“I’m sorry,” Caile muttered, but Taera was lost in the images flashing through her mind.
“Fire,” she whispered. “Everywhere. Pyrthinian soldiers dead. The red and yellow Pyrthin banner turned black… Ash. A woman…”
“Let it go,” Caile said, grabbing her shoulder. “It won’t happen. I won’t let Father send you to Col Sargoth.”
Taera opened her eyes and turned to him, more alarmed than frightened. “No, not in Col Sargoth. Here. Now.”
“What?”
“Someone is coming, Caile! A firewielder.”
“Lorentz!” Caile shouted, drawing his sword and surveying their surroundings. They had drawn nearer the River Kylep, and a new-growth forest bordered the road to their left, not tall or particularly foreboding, but thick with green foliage and undergrowth—perfect for an ambush.
“What is it?” Lorentz asked, at Caile’s side almost immediately.
“Someone is in the forest.”
Lorentz nodded. “We’ll have the honor guard take Taera off the road, into the safety of the fields, and then take care of it.”
Caile eyed the amber grasses to their right. “No, we’ll all have to stay to the road.”
Lorentz raised one eyebrow quizzically.
“We’re dealing with fire, Lorentz. Those fields could go up in flames.”
“Fire,” Lorentz repeated flatly, considering Caile’s words for a brief moment, and then he was issuing orders for the soldiers to take up their shields and don their helmets. Within seconds, the troops were gathered in tight formation around Taera, and Lorentz met Caile and the captain of Taera’s honor guard at the front of the procession to start plodding warily forward. Unlike Caile and the rest of the soldiers, Lorentz had not taken up his shield and helmet. He held only a handful of arrows and a stout, short bow, which he strained and grunted to string.
“You know the drill,” Lorentz said. “I’ll hide in the grass, then sneak along behind you.”
“I don’t want to kill anyone,” Caile replied. “Let me try to reason with them and await my signal.”
“I’ll await your signal or the moment you start getting showered in flames, whichever comes first.”
“Just await my signal,” Caile repeated. “I’ve spent the last five years in Valaróz—I can take the heat.”
Lorentz snorted in reply then slid from his saddle and rolled to lay hidden in the tall grass alongside the road while the procession continued forward without him.
As much as Caile wanted to turn and glare at him, he kept his head forward and his eyes on the forest through the eye slits in his helmet. Lorentz still treated him like a child at times, and though Caile knew Lorentz was merely trying to keep him safe, it still aggravated Caile to no end. He was a prince of Pyrthinia, after all—the crown prince now that Cargan was dead, assuming they were to follow Sargothian law. Caile swallowed back the lump that rose in his throat at the thought. I’m not a child any longer, he repeated to himself.
They plodded onward, and the minutes dragged by with no sign of anything in the forest to their left. Caile began to wonder if his sister had perhaps misinterpreted her vision. She was distraught after all, with their brother dying and the prospect of being sent to Col Sargoth. Caile shook the idea aside. Taera didn’t lack courage, that he was certain of, and he steeled himself to the task at hand—to focusing all his attention on whomever stepped foot from that forest.
Even prepared for it, they were all shocked by the sudden gout of flames that bellowed out from the trees. It swept over them in a flash, curling around shields, singeing horsehair, and setting the field behind them aflame. One soldier lost control of his panicked horse and was carried toward the forest just as a woman careened from the shadows like a feral animal. She flailed her hands above her head and brought them crashing down with an unintelligible shout, and horse and rider were enveloped in flames.
“Stay your position!” Caile yelled at the soldiers, as he struggled to calm his own horse well enough to dismount. He managed to jump clear of his horse just as the firewielder sent another gout of flames at them. He tucked himself behind his shield and could feel the intense heat curl around him. When the flames passed, he raised his free hand in sign of peace, palm up, showing he held no weapon.
“Stay your hand, firewielder,” Caile hollered in the calmest, most authoritative tone he could muster. “We mean you no harm. We are your friends.”
“Firewielders have no friends,” the woman yelled. “Kill me or be killed.”
“No, I beg you,” Caile said, holding his shield away from his body and removing his helmet so she could see his face. “I am Prince Caile Delios. I promise you safe harbor. Please, just listen to me. I put myself at your mercy.”
Caile dropped his shield and helmet to the ground and held both hands up. The woman glared at him and glanced warily at the soldiers behind him, but she stayed her hand. She was not as old as Caile had surmised at first glance—no more than twenty, at most—but she was filthy, covered in feculent rags, her hair clumped in muddy knots, and her face was lined with worry, her eyes wild with the burden of living a life of constant terror alone in the forest.
“I’m your friend,” Caile said again, keeping his eyes squarely on her face and trying not to think about the burned soldier and horse smoldering nearby. “Come with me,” Caile continued. “My father, the King, can protect you. You will have to stay under lock and key, but you will be well fed and treated kindly, that I can promise you.” He reached his hand out toward her. “Please.”
She smiled, and for a moment Caile thought he had reached her, but then the wildness repossessed her eyes. “Your father can’t help me. No one can. It’s too late. We’re all doomed.”
“No wait,” Caile tried to plead with her, but she flung her hands above her head, drawing her power around her. Caile stood paralyzed, staring into her wild eyes, realizing he was about to die. Sparks danced at her fingertips, and her lips parted as she began to scream the command that would unleash his fiery death. His body tensed in anticipation, but then the young woman gasped in surprise and collapsed to her knees, the tip of an arrow protruding from one of her eyes. She crumpled face first to the ground, and Lorentz emerged from the forest behind her, another arrow notched and ready. He and Caile exchanged a look, not a look of victory but rather of sorrow and understanding. Lorentz returned to the troops, and Caile stood gazing upon the slain firewielder until Taera came and pulled him away by the hand.
“You tried, Caile,” she said. “I’m sorry.”
3
The Shadow Grows
Caile let out a weary sigh as he plopped down into a chair in his father’s study, high in the upper reaches of Castle Pyrthin. King Casstian Delios, too, breathed heavily as he sat and stared into the flames of the fireplace before them. It had already been late by the time Caile, Taera, and their procession reached Kal Pyrthin, and then there was the formal reception with the well-rehearsed greetings and the state dinner in the dining hall where nothing but pleasantries could be uttered for fear of being overheard. That was all thankfully over now, and it was well past midnight. The two of them—king and son—sat silently for a long time, staring into the fire.
“Taera told me of Cargan,” Caile said eventually. “I’m sorry.”
“As are we all,” his father replied, not looking up from the fire. “He was a fine man. He would have made a fine king.”
“Have you learned any more of what happened? You can’t believe this nonsense about him dying in a drunken brawl?”
“So was the word from Col Sargoth, so it was.”
“Father,” Caile said, leaning forward in his chair, “you know as well as I do that Cargan was a better man than that.”
“A better man than you, for sure, but what can I do? Shall I call the Emperor a liar and bring his wrath down upon Pyrthinia? Is that what you want?”
“Or course not,” Caile snapped, immediately regretting losing his temper and reminding himself
to stay calm. “I’m not the foolish boy I was when I left, Father.”
“Then what of this business on the road with the firewielder? Are you mad? Trying to speak reason to such a person. You would have been killed if it weren’t for Lorentz.”
“She was a girl, no older than me, not some vile creature. When I left, you had an arrangement, offering amnesty for any sorcerers who turned themselves in and agreed to live here under your watch.”
“That was five years ago. Times have changed. Emperor Guderian…”
“Emperor!” Caile spat. “This is no empire. This is the Five Kingdoms, and you are the King of Pyrthinia. Guderian is the King of Sargoth, nothing more.”
“I’m afraid the Five Kingdoms are no more, son. With each passing day he wrests more power away from us. Nothing can be done.”
Caile thrust himself back into the cushions of his chair, and neither of them said anything for a long while. Caile stared with a mixture of sadness and disgust at his father, a man who had seemingly shrunk since he’d last seen him. Five years before, the King of Pyrthinia had been a robust man, exuding energy and confidence. Now, Casstian Delios was old beyond his years. His arms and chest were still thick but lacked the hardened, muscular definition he was once known for. His face, too, was thin and ashen, and his once glorious mane of golden hair now hung limply above his shoulders, thin and mottled with gray.
“Do you mean to send Taera to Col Sargoth?” Caile finally asked.
“What choice do I have?”
“Send me. That’s why you had me return from Valaróz, isn’t it?”
King Casstian snorted. “The imperial mandate states I must send my eldest child as a ward to Col Sargoth.”
“There are exceptions. Tell Guderian that Taera is too ill to travel, that I’m coming to Col Sargoth in her stead. All he cares is that he has his hostage.”
“But she’s not ill. Would you have me forge false documents? I don’t take lying as lightly as you, especially when it means treason.”
Caile could feel his face flush with anger. His father clearly was not one to let the past go. “If you ask me, it’s better to lie to an evil man than to sign your daughter’s death sentence.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” Casstian demanded, sitting up in his seat, his face taking on some color and life.
“Don’t pretend like you don’t know, Father. She’s a sorceress.”
Casstian slumped back as if the wind had been knocked out of him.
“She’s a seer,” Caile continued. “She’s the one who warned us to the presence of the firewielder today. She saw it in her visions. You can’t send her into Guderian’s grasp. That monster of his will sniff her out in an instant and they’ll kill her just like they’ve killed every other sorcerer. I’ve met him, Father—I’ve met Wulfram. In Sol Valaróz. He’s not human. He can see inside of you. He’ll know. Sending Taera to him would be sending her to certain death.”
Casstian was silent for a long moment. “And you think you will somehow fare better than Cargan or Taera?”
Caile sat up straight. “I have no magical ability to put me in danger. I’ve lived these last five years as ward to that usurper Don Bricio, and I stayed alive, bit my tongue while vile lies poured from his mouth. I met Wulfram and avoided his scrutiny. I know how to stay alive in a den of lions.”
Casstian laughed without humor. “King Bricio and his court in Valaróz are a pack of kittens compared to what you’ll find in Col Sargoth, boy.”
Caile shrugged. “So be it. I’m not afraid.”
“You should be.”
“It makes no difference. I want to go and you can’t send Taera. You love her more than me, I know. We’re the same in that regard. She means more to me than you ever will.”
King Casstian Delios looked into the flames of the fireplace and said nothing.
“Well?” Caile asked.
“Go then. Tell my porter to send for the physician, and I will compose the letter to Guderian.”
“Thank you,” Caile said, standing.
Casstian nodded and watched his son leave. It pained him that Caile could see through him so easily. He bore Caile no ill will, but it was true he loved Taera and Cargan more. He simply couldn’t help it. Casstian’s wife, Hedia, had died shortly after birthing Caile, and as much as the King tried to tell himself he could not blame his son, the resentment had faded little over time, especially with Caile being so stubborn and overly-confident as a boy. That boy is the heir to my throne now by Sargothian law, Casstian mused, but that only reminded him of Cargan and fresh tears came to his eyes. He pushed the thoughts aside and wiped his face clean. He was King of Pyrthinia and could not be seen crying, not by the physician, not by anyone.
Taera was sitting on her bed with the lamp at her nightstand still burning brightly when Caile knocked at her chamber door.
“Still awake at this hour, Brother?” she asked as she ushered him in.
“I was worried you’d be the one asleep.”
“So I could go back to my visions?”
“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to…”
She smiled for him. “It’s not your fault. The visions are my concern.”
Caile snapped out of his reverie and grabbed her in a nervous embrace. “No, it’s all of our concern. That’s why I’ve come to say goodbye.”
She hugged him, then pushed him away, not unkindly, and straightened the leather jerkin he wore. “Goodbye? Is Father sending me off so soon then?”
“No, you’re staying. I’m going to Col Sargoth in your stead.”
“But how—”
“Please don’t argue with me,” he interrupted her. “I’ve convinced Father that it is best this way. I’m leaving now before he changes his mind.”
“But you’ve not yet slept and you’ve been on the road already for weeks, and today, the firewielder…”
“Don’t worry, I’ve learned to sleep in the saddle,” he said with a grin. “Besides, I’ll be safe in Col Sargoth—I’m no danger to the Emperor. Your job is the more difficult one.”
“Oh?”
“You have to pretend to be deathly ill. And you need to get Father back. Remind him that he’s the king.”
Taera closed her eyes. “Be easy on him, Caile. He’s weary. He must choose his battles with the Emperor. It’s not easy.”
“A king hasn’t time for weariness. That’s what he always used to tell us.”
“I know.”
“Remind him. Make Pyrthinia ready. I mean to find out what happened to Cargan. I don’t know what will come of it, but it may be trouble.”
Taera could only nod in agreement. As scared as she was for her brother, she knew it was pointless to try and stop him, for she had already foreseen him in Col Sargoth in her dream visions. Her own path lay in another direction. A ship. A cavern of ice. A beautiful girl. Whatever end fate awaited each of them, she could not say, but their paths were clearly set out for them in her mind. She kissed Caile on the forehead.
“Be careful, Brother.”
“Careful is the way of old men. I’ll stay alive. You do the same, and be wary of having too many visions—the houndkeeper here can sense magic as well as the ones in Col Sargoth and Sol Valaróz.”
4
A New Moon Rises
From the rooftop, Makarria could see far beyond where Spearpoint Rock jutted out from the turbulent waters and off into the horizon where the Esterian Ocean and gray sky melded into an imperceptible border. Somewhere beyond the horizon, farther to the south, were the East Islands, and beyond that Makarria could only imagine. Maybe another land where the sun shone every day and a girl could run in the grass and wear a proper dress without having to worry about it being ruined by never-ending ocean squalls. Makarria smiled at the thought of actually being free of the salty air for once. She did love the ocean, especially when sailing with her grandfather, but she would love it a lot more, she decided, if she didn’t have to live right next to it.
“M
akarria!” her father hollered from where he lay sprawled out a few feet away from her. “Thatch!”
“Sorry,” Makarria said, handing him one of the long palm fronds she’d set down on the roof beside her feet. Galen took it from her and threaded it into a gap in the roof where a frond had blown free the night before.
“You’re not much help to me up here just staring off into the distance,” he said when he was done. “Why don’t you go see if your grandfather needs help?”
“Really? You’re sure?”
“Yes, go.”
“Thanks,” she said, turning to tiptoe her way down the pitched roof along one of the main support beams.
Galen watched her leave with a wry expression, wishing he could navigate the roof with such ease. He had to crawl around on all fours in order to spread his weight out along two beams, otherwise, he’d crash right through the roof and into the house below. He’d hoped to teach Makarria to mend the roof on her own, but the girl seemed incapable of keeping her mind on any task for more than a few minutes. It was all well and good for her to daydream while tending to the garden or milking the goats, but it was too dangerous to be absentminded up on the roof. Galen sighed and grabbed the bundle of palm fronds, resigned to doing the job himself.
Back on the ground, Makarria raced from the house and down the grassy slope to the seashore where her Grandpa Parmo was pushing a skiff into the water.
“Wait, Grampy, wait!” she yelled after him, and he halted, knee-deep in the waves, until she got there.
“In you go,” he said, giving her a boost into the boat. “You going to help me pull in the traps?”
“Yep.”
“Hold on, then,” he told her and pushed them off with the outgoing surf, timing it so as to pass between two breaking waves. He pulled himself aboard with a grunt and paddled them out past the breakers, then gave her the signal to hoist the small sail as he put aside the oars and grabbed hold of the rudder. Within a few moments, he had angled the skiff to catch the wind and they were racing toward Spearpoint Rock and their traps. “That’s better,” Parmo said, breathing heavily. “I’m getting too old to be launching skiffs from the beach.”
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