Myriel’s heart pounded and her head spun. She wasn’t fit for the journey ahead, not yet—she needed Gallows as much as Serena did. ‘You’d abandon us?’
Gallows held his head between his hands and stepped away from the table. ‘It ain’t as simple as that, Myriel, I—’
‘I’ll do it,’ said Damien. ‘I’ll go to Dalthea. Your path lies with Serena.’
Gallows shook his head. ‘You’re needed here—if someone’s working with Ventris, then Garald needs you looking out for him.’
Damien exchanged a glance with Garald. ‘I’m not staying here—there’s someone else who needs my help. A girl in Hawthorn Gnarl is sick because of me. I believed my father possessed the cure, but if he did, then it died along with him.’
‘Then why go to Dalthea?’
‘Unit One Three Seven—Doctor Mathieson created life from death. If anything can counter the effects of Musa’s Bane, I’ll find it there.’
Gallows winced. ‘Musa’s Bane. That shit’s awful.’
‘In any case, neither Arnault’s followers nor Garald’s want me in Rhis—I believe my presence will only put him in further danger.’
Garald cleared his throat. ‘Prince Arros should remain dead.’
Gallows stared at Damien for a long moment. ‘You sure about this?’
‘My father raised Ventris’ pirate army in part because of me, and Dalthea is more home to me than Rhis ever was.’ Damien placed a hand on Gallows’ shoulder. ‘And with all due respect, I’ll get there faster than you.’
‘All right,’ said Gallows. ‘But you gotta move now—Ventris will rally whatever crew she has left. Garald—you sure this place is safe for you? Getting outta Rhis wouldn’t be the worst idea in the world.’
Garald raised his chin. ‘I need to stay with my people—a dead king and an abdicating heir will sow too much chaos. I’ll root out the traitors.’
‘Your highness,’ Damien said, ‘I’ll need a fast airship to reach Dalthea.’
The prince shook his head. ‘As I said, the AFR is severely curtailed after the attack on the skyport. The best I can offer is an airship to take you to a coastal town—I won’t risk a Ryndaran airship crossing into Dalthean airspace.’
Damien rested his chin on his knuckles. ‘That poses a problem.’
‘I got it covered.’
Everyone looked at the doorway.
Relief ballooned inside Myriel as Serena marched inside, arms crossed.
‘How long you been standing there?’ Gallows asked.
‘She’s been outside for six minutes,’ Damien answered.
Serena arched an eyebrow. ‘It is creepy when you do that.’
Flicker danced above the girl, singing like a delirious drunk, and Scruff padded in through her legs. Myriel’s heart warmed at the sight of them all together.
‘Here.’ Serena tossed Damien a key.
‘That looks an awful lot like the ignition key for the Liberty Wind,’ said Gallows.
‘Stole it from Vabrizio’s storage an hour after we boarded the Queen.’
Gallows’ bottom lip stuck out. ‘I don’t think I’ve ever been more proud.’
‘The Liberty Wind is docked in Rhis?’ Damien asked.
Serena shook her head. ‘Dulwin. You’ll need to steal it from an asshole called Giselda tal Finn. Reckon that won’t be a problem for you.’
‘No,’ said Damien, ‘it won’t. Your highness, does your offer of an aircraft extend as far as Dulwin?’
Garald looked from Serena to Damien. ‘It does.’
‘Excellent—I’ll pilot the Wind to Dalthea and stop Ventris.’
‘If she spots you on the way, she’ll blow you out of the sky,’ Gallows said. ‘You can do a lot of things, Damien, but I ain’t sure aerial acrobatics is one of ’em.’
Damien’s mouth curved. ‘We’ll see about that.’
‘No need,’ Morton sighed. He glanced at Enoch and said, ‘I’ll fly to Dalthea. I’ll fly your Liberty Wing.’
‘Wind,’ said Serena.
Myriel watched Damien’s reaction. He revealed nothing.
‘It’s the right path,’ Enoch told the pilot.
‘Aye, well… You might be onto something,’ Morton told the stone man. ‘I found the Gods when I needed ’em most—without them, reckon I’d be a worse man than I am today. But it don’t mean squat if you don’t pay it forward and learn to bloody forgive yourself.’
Myriel hadn’t the faintest idea what Morton meant, but Enoch seemed to understand.
‘How long from Dulwin to Dalthea in the Wind?’ Damien asked.
‘No fuel stops, and writs of passage? A couple days,’ Gallows answered. ‘Only reason it took us weeks was ’cause some bastard red-flagged the Wind’s registration—guess we can thank Arnault for that.’
‘We did keep dodging Ryndaran border patrols, too,’ Myriel added.
Garald coughed. ‘I should probably not be privy to that.’
‘Tyson.’ Damien extended a hand to Gallows; Gallows brushed it aside and embraced his friend.
‘Fortune find you, Damien. Don’t trust anyone but Fallon.’
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Gallows watched snow drift in a spiral dance, and—grey in the distance—the looming Mount Zemsuhdenya. Like veins filled with oil, jagged rivers of black ice slithered across the land.
Terros’ Judgement.
Gallows knew the story well; in ancient times, the volcano erupted every ten years, spewing rivers of lava for miles in every direction and cracking the earth’s tectonic plates. That’s why no-one had settled here—the borders of Tarevia were a wasteland.
Then Arik Blood-Tooth turned his ambitions to Tarevia, invading in the aftermath of the Zemsuhdenya’s eruption, believing the lava and earthquakes would clear a path for him, safe in the knowledge that it sat dormant.
But after weeks of fighting, the volcano awoke again.
Some said it was the work of a weather-shifting sorcerer; others believed it to be Terros himself, commanding the earth to drive the invaders away. Whatever the case, the volcano spat black ash miles into the sky for weeks on end, sapping the morale of the Ryndarans while strengthening the Tarevians. Then, when the fighting was at its fiercest, magma erupted and swept the invaders away.
After the victory, the lava froze—solid, gleaming and black as onyx, ready to thaw only when Tarevia’s people were in danger. That was centuries ago, and it hadn’t erupted since.
Gallows and Sera once made plans to climb it—Sera for the challenge, Gallows to learn its secrets. History had always fascinated him—real history, not the kind some schoolteacher recited from a textbook. Give Gallows books sourced from the event itself; give him relics, give him evidence that something real happened here—not dry facts and figures.
That part of himself died with Sera.
‘Something on your mind?’ Genevieve asked.
She was the only other person in Gallows’ compartment. When she spoke, she kept her eyes on the book in her hands.
‘Just wondering why they call this town we’re headed to “Frosthaven”,’ he answered. ‘I mean, apart from the obvious.’
Genevieve placed her book on the tremoring table. ‘It’s a haven because it houses many refugees. The Ice Train delivers provisions to them, and to other settlements.’
‘Didn’t reckon Arnault was so generous.’
‘He wasn’t, until the Imanis Union Treaty. Taliana Konstantin is a great woman, but when she seized power, many were displaced, and Frosthaven was the only place they could go. Rich families, primarily, but stripped of their fortunes and with children to feed. In any case, Arnault refused them entry into Ryndara. Like many others, I petitioned for the Ice Train as a half-measure; give them the means to build their own homes and then you don’t need to worry about them crossing the border. In the end, Arnault relented. In truth, all the supplies the refugees needed were delivered inside a month. Now the train only exists to make it easier for the Ryndarans to get intelligen
ce from Tarevia, and vice versa. Every day, people sneak back and forth—it’s the worst-kept secret in the whole of Imanis. But it maintains the peace between Tarevia and Ryndara.’
‘Here’s hoping it stays that way.’
Genevieve gazed out of the window and tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. ‘Tyson…’
‘Yeah?’
‘When we get there… I’m not intending on staying with you, on this… Bizarre quest of yours.’
‘Figured as much. Listen, Genevieve—what the papers said about you… You’ve nothing to be ashamed of.’
‘Thank you, but that’s not it. I’m not sure I even want my career any longer. It’s liberating, in a sense. I was running myself into the ground, seeking respite in… unhealthy places. Now that burden is lifted. In a way, I should be grateful. Now I’ve a chance to take stock. With Aulton gone and Fabian returning to his family, I’m choosing to view this as an opportunity. There is much I wish to accomplish.’
‘Still intent on preaching hope?’
‘More than that.’ Genevieve’s porcelain features hardened. ‘If Garald is correct—if Arnault’s loyalists are conspiring against the prince—then Ryndara may yet wage war with Tarevia. I intend on warning Taliana Konstantin.’ Genevieve retrieved her book and resumed reading, eyes low. ‘It’s what Aulton would’ve wanted.’
Gallows shifted in his seat. The expanse of endless, brilliant white hypnotised him. It was like staring at an open fire, or listening to a wordless orchestra: It made Gallows think too much.
Will Damien warn Fallon in time? Will this temple have the answers Serena needs? Does it even exist? Myriel had talked of the Temple of Musa, but Gallows didn’t know much about it.
Is Serena right—can she get rid of her siren-song?
Maybe Gallows was wrong about her. He still feared her power, and seeing her destroy Solassis’ mind only proved how strong that power had grown—but Serena came to the conclusion to banish it by herself. She was wiser than Gallows had given her credit for.
He stared at Genevieve. The singer had her path all figured out—she knew what she wanted. Between all the mayhem and madness, and traipsing across the continent on Serena’s behalf, Gallows hadn’t had time to think about what he wanted. He’d been going from one place to the next without much thought for what lay beyond and telling himself that was enough—but now the journey neared its end.
Staying alive was one thing, but living? That was much more complex.
‘I’m relieved you’re okay, Myriel,’ said Enoch.
‘Thank you.’ Myriel winced. ‘Though I fear that’s overexaggerating, somewhat.’
‘We will take refuge until you’re fit again.’
‘Hmm, yes—if a certain someone has the patience.’
Enoch hadn’t spoken to Serena since their escape from the bowels of the royal palace, but he could sense her. Unlike the others, she’d been given a compartment all to herself, accompanied only by Flicker and Scruff. Even on a politically-neutral train, Garald’s coin travelled far.
Enoch steepled his fingers. ‘She is young.’
‘And headstrong.’
Night settled over the snowfields, and the stars winked with perfect clarity. A gorgeous winter night. And yet the gnawing inside Enoch refused to abate.
‘I feel I have something to confess.’
‘What a surprise,’ said the mage.
Enoch felt his lips form a shallow curve. ‘Yes, perhaps you’re right—perhaps the time for confession is gone, and the time for action beckons.’ Splintered memories of the fatal mission in Palthonheim floated behind Enoch’s eyes—the city’s colossal walls, steeped in a shifting, flickering fog—the flashes of gunfire, the city’s quiet, empty avenues, devoid of life…
No… We didn’t enter the city… We engaged the enemy outside, and… And I died.
Through the conflicting memories, his mother’s song cut through, anchoring Enoch to his humanity.
‘I should thank you, Myriel. You brought me back, in Lunosdatter’s laboratory.’
‘You did the work yourself. What’s on your mind, Enoch? I’m no nun nor saint, but if you have something to confide, I’m as good as anyone else.’
Enoch wasn’t sure he had the words to explain. ‘It’s… a feeling, the stirring of memories I didn’t know I had… Have you ever woken from a nightmare that you cannot remember, yet the dread of it still lingers?’
‘Oh, yes.’ Myriel chuckled, then clutched her chest with a sharp gasp. ‘Gods forbid you actually feel something, Enoch. Doubt is part of what makes you human—so stop bloody moping and enjoy what life you have.’
Enoch sensed Serena somewhere on the rattling train. In Dalthea, it had been subtle, but now the sensation ran along his spine like the scuttle of a scarab beetle. Enoch had assumed this sense was a side-effect of whatever forbidden sciences prevented him from dying. But what if there is a darker, hidden purpose?
‘Now.’ Myriel slapped her thighs. ‘If you’ll excuse me, I must throw back a bottle of painkillers and return to what passes as a bed on this contraption.’
Enoch rose, and escorted Myriel through the jostling, rumbling train carriage. He hummed a song, and exchanged jokes with the old mage.
But it didn’t stop the gnawing at his soul. Like the fearsome Zemsuhdenya, an eruption was inevitable.
Pain pressed on the inside of Serena’s skull as soon as she opened her eyes. She could still feel the strings of Solassis’ mind on her fingertips, and if there was anything in her stomach, she’d have vomited.
The world had stopped shaking, and the train’s engines had silenced.
Did I sleep the whole time?
Her muscles carried the faint ache from the siren-song, even days later. Men shouted outside, their forms turned into fuzzy silhouettes by the frost on the window. She couldn’t make out the words, but she recognised the sounds as men trading banter and insults, laughing as they hauled cargo. Serena closed her eyes, and—just for a moment—let herself believe she was out on a water run aboard the Liberty Wind.
Wouldn’t it be wonderful to go back to those days? Wouldn’t it be wonderful to go back to a time when all she had to worry about was Sister Petrakis scolding her or Harvel Roarke catching her running on the airship deck?
But those were the wishes of a child.
Someone hammered at her door. ‘Rise and shine,’ Gallows called. ‘We’re here.’
Serena didn’t know what to expect of Frosthaven, but it wasn’t this.
Merchants selling steaming coffee and fried salmon laughed and joked with customers wrapped in furs. The main thoroughfare was slate-grey and slushy from foot traffic, but flanked by sparkling ice and crisp snow. Branching paths peeled off in every direction.
Wind caressed Serena’s emerald hair, cold but not uncomfortable. The clean air purified her lungs, and the ridges of black ice from Mount Zemsuhdenya sparkled like diamonds in barrow of coal.
The village wasn’t so much built as it was thrown across rocky slopes and man-made flats, like scattered pieces on a game board. The houses were all made from stone and propped up with wooden struts, but their walls and doors were all painted in vibrant colours. One home had sea-green doors and windowsills decorated with vine patterns; another’s bricks were painted sunset yellow, dark violet and cherry red. In chalk upon a wooden door, a child’s scrawl depicted a large family, there on full display for the world to admire.
Serena dropped her bags and wandered through the narrow avenues. A young boy and girl grinned and stared at her strange hair. Serena bent low. ‘Hey, I’m Serena. What’s your name?’
The kids giggled and ran off.
Arching bridges the colour of winter cherries straddled deep crevasses, connecting one rocky island to another. Lines with colourful prayer flags criss-crossed rooftops, telegram poles stood tall, and icefjords jutted out over a frozen sea, promising danger and adventure.
Men and women looked down over low walls and spoke with their children on lower
levels, throwing them bread and fruit. It reminded Serena of the slum towers in Dalthea—except the people here wanted to talk to each other, and it smelled of stewed apples instead of piss.
Ladders set into stone walls made navigation between the jagged islands easy, and a dozen tall, thin bell towers rose up like birthday candles. Silhouettes stood on their highest floors—guards, shouting and bantering with one another.
She ventured deeper into Frosthaven. Chickens roamed in a wide, spacious pen, clucking and pecking at food. Not far off, cows moaned.
And the people!
They were smiling. Men and women of every skin colour conversed and played with children. Phadrosi, Mercurians, and Ryndarans all sat together, rolling dice and playing cards. Music floated through the open doors and windows. Two men grilled salmon together—the swirling patterns etched into their skin marked them as Idari kuramanusa slaves—somehow they’d made it all the way here. The people of Frosthaven were completely different from each other, and yet they all belonged.
Market stalls had been set up outside people’s homes, displaying sweets, jewellery, artwork, and jade figurines of the Indecim. Serena saw Gallows collect one of the figurines and barter with the shop owner.
And then Serena stopped walking.
Over a long, arched bridge, at the bottom of a slope just past the village gate, a first-generation airship hovered a couple of dozen feet in the air. A rigid craft, if Serena was any judge. Its outer envelope was the colour of an overripe banana, with patches of blackened bruises to match. In fading, curled, script, the words Childhood’s End stretched across its envelope. Serena guessed it’d be used to ferry people from Frosthaven deeper into Tarevia.
Imagine sailing in the skies above this place—above the icefjords, the shimmering sea, circling the base of Zemsuhdenya…
When this was over, when Serena had cleansed herself of the Siren curse—which she would—she’d beg, plead and pay whoever owned the airship to take her up in it.
Frosthaven was everything Serena had missed out on as a child—everything that she’d been robbed of. Her family roamed the seas; nomads, like the Val Candrians, but not inhibited by borders or lands.
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