by Marc Turner
“Get ready,” the octa told his troops.
Because the dignitary was in arrow range.
Agenta nocked her white arrow to her bow.
The dragon sped toward its prey. The man stopped swimming and began treading water, apparently unconcerned at the creature’s approach—but then he’d already seen two others lifted to safety, and no doubt expected the same would happen to him. Sure enough, as the dragon came near, the balding Storm Guard fell into the sea and the dignitary started to rise, though not as quickly as the serving-girl and the soldier had before him. He stopped when he was only a few armspans above the waves.
Agenta’s eyes narrowed. Was Selis tiring? No, she realized, he was using the dignitary as bait to entice the dragon to lift its head from the water. Good thinking that, though the man in the hat clearly thought otherwise, for he shouted at Selis to raise him higher.
The dragon’s head broke the sea below.
“Draw!” the octa bellowed, and Agenta pulled back on her bowstring until her arrow’s flight brushed her ear.
Up, up, the dragon’s head came. The dignitary rose higher too, staying always just out of reach. The man drew his sword and swung it wildly. The blade clinked off a tooth, and the dragon flinched back before snapping at its prey. Its head was half turned away from the Icewing, meaning the archers had no shot. Agenta feared the octa would give the order to fire anyway, but instead he shouted, “Rabid, Walker, get that thing’s attention!”
Rabid and Walker turned out to be the two spearmen. They sent their sorcerous weapons flashing across the water toward the dragon.
The creature had given up on catching the dignitary and was sinking into the sea. Selis tried to keep it interested by lowering the man, and the dragon paused in its descent.
The two spears, both black-shafted, struck it on the side of its head, showering it with spray.
The muscles of Agenta’s right arm were trembling from holding the bowstring at full draw, but she dared not ease up in case she missed the chance to shoot when it came.
“The eyes, you hear me!” the octa barked to the archers. “Go for the eyes!”
“Fire as soon as the creature turns,” another man said. “Don’t give it a chance to close its lids.”
The dragon’s head came round.
“Fire!”
Agenta’s arrow was already on its way. Remembering Farrell’s warning that the white arrows stayed in the air longer than normal missiles, she’d aimed lower than she otherwise would have done—just above the center point of the dragon’s right eye. Seven other bowstrings twanged about her, and she lost sight of her arrow as the volley whistled to the target. The dragon must have recognized its danger for it started to close its eyes. Agenta heard explosions of air and water as one, two, three arrows cannoned off its armored lids.
Only three.
Meaning the other five had found their mark?
For a heartbeat nothing happened.
Then, to the sound of cracking bone, the dragon’s head bulged as if the creature had blown out its cheeks. Agenta smiled. Blood and milky spray jetted from its nostrils and eye sockets, and its jaws sprang open. An immense tooth flew out, sailing fully fifty armspans before plopping into the sea beside a startled swimmer. Got you! Agenta wanted to shout it from the top of the mainmast—before remembering that the mast was now floating on the swell.
The dragon’s head wavered then fell forward and struck the water with a noise like a hand clap.
Cheers erupted from those still in the sea and from the passengers on the aft deck. When one of the Storm Guard archers slapped the man beside him on the back, though, the octa said, “All right, you whoresons, which of you missed? I counted five hits, meaning three of you wasted your stingers. And don’t you go gawping at the lady here”—he nodded at Agenta—“because I watched her arrow split the right lids clean as a virgin’s conscience…”
The kalischa left him to his ranting and returned to the mainmast.
By the time she reached it, Selis had raised two dignitaries to the quarterdeck. Neither of them was Rethell. Agenta looked to where she’d seen her father earlier. He remained slumped over the mizzenmast. Alone of the people alive in the water, he was not celebrating the dragon’s demise. Agenta called to him, but he made no response. Something was wrong. Her stomach was aflutter as she turned to Selis and tugged his sleeve.
“The man in the black shirt, he’s next.”
The mage shrugged.
A Storm Guard was already in the air over the starboard rail. So slowly did Selis lower him to the deck, he might have been made of glass. Even after the soldier touched down it took a while before Rethell started to rise, his body twitching like a puppet on limp strings. Was he asleep? When he was lifted clear of the water his arms hung slack by his sides, and his chin rested on his chest …
Agenta gasped, then covered her mouth with her hands.
The lower halves of his legs were missing, the remaining stubs dripping watery blood.
The deck seemed to tip beneath Agenta. She leaned against the mainmast. No, it wasn’t possible. She’d had the silver dragon in eyeshot for the whole time since the wave struck. There was no way it could have reached her father. When it first attacked the Icewing it had targeted the port side of the ship, not the starboard side where Rethell must have been. And after the hull was breached it had kept its distance from the vessel until it was lured in close …
Agenta’s thoughts trailed off.
The shark.
In her mind’s eye she saw again the fin gliding through the blood-sheened water after the barrels of offal were tipped into the waves. Evidently the fish had refused the offal for the richer pickings offered by the Icewing’s passengers. Agenta’s eyes burned. She should have realized the threat the shark posed. She should have been quicker to locate her father and get him on board instead of playing hero against the dragon. If she hadn’t insisted on joining the Storm Guards for that volley …
People made space for Rethell as he was lowered to the deck. His head bumped against the wood. Agenta stared, numbed, at the shattered bone protruding from the ruined flesh of his legs. Then she fell to her knees beside him. His face was so pale she thought he was dead, but his eyes cracked open, and his bleary gaze fixed on hers. Blood oozed from the corners of his mouth. He coughed. Was he trying to talk? The kalischa leaned in close.
He did not speak, though. Instead he wrapped his arms about her and pulled her to him.
Agenta held herself still in his embrace. Silence had fallen on the Icewing, and she could hear a distant dragon’s trumpeting; the rustle of water as the Crest drew near on its sorcerous wave; screams from the survivors on the Majestic. Shroud could take them all. Closing her eyes, she tried not to think about the other passengers staring at her, or her father’s ruined legs, or how long it had been since he’d last held her like this.
She remained that way until the strength in his arms faded.
* * *
Whose orders?
The answer to that question haunted Karmel.
The emira’s. It had to be. The great and the good of the Sabian League would have turned out for the Dragon Hunt, and if it became known Imerle was to blame for today’s carnage, the response of the Sabian cities would be swift and uncompromising. Even a sorceress as powerful as the emira couldn’t hope to stand alone against the whole of the League—for alone she surely would be now she had turned against the other Storm Lords. With Karmel’s mission complete, the priestess had outlived her usefulness. Why should Imerle take a chance on her silence when a dagger in the back would eliminate the risk? It seemed so obvious now, Karmel wondered why she hadn’t seen it before.
And yet she would never have suspected the hand wielding the dagger would be Veran’s. If the emira was concerned about loose tongues, after all, why had she trusted Veran to keep his mouth shut but not Karmel? More to the point, how had she known he would be willing to betray a fellow Chameleon? Because he walked out o
n the priesthood, that’s why. Because his loyalty is to Imerle, not his god. But then why had he been so outspoken in his criticism of the emira during the journey from Olaire? Because he wanted to hide from me where his true allegiance lay. What was one more deception when all he’d told Karmel since they met were lies?
The priestess hugged her arms about herself. Her teeth chattered. Veran lay facedown in the water at the bottom of the boat, his hair fanned out about his head. It should have been Karmel in his place, she knew. It would have been if Veran’s arm hadn’t been broken by the stone-skin, or if he hadn’t retrieved from the control room her shattered sword—the sword of the Chameleon’s Honorary Blade—for fear of it being recognized.
Had he attacked her because she’d suggested returning to Olaire early? Or had his orders from the start been to silence her once the assignment was finished? Karmel remembered his look when she’d helped him into the boat—a pained expression that she had attributed to the discomfort of his broken arm. The truth, she now suspected, was that he’d been hoping a dragon would take her while she swam to the cave, thus sparing him the need to dirty his hands. And if that was the case he must have been planning to kill her all along, for he had only found out after he reached the boat that she was thinking about trying for the Icewing. Doubtless he’d never intended to waylay her when he was unarmed and wounded. He would have been expecting the two of them to lie low in Dian for weeks, giving him time to heal and pick his moment. By threatening to leave early, Karmel had forced his hand.
Something troubled her, though. Hadn’t it been Caval who insisted she stay in Olaire after the mission was over? Why, if he hadn’t been in league with Veran? Because he knew the seas would be impassable once the dragons were released. He had no reason to want her dead, after all. If he’d been told whoever went on the assignment would have to be silenced, he’d have picked someone other than Karmel to go. Someone disposable. Unless there was no one else. Unless I was the only one he trusted not to ask questions. Could he have sacrificed her for the sake of his ambition?
No, not Caval. He’d never had any ambition—unless it was to escape their father’s ambition for him.
Something he’d said on the beach in Olaire came back to her: Stay close to Veran. He’ll take care of you. Karmel shivered. He’ll take care of you. She replayed the conversation in her mind, straining to remember any detail that might give a clue as to how the words were meant. Had his expression been earnest? Sardonic? It was so difficult to recall. She closed her eyes and tried to place herself on the beach with the waves breaking against the shore, the gray stones crunching beneath her sandals.
He’ll take care of you.
Each time Caval spoke the words his intonation was different, but never was there any hint of irony in his voice. Could she trust herself, though, not to imagine things as she wanted them to be?
Opening her eyes, she rubbed a hand across her bruised jaw. In all likelihood she was making something of nothing. But her doubts would not go away. So many questions unanswered. Her gaze settled on the Icewing. And only one way to get them resolved.
The ship had drifted to the east, leaving only a small section of its stern visible through the mouth of the cave. A man bobbed in the sea a short distance from the vessel, waving his arms and yelling. Then he was lifted into the air and drawn toward the ship.
Karmel’s eyes widened. The air-mage.
The silver dragon would have to be dead if the sorcerer had started fishing people from the water. What would happen when the last of the passengers were on board? Might the air-mage try to raise the masts again? If so, and if there was a water-mage on the Icewing, when the ship finally got under way the combined powers of the two sorcerers would propel them faster than any dragon could swim. Propel Karmel, too, if she could find a way to join them.
Where would the Icewing go, though? The most likely destination was Gilgamar to the west. But there was always a chance the captain might make for his home port of Olaire. Truth be told, Karmel didn’t care where the ship went as long as it took her away from here. If she stayed in Dian, as the emira would expect, she would forever be looking over her shoulder, wondering if the next stranger she encountered was an assassin come to finish the job Veran had started.
And all the while her suspicions about Caval would eat away at her.
A dragon’s trumpeting sounded from the northeast. Karmel drew in a shuddering breath. She was shivering so much now her teeth were clacking. If she was going to reach the Icewing it would mean chancing the sea again, but then she’d have to brave the water even if she chose to swim for the beach to the west. Moreover, the risk she faced was surely less than it had been when she’d jumped from the battlements, because the Dragon Gate would now have been lowered to stop more dragons passing through the strait. As for the creatures already in the Sabian Sea, wouldn’t they be dead or busy attacking other ships?
Her mind made up, Karmel lifted the sailcloth cover in the bottom of the boat to search for her change of clothes. Her gaze fell on Veran’s corpse. What should she do with him? She couldn’t just tip him into the water, could she? No, better to let him lie here in the boat. Once the craft sank, the fish could fight over the body. Then she remembered the priest’s Chameleon ring. She should remove it from his hand to avoid anyone identifying him, she knew, but that would mean touching him, and in the end she decided to leave it behind.
A glimmer at the bottom of the boat caught her eye. She hesitated, then crouched to pick up Veran’s wedding ring. It was a plain band of gold, scratched and tarnished. Don’t let her be alone at the end, he’d said. He had no right to ask that of her. No right at all. Karmel considered tossing the ring overboard to join her broken blade at the bottom of the sea.
Then she slipped it into a pocket.
* * *
The air in Agenta’s cabin on the Crest was thick with shadows. She had retreated here to escape the sight of Rethell’s corpse, yet no matter where her gaze settled she saw something that tugged free a memory of her father: the traveling chest on which he’d sat when he came to speak to her on the crossing from Gilgamar; the sword that he’d given her when she became kalischa; the statuette of the White Lady that had been a present on the anniversary of her naming day. Images from her past pressed in on her, suffocating as the heat, and she seized the statuette and hurled it across the cabin. It shattered into pieces against the opposite wall.
Breathless, Agenta sat down on her cot. She could hear her father’s spectral voice berating her irreverence. Rethell had always been a devout follower of the White Lady, but where had the goddess been when the shark took his legs? Agenta curled her lip. The gods cared nothing for the fate of mortals, and those who prayed to them for benediction were no less fools than those who railed against them when the winds of fortune turned contrary. The truth was, people believed in divine stewardship because they wanted to believe the gods would protect them. Because it was safer to have faith in some higher order than it was to acknowledge the precariousness of their lives. Agenta, though, would not deceive herself. Shroud’s fist fell where it would, and she could no more predict its coming than she could save those in its path. Hadn’t she learned that lesson from her brother’s death? Hadn’t she long ago steeled herself against the inevitability of her father’s demise?
Her eyes misted, and she cuffed at them in irritation. Why was she crying? If she’d died instead of Rethell, would he have wasted tears on her? Doubtless he was happier now he’d been reunited with her mother and brother on the other side of Shroud’s Gate.
And doubtless with what Agenta was planning to do next, she would soon be joining them all.
There was a knock at her door. She did not respond, but the door opened anyway, and she looked up to see Lydanto leaning against the door frame.
“Kalisch,” he said, “the last of those in the water are being lifted to the deck. Dutia Elemy Meddes is asking if we are going to the aid of the Majestic.”
Agenta stare
d at him. He called me Kalisch. She looked out of the window. To the north and east Cauroy’s ship was sinking beneath the waves. Beside it bobbed the motionless form of a bronze-scaled dragon. The second creature that had attacked the Majestic—the steely-scaled beast—had survived the clash and was now gliding among the survivors in the water. Their screams sounded across the sea. Agenta turned back to Lydanto. “Cauroy is finished. I won’t risk the Crest to fish a few corpses from the waves.”
“But the dutia—”
“Has no authority over me or this ship. If he doesn’t care for my orders, he can stay on the Icewing. Tell him that.”
“You are wishing to sail for Gilgamar?”
Agenta hesitated. The temptation to return home was strong—a chance to bid a proper farewell to her father, perhaps get hold of some more tollen. Just a little to help see her through the next few days …
Then she saw again the wave of water-magic bearing down on the Icewing. Anger sparked inside her. Odds were, Orsan was back in Olaire reporting to the emira on the success of his mission. Imerle would think Agenta was dead, or else paralyzed by grief, whereas in truth the sting of Rethell’s death was already fading. Now was the time to strike back. Now was the time to make Imerle and Orsan pay for their treachery.
In response to the ambassador’s question she said, “Tell the captain to set course for Olaire.”
“You are going after Orsan.”
“What else would you have me do?”
Lydanto’s mouth was a thin line. “Orsan will be denying having responsibility for the wave that struck the Icewing. He will be pinning the blame on another water-mage, saying he gave chase to the culprit—”
“He can say what he likes.”
“You are not thinking, Kalisch. The failure of the Dragon Gate to be lowered was no accident, I am believing. The emira knew the dragons would be unleashed, meaning she has moved today not just against us but against all of those on the Hunt. We must be gathering the survivors together, making them aware of what we know.”