Maybe it really is Esurhites, she thought. Maybe they’ll take us all away to the southland to be slaves. Then I won’t have to worry about booking passage. And at the moment slavery seemed the more desirable of the two prospects. Surely she couldn’t be any more miserable than she already was. . . .
Something flickered in the cloud, drawing her focus. A brief glimpse of something solid. Not a rock, too high for flotsam, and definitely not a seabird. For the first time a spark of discomfit pierced her indifference.
It showed itself again: dark and angular, protruding briefly through the veil of gray and withdrawing—high above the water’s surface. “Did you see that?” she asked Liza.
“See what, milady?” the girl murmured absently, fingers tugging at Maddie’s hair as they worked.
“There was something in that cloud.”
“Probably a bird.”
“I think it’s a boat.”
“Well, we’re nearing Avramm’s Landing, so maybe it is.”
Maddie pressed her lips to keep from uttering the unkind response that came to mind. “We’re not that near. . . .” She kept her eyes on the cloud. “It’s never come this close before. Are you almost done?”
“Almost, milady.” Liza had reached the end of the long braid and was now looping it up around Maddie’s head to fasten it into place.
Once again the dark, angular shape pierced the mist and withdrew. “A dragon’s head,” Maddie murmured, thinking there was nothing like facing the prospect of real disaster to cut through the self-pity and put one’s problems into perspective.
“You think there’s a sea dragon in the cloud, ma’am?” Liza’s hands stilled on her head, and she knew the girl was looking aft.
“No. I am thinking that Esurhite galleys often have dragon’s heads on their prows. . . . Hurry up.”
As soon as Liza finished, Maddie snatched her spyglass from its shelf beside the table and joined Captain Windemere and his ship’s officers at the taffrail, telescopes trained on the cloud. It had by now halved the distance originally separating it from Starchaser. Moments after she arrived, all the angles came together and two narrow-prowed vessels, their sides bristling with oars, glided into view.
She stared at them openmouthed, horror closing her throat. Even with the fact she’d already guessed they were there, she wasn’t ready for the reality of seeing them, so close and so big. And so menacing, with those banks of oars flashing up and down in rapid and perfect unison, powering the vessels forward on a course straight up Starchaser’s wake.
“In a moment they’ll be within range of the stern chaser, sir,” said the first mate.
“Fire a ranging shot,” Windemere ordered. “Let ’em know we’ve got working powder.”
A series of shouted commands preceded the boom of a single round from the little gun mounted on the quarterdeck along the stern. Maddie watched the dark ball arc over the gray swells and fall only a little short of the two dark ships.
Instead of slowing, however, the galleys glided defiantly forward, leaving their cover of mist entirely.
“Another,” Windemere ordered.
The bark of a second round rattled Maddie’s teeth and shook her insides. This time the ball barely missed crashing into the deck of the leftmost galley. For answer, the oars’ rapid tempo increased.
“What the plague?!” Windemere growled. “Surely they don’t intend to ram us from behind.”
“I think they mean to board, sir,” his first mate said. He gestured at the boats. “D’ye see those groups of men there at the bows? Looks like they’ve got windlasses.”
“Indeed it does, Mr. White,” said the captain. “Though I don’t see any cables.”
“They’re probably cloaked,” Maddie said, watching the dark-tunicked men frantically cranking the levers of large, heavy-duty windlasses. “They probably attached them the night we lay becalmed outside Blackcliff,” she added.
From the corner of her eye she saw Windemere lower his spyglass to stare at her, appalled. “You mean t’ say we’ve been towing them all this way?”
“Most likely, sir. It was misty enough they could do it, and after all the miles they’ve come, their slaves are probably exhausted.”
“But why break cover now? And if they want to take us, why didn’t they do it that night at Blackcliff?”
“Because their main mission is probably to attack the fortress at Avramm’s Landing, and all they need from us is fresh muscle for their oars. Or they might think we spotted them earlier and didn’t want us to give warning. They might just want to twit you, too. Or perhaps do all three.”
Windemere began with the first of her suggestions: “Attack the fortress? With only two ships?”
“That’s all they sent against Graymeer’s.”
Windemere frowned and thought for a moment. “That was on the day of Abramm’s coronation.”
“Yes, sir,” Maddie said.
“And today he is getting married. . . .” He glanced again at her. “But why Avramm’s Landing? It’s hardly central to Kiriath’s defenses. And the thirty or so fighting men on those two galleys are not going to be able to take and hold an entire fortress.”
“They can if they have a Broho or priest on board, though I doubt they mean to take the fortress. They may want only to infiltrate it, find a place to hide within where they can help from the inside when the main fleet arrives.”
Belthre’gar, her brother had said, was supposed to have an obsession with capturing ancient Ophiran fortresses, particularly those whose guardstars were still in place. Avramm’s Landing fulfilled both qualifications.
Windemere digested this new information as he watched the approaching galleys. “We’ve got to find those cables and cut them loose.”
“Where would they be likely to attach them?” Maddie asked, peering over the edge of the taffrail.
Windemere glared at her. “Milady, you need to go below.”
“If you tell me where to look, Captain,” she said, “maybe I can see them. If I can see them, I can burn away the cloaking so you can cut them free.”
He couldn’t avoid the logic of her suggestion. And sure enough two cables were found fastened to the middenmast, running flat along the planking to loop around the bollards at either side of the quarterdeck, then out through the aft-most scuppers. But even with the cables released, their pursuers kept right on, their oar-driven speed considerably faster than Starchaser, hampered as she was by a faltering breeze.
The men on the windlasses had cut their cables loose the moment they saw themselves disconnected from the big ship, no doubt to avoid fouling the oars. On the galley’s decks now, soldiers in helmets and breastplates emerged from a hatch aft of each vessel and congregated at the bows. Many carried grappling hooks and coils of rope, and all were armed. Among the group on the leftward vessel appeared a bald man cloaked in black. Though Maddie had never seen his like before, she knew at once what he was: Broho.
Plagues! We have no chance of escaping. Oh, Father Eidon, we need help!
Around the Broho, the soldiers began to chant and the already feeble wind died. Starchaser slowed noticeably as mist congealed around her.
“Sir!” cried the man operating the stern chaser. “The gun won’t fire anymore.”
Windemere swore softly, then turned to Maddie. “My lady, you must go below.” His gaze shifted to his first mate. “Mr. White, take her to the cable tier, and see she’s well hidden.”
“Cable tier!” Maddie protested. “Absolutely not. I’m staying on deck.”
“My lady, if they know you’re here—”
“They already know, and I would rather dive into the sea than let myself be found trapped like a rat in the cable tier.”
Windemere scowled fiercely. “We’ve got them far outnumbered, miss. They’re not likely to be the ones to find you at all.”
“I sincerely hope you’re right, Captain, but if you want me in the cable tier you’ll have to drag me to it and tie me in there.”
The man’s scowl couldn’t get any darker, but at length he relented. “You are a stubborn one, aren’t you? Very well. Go to the foredeck. And stay out of the way.”
She gave him a nod and hurried down the companionway to the ship’s waist, where she met Liza emerging from the stern cabin. Seeing the terrified girl, she almost panicked herself, for she knew there was no way out. Regardless of their greater numbers, Starchaser’s crew would not withstand the Broho’s powers. Not if even half of what she’d heard of them was true. The only hope left would be to jump over the side.
“Can you swim?” she asked Liza, shaking her arm to get her attention.
The girl’s tear-filled eyes widened further. “No, ma’am.”
Plagues! Now what am I to do?
Commanding the girl to come with her, Maddie hurried to the place Windemere had assigned her and was barely hunkered down by the ship’s officers’ tiny cabins at the bow when the Esurhites swarmed over the stern, screaming like madmen. They had the whole of the ship’s crew to face them, nearly every one of the two hundred men armed with something—blade, dagger, awl, even makeshift clubs scavenged from the ship’s furnishings. Severely outnumbered, it seemed at first the Esurhites might be pushed back.
But then the dark figure of the Broho climbed over the taffrail and stood overlooking the ship, cloak billowing around him, the amulet on his chest glowing like a purple eye. His bald head gleamed in the gray light, and even with the entire length of the ship between them she felt his eyes upon her and shuddered with the menace they imparted. His mouth opened, his chest expanded . . .
And a great violet plume burst out of him, crashing into the main mast like a pot of burning pitch. Purple fire flew everywhere, igniting canvas, wood, rope, and chaos. In moments, the mainmast was ablaze. Flaming pieces of beams and ratlines and canvas rained down on the men waiting in the waist for their turn to repel the boarders. Smoke quickly obscured Maddie’s view of the quarterdeck, stinging her nostrils as Liza clung to her and whimpered. The roar of the flames and the screams and shouts of the men filled her ears.
Then she saw the Broho standing at the quarterdeck railing. The purple amulet flared as his deep voice bellowed through the din and all the flames went out at once. Simultaneously, every man froze and silence descended upon the ship. A dark mist mingled with the paler smoke, coiling round wreckage and men toward the foredeck. Maddie felt its pervasive chill settle around her, felt the pressure of fear start deep in her middle as images of death and torture filled her mind, and the Shadow within her panicked in response.
CHAPTER
28
On the morning he was to have married the Chesedhan First Daughter in the ancient Hall of Kings, Abramm was instead seated on the King’s Bench in the High Court Chamber at the opposite end of the Mall of Government, presiding over her lover’s adultery trial. He had worn Avramm’s crown for the occasion, and wished that he had not. Everything he had seen that night in the bedchamber was now amplified. As the evidence was brought forth, the love letters read, the witnesses called, and Foxton’s own shaking, miserable confession of guilt heard, Briellen sat defiantly in the defendant’s box adjoining his, alternately smirking and glaring at Abramm.
Whether it was a result of his own sight being enhanced by the crown or recent events causing an acceleration of the process, the question of whether Briellen had developed the sarotis was no longer in doubt. Though he wasn’t sure whether anyone else could see it, for himself it was a thick line of curd, occluding the bottom half of her irises and creeping down toward her lower lids. Never had the juxtaposition between beauty and horror been so striking.
There was more: the staffid disguised as bracelet that she wore on her arm, the blue flicker of the spore dwelling and active in her flesh, and the hatred in her eyes. Hatred not primarily directed at him, but at Eidon himself, even though she wore his shieldmark over her heart. Hatred shared by the rhu’ema that lurked in the shadows of the great chamber’s nooks and corners, come here to watch their plans fulfilled.
That was the worst thing: knowing that both Briellen and Arik Foxton had been manipulated. The fact they had been found at all indicated someone had been watching them and more than likely had even set them up. They were little more than dupes, and now one of them would have to die.
Still they chose to act as they did. And choices have consequences.
It would have been easier, though, if the choices had been of a different nature. To preside over a trial that would condemn a man to death for doing what Abramm himself had done and been forgiven for . . . was difficult. It roused up all the old guilt again, and he had to remind himself repeatedly that Foxton hadn’t just committed adultery, he’d committed treason. The court here wasn’t defending Abramm’s pride but the authority of his office.
Just as he had arrested High Father Bonafil for his disrespect of that office, so must Foxton be held accountable. And given the act’s potential to confuse the line of succession and perhaps one day spark a war that might lead to thousands of deaths . . . execution was not so severe a penalty.
Simon had been adamant in his support of that position. Blackwell had echoed it. As had Hamilton, Whitethorne, Nott, Trap . . . even Kohal Kesrin. And Abramm had received no indication from Eidon that he should offer this man clemency, though he had pled for it. Thus when the trial was concluded, and the judges returned after only an hour’s sequestering with their guilty verdict, Abramm said nothing. And when they pronounced their sentences of permanent deportation for the First Daughter and swift execution for Arik Foxton, he did not countermand them.
Far from laughing at him that morning, his people had sympathized, outraged by Briellen’s seamy and vicious betrayal. It was only through this that he realized many of his subjects saw his injuries in the same light as Maddie had—as badges of honor. For this Chesedhan vixen to snub him because of them was inexcusable. Not surprisingly, their antipathy toward Briellen had spread to Chesedhans in general, and if they had disliked the proposed alliance before, now they hated it.
Every way Abramm had sought to protect his realm lay in ruins, but even so, he knew Eidon was still at work. The most glaring evidence of that truth lay in the fact that mere hours after making the request, he had been suddenly and completely released from all obligations to marry Briellen. And with that had sprouted a seedling of hope that the remainder of what he had asked might be granted him, as well. . . . You have only to wait.
Ironically, it was this very kernel of hope that his inner Shadow used to accuse him of sacrificing Foxton to get Maddie back. Over and over he had to confront the notion, irrational and illogical as it was, and replace it with the truth. Foxton knew the penalty for his actions. He knew that, should he be found out, it would destroy him and his family.
Yet he’d chosen to do as he’d done. The responsibility lay with him. And he knew it, for he hadn’t looked Abramm in the eye one time during the entire wretched ordeal.
Neither had Leyton offered a word in his sister’s defense. In fact, he’d said very little. His face was hard, masked, and haggard. So far as Abramm knew he had spoken privately with Briellen only once, and her jailers said she’d sent him away with a barrage of words they’d rather not repeat.
Abramm had just exited the building that held the High Court Chamber and was descending the broad stair to his waiting carriage when he heard the distant boom of the guns at Kildar and Graymeer’s out at the mouth of the bay. Noon already? That was the moment Kesrin was supposed to have declared he and Briellen wed. Instead she was being escorted back to her chambers, where she would await Foxton’s execution tomorrow morning. After which she would be required to leave the city.
A second salvo of the guns brought him up short, his gaze turning southward, where a dark cloud bank churned at the mouth of his bay. A mist, he knew at once, that was not natural. Horrified, he watched as three Chesedhan merchantmen came plowing out of it, moving sluggishly as they fled beneath the covering fire of
the fort at Graymeer’s, the cannon’s distant booming sounding with increasing frequency. Since by now the morning land breeze had died, there was no hope of any natural wind driving off that mist and little help for the frigates that were obviously being pursued.
All these thoughts and observations had barely registered when a brilliant purple light streaked out of the fog, heading straight for Springerlan. In barely a heartbeat it had flown the length of the bay, tracking low over the city’s roofs to slam into the Hall of Kings at the opposite end of the mall. The impact was followed by a moment of silence. Then a fountain of purple flame erupted from the ancient amphitheater, showering Abramm with pieces of rock and tile even so far away as on the steps of the High Court Chamber.
Those around him exclaimed in horror as purple flame turned to orange and the Hall’s great hammerbeam ceiling ignited. Black smoke poured skyward as men rushed out of nearby buildings. Southward on the bay, the Chesedhan vessels were heeling slowly around, their guns flashing as the dark, narrow shapes of far too many Esurhite galleys emerged from their covering veil of mist. Closer to the city, Katahn’s galleys were backing out of their docking slips as two naval frigates pulled anchor and set off for the front line, making scant progress in the feeble wind.
Abramm glanced again at the pillar of black smoke and realized with a chill that had the wedding gone as planned, he and Briellen—along with most of his court—would be dead.
As if reading his mind, Channon said, close at his side, “Sir, you need to get to safety.”
Abramm turned back toward the High Court Chamber and then, given the accuracy of the Esurhites’ aim, decided that might not be the best place to take shelter. Even as he thought it, Simon and Trap emerged from the doorway at the head of a stream of exiting nobles, all of whom stopped to stare at the burning Hall beyond the green.
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