by Gwynn White
She froze, terrified by Eliezar’s uncanny grasp of her reality. Through bleary eyes, she watched Averin study his second. Eliezar was so still, he could’ve been made of stone.
What Averin saw in Eliezar’s expressionless face, she couldn’t guess, but he swung his ratty Pyreack cloak off his shoulders and tucked the warm fabric around her. “Sleep. We’ll all still be here when you wake.”
She couldn’t have stayed awake even if she wanted to.
Seconds before she drifted away, Averin said, “Battalion, watch for enemy movements on the riverbank. Trystaen, Eliezar, and Suren, we look for threats in the water. The fight with Darien is far from over.”
The sun was low in the sky when Stasha finally stopped rowing to rub spit onto her torn hands. Open blisters stung against the cold. She longed to dip her fingers in the dark water, but it wasn’t worth the risk. The last thing they needed was a Pyreack army or a scalding wave descending on them. White puffs trailed from her nostrils and mouth as she tried to blow her seeping blisters away. Pointless, of course. She was no healer, and Trystaen’s magic was still bound. Spit would have to do.
There had been no further attack from Darien while she’d slept. She’d woken around lunchtime to a pile of cheese and salami sandwiches made by Klaus, and a tankard of ale. Refreshed but ravenous, she’d devoured them in a blur and had then taken the seat on a bench next to Averin to help row.
At some point during her sleep, Averin had relinquished the tiller to Klaus. It was a move she’d immediately understood when she pulled on her oar for the first time. Legs were needed for rowing. Klaus could best serve them by steering The Sword and keeping everyone fed and watered. Or rather, warmed with ale. And all strength to him: he made a mighty fine sandwich.
Suren sat on the last bench at the back of The Sword. She’d tried speaking to him as they rowed, but he’d asked to be left alone. She’d willingly given him his space. If her magic hadn’t been so selfish, she could have prevented his pain.
Vlad sat on the bench in front of Suren, humming a little five-note tune. She couldn’t help but smile. He was born for an adventurous life.
She forced her stinging hands back onto her oar and dipped the tip into the water. Dip and pull. Dip and pull. Endless strokes that cramped her shoulders and made her arms ache.
She glanced longingly at the sail, but it was limp and lifeless. Averin and Eliezar had both tried summoning breezes to puff it out, to no avail. After weeks of icy wind, the frostbitten air was still.
Frighteningly so.
She grimaced. This weather—the bitter calm before silent snow clouds drifted in from the north—was all too familiar. If southern Ocea was anything like Atria, once the snow started, there’d be no letup until spring. It would be tough enough for the fae, but for the humans—
“Klaus, how about a drink?” Averin shouted out. “Rowing is thirsty work.”
“I’ll also take a tankard,” Trystaen added. “That ale was a very fine idea.”
“Consider it done.” Despite his face being pinched with cold, Klaus beamed as he lumbered over to the ale barrel and filled a couple of tankards. After a slow climb across an unoccupied bench, he held a tankard out to her, and one to Averin. “Is it always so cold in Ocea? I was under the impression it was milder than Atria.” He must have also been reading the weather.
She and Averin grabbed the ale and both took long swigs. Cold and crisp, it chilled its way down her gullet before hitting her stomach with a warming kick.
Averin wiped his mouth with his hand and gave his tankard back to Klaus. “This is very unseasonal. I think our host is trying to freeze us out. I’m factoring in blizzards before we leave Ocea.” His jaw was set in a hard line. She could guess what he was thinking. The longboat wasn’t going to offer vital shelter, and no one was dressed for arctic temperatures.
“Nothing stealthy about a full-on weather attack,” she said, draining the dregs of her ale. She licked her lips as she handed the tankard back to Klaus. He stumbled to the barrel for refills for Trystaen and Eliezar, who were sitting behind her.
“Don’t discount Darien’s arsenal, or his desperation,” Trystaen said grimly. “Everything’s on the table right now.”
Her eyes darted to the densely wooded riverbanks. Who knew what horrors Darien had hidden in the tangled shrubbery, snakeweed, and brambles bristling the frosty shoreline. Behind them, taller trees the color of bleached bones, bark peeling off like sunburnt skin, stood stark amongst the stockier willows and black oaks. She sensed eyes watching her from their hidden depths. It made her skin crawl.
“I recognize those skeletal trees,” she said to no one in particular. “There was a forest of them around Ealvera War Camp.” She glanced at Klaus. “You don’t know, but I spent the first night I was captured there. It was horrible.”
“She makes it sound worse than it was,” Suren muttered from the back of The Sword. It was the first time he’d spoken. “She had an attentive fae lieutenant on hand to carry out her every—and many—commands.”
Grateful that he’d roused himself to crack a joke, however inaccurate, she graced him with a smile and nudged Averin. “If I’m right, we can’t be that far from the Atrian border.”
Averin nodded. “The river forks about five miles or so from here. One branch heads into Atria. The other drains into the Vocril Sea, about twenty miles away, I would guess. We’re taking the Atrian fork. If all goes well, tomorrow we’ll be out of Ocea and eating breakfast at Chantawa with Boa. Then another week should see us reach Zephyr.”
Goul cleared his throat pointedly. “Prince Averin, is it wise going to Chantawa? How do we know Boa has even survived? We barely did, and we have Stasha.”
“I wouldn’t be so quick to discount Princess Boadicea.” Averin’s voice bounced off the water like Yule’s Eve bells. “Piss Swill has done far worse than this to her and yet she fights on. And, right now, she’s not Darien’s main target. We are.” He bumped her shoulder. “Or rather, Stasha is.”
“Thanks for the reminder.”
“And Boa’s rebels aren’t just made up of Ocea fae,” Trystaen added. “She has defectors from the other kingdoms in her ranks. They’ll still have their magic. Fae from other continents have also gravitated to her. Granted, their interest in our troubles is more mercenary than loyal, but they’re useful in a fight.”
Stasha’s eyebrows rose. She’d never considered the possibility of fae from other continents and kingdoms joining the fight for Zathryth’s freedom. In truth, she’d never given a second thought to the possible existence of a world beyond her own vast continent and her tiny place in it.
Klaus’s eyes were filled with equal wonder as he handed Feral Fox and Vlad their drinks. Maybe he’d get a chance to study such places and the fae who lived in them when they arrived in Zephyr. Just as quickly, Klaus’s forehead creased. “Why don’t the Atrian forces keep the Pyreack out?” He glanced at her. “Our lives would be very different if the Pyreack couldn’t just sally in and out of Atria at will.”
Tarik could still be alive. She may never have met Averin. She winced. That thought hurt almost as much as losing Tarik.
Then again, Radomir would have had to think twice about kidnapping her. Klaus, her other friends, and the rest of the Askavol survivors would never have ended up in Angharad. Hathrine would still be alive—
Seemed Queen Calarel also had debts to answer for.
She nodded at Klaus. “You were always the smart one.” She leaned forward to hear Trystaen’s answer.
“They used to defend Atria, back when I was a youngling,” Trystaen’s voice was as quiet as ripples on water. “That all changed when Darien attacked the palace in Ruepa. I was thirteen. Many of the nobility were killed.” He’d once told her that he’d lost his home and family in that attack. She hadn’t realized that he’d been so young. Perhaps his story wasn’t that different to what had happened to her, Klaus, and the battalion. The war made no distinction between human and fae. “The rest
of the nobles fled into the catacombs with the royal family. That was almost three hundred years ago. Since then, things have been rough in Atria.” A fierce scowl darkened his usually cheerful face. He sighed it away. “I guess we shouldn’t complain. Things aren’t as bad as they are in Ocea. Darien has very little power over our land.”
It warmed her that Trystaen seemed to find an absentee royal family who left their people undefended as offensive as she did.
“That’s thanks to the keys, isn’t it?” Trystaen had given her a lesson on how fae monarchs held onto and lost power before the Angharad rescue. “They still belong to Queen Calarel, right?”
“They do. She still controls all earth magic in Atria.” Trystaen rested his elbows on his oar. “Thanks to that, she and the rest of the royal family have managed to evade capture. The Atrian army has helped them, of course. But it’s the land that truly protects them.”
Klaus leaned up against the mast. “What do you mean?”
Trystaen’s lips curled into a half smile. “Why did Darien have to lure Boa and her father into the Blue Desert to take their magic? If he’d taken the fight to Ocea, the water would have defended them. Now water is Boa’s enemy. As long as Queen Calarel remains in Atria, the soil and trees and birds will protect her. That includes keeping her and her family hidden.”
Klaus’s frown deepened. “So they just left their people to die?”
“Another good question. I’ll be glad to hear the answer.” Feral Fox shuffled on his bench. He wasn’t the only human to crane forward. Even she folded her arms, her mouth set in a defiant line.
“I wish I could say otherwise. I’ve also lost friends to the Pyreack. They weren’t lucky enough to be nobles, so they weren’t invited to the catacombs.” Lips pursed as if he were about to spit, Trystaen swiveled to the river. He scowled at the cursed water and spat on his hands with more force than his total absence of blisters warranted. He wiped his palms on his leggings. “It’s why I couldn’t stay in Atria to support Queen Calarel. When King Seph invited me to Zephyr, I couldn’t leave fast enough. The Atrian court branded me a traitor. Or so I’ve been told.”
Outrage at what Trystaen had suffered made her sweat.
Trystaen shook his head and wheezed out a long, tired sigh. “But even I know it’s not that simple. Queen Calarel’s decision to go underground was probably the best thing for Atria. Or so I tell myself daily. It kept the keys away from Darien.” Another frown blighted his handsome face. “But keeping the military locked up in the catacombs with them when so many are dying… that I can never forgive.”
“By keys, you mean power?” Klaus asked, catching on far quicker than she had.
“Yes. If Queen Calarel loses the keys to Darien, Atria will end up like Ocea, or worse, Voltaic.”
Klaus’s tawny eyes widened. “I didn’t realize Voltaic was a real place.” Trust Klaus to have heard of Voltaic. She hadn’t until Trystaen had first mentioned it.
Trystaen tossed his long ponytail over his shoulder. A few stray hairs clung to his neck. “It’s not much of a place anymore. It’s the only reason I can talk about Queen Calarel without cursing. Too loudly, anyway.”
“What happened to the Voltaic keys?” Klaus’s voice cracked in the silence that followed Trystaen’s outburst.
“There’s a question for the ages. When Prince Cyran killed his father, King Ivarune, the keys would have passed to him. But he disappeared a thousand years ago.” A twinkle reasserted itself in Trystaen’s pine-green eyes. He really did love history, except perhaps when talking about his own. “He’s probably nothing more than bone and dust now. There’s no way to know what really happened.”
“I can’t wait to learn all about it in the Ilyseryph library.” Klaus sounded so wistful; it made her smile.
Trystaen grinned. “There are a few scholars old enough who remember what Voltaic was like. You might enjoy listening to their stories. Although I warn you, their lectures can get a little dry.”
Klaus beamed. “Dry sounds just like something I’d love.”
Goul cleared his throat. “I’m sorry to change the subject, Prince Averin, but I have to ask: If the water is so dangerous, why don’t we get off this confounded longboat? Surely, we’d be safer in the woods? Most of us grew up surrounded by forests. We know them. They’re home. It would be warmer too.”
She glanced over her shoulder at Goul. His intense face was tinged green. Motion sickness, she assumed. Perhaps it had stopped him noticing that not all forests were “home.” The grasping branches on the skeletal trees overhanging the riverbank were anything but welcoming. Not to mention that, in the absence of proper policing by both Darien and Queen Calarel, creatures like the Tiyanak and the manticore made their homes there. And how would Klaus cope? Someone would have to carry him.
“There is much to consider, Master Goul, when moving troops through enemy territory.” Averin spoke lightly, as if not to embarrass Goul. She waited for him to mention Klaus, but instead, he asked, “Do you carry a waterskin?”
She glanced unnecessarily at Goul’s waist to confirm what she already knew—of course he didn’t. He’d probably never even seen one. She hadn’t, before meeting up with fae.
Goul’s sickly face flushed, and he looked down at his hands clutching his oar.
“Me neither,” Averin continued. “No one does. Most of you were asleep when the attack on the temple came. We left there singularly unprepared for this adventure. As such, the longboat, fitted out so well by my Askavol Fighting Pit Battalion”—he dipped his head at Goul—“thank you for your part in that—is our best hope of survival.” His voice firmed up. “Stay the course, Master Goul, and you will arrive safe and well in Zephyr.”
Goul swallowed hard. “I’ll bear that in mind, sir.” He didn’t meet Averin’s blue gaze. “I—I just won’t be sorry to get back on dry land.”
“No crime in that,” Trystaen said heartily. “I don’t like traveling by water either.” He shot Goul one of his broadest, most idiotic grins. “Us Atrians are alike in that, I think.” Leave it to fabulous Trystaen to try and ease things.
Vlad hissed and almost dropped his ale. “What in all the darkness is that?” He jabbed his tankard at the riverbank. For Vlad to sound so nervous, whatever lurked there had to be terrible indeed.
She searched the shadowy beach, hedged between overhanging trees. “I don’t see anything.”
“I do.” Klaus pointed at the beach. “Under that skeleton tree. The one with the broken branch.” His voice quivered.
Heart pounding, she followed his trembling finger to see four soulless, violet eyes staring at her out of a furry white face. She sucked in a startled breath even though, with its tufted, foxy ears, the strange little creature wasn’t the most frightening thing she’d seen in these woods. That honor went to the Tiyanak. In fact, unblinking and unmoving, she’d have thought the creature on the bank dead if not for the steady rise and fall of its alabaster-colored chest.
Ivan cringed. “It looks like a cat did the nasty with a pale demon.” He wasn’t wrong. The creature definitely was freakish.
It had a triangle of purple eyes wedged between its whiskered nose and a fourth, larger glowing orb between its ears. It even had an eye peeking out from behind each ear. Six snowy tails with jet-black tips swished, while a seventh curled around its little paws.
“That’s a magdoole cat!” Averin swore and leapt to his feet so quickly, the rigging attaching the sail to the mast clattered. “Everyone, get ready for the fight of your lives.”
That creature, no bigger than a domestic cat, was Darien’s next move? Not possible, unless she’d totally misread the little thing.
“For a prince, you do a terrible job at explaining yourself,” she snapped at Averin.
“Sorry.” Averin tossed her a tight smile. “Magdoole cats are harmless scavengers. The monsters—slinkers—they follow are not. The slinker pod queen always goes for the weakest. She’s very skilled at luring her chosen prey into the wa
ter so her fingerlings—all the size of your arm—can devour it. The magdoole gets the bits that float to the bank.” He sloughed his cloak, letting it drop to his feet, and pulled his tunic up over his head so it almost covered his eyes.
Stunned by his weird reaction, she gaped at the long, lean muscles rippling under his tanned skin. Black ink curled—
“Darien obviously plans on picking off our weakest first to provoke the rest of us into doing something stupid.” Averin’s voice was muffled by his red tunic. “Don’t be that person, or you may find yourself in the river, with the rest of us following you.”
She gulped, instantly losing interest in his enticing body. She started to spin to Klaus but stopped before catching his eye. Singling him out was entirely the wrong message, even though, in this instance, he—and by extension her— was by far the weakest crew. Darien had probably been told that crippled Klaus had motivated her attack on Angharad. He’d sent his vile monsters to exploit that weakness.
“The pod queen will be working to make eye contact,” Averin added. “Don’t look at her. If you do, you’ll be her pod’s next meal.”
That explained his strange headdress. And the magdoole cat’s many eyes. They must have confused the slinker queen.
“Stasha? Where are you?” Averin turned full circle, and his boot clipped her leg. He lifted his tunic, and his blue eyes stared down at her. “Ah, there. Get your head covered, pit princess.”
She shot to her feet and summoned a flame. Relief surged through her as fire blossomed in her palm.
“Listen to me. Just for once.” Averin knocked her hand away. “This fight is going to be up close and terrifyingly personal. Fire will fry us all.” He straddled a bench and pulled her down next to him. Facing her, he spoke loudly. “Everyone, sit. You’re responsible for the person you share a bench with. Whatever happens, don’t let them look at the slinkers.” He’d no doubt chosen her because he also knew what a risk she posed.