. Long dark hair fell down behind his back and was secured with a bit of worn leather string. With his dark wings folded behind his back, his leather body armor in place, and his dreggan and returning wheel hung at opposite hips, everything about him suggested sudden death. To know Traax was to also know of his legendary devotion to his Jin’Sai.
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