"Men of sunlight!" Ceranor called out. "We bring light to the darkness. We sail toward a great city of gold, crystal, and jewels. We will liberate this city from the night. We will bring it light and justice, and its treasures will be ours." He drew his sword and raised the blade. "You will fight well! You will fight bravely. I, King Ceranor, fight with you. Torin Greenmoat, son of the great hero Teramin, fights with you. For the sun! For light! We will be victorious!"
They raised their swords and shouted together. "For light!"
All across the fleet they chanted and brandished their weapons, twenty thousand warriors, noble and strong. Their cries rolled across the landscapes of night.
"This city will be ours!" Ceranor cried, and they cheered.
He turned back toward the distant lights. With every breath, the city grew closer, and more details emerged; he could see smaller houses now, pagodas, and snaking streets. He could see the sails of their ships. The city was massive; it seemed thrice the size of Kingswall, the largest city in Arden.
"Hundreds of thousands must live here," he said. "They will be ours to govern."
Torin looked back at the fleet. "My king, only part of our army sails on these ships. Should we not anchor down and wait for our infantry and cavalry?"
Ceranor shook his head. "We have all we need to take this city. Our infantry marches across the plains; they won't be here for two hourglass turns. When they arrive, we will welcome them through this city's gates." He clutched Torin's arm. "We are the fabled Ardish armada. We are the vanguard. We are the spearhead, the conquerors of darkness. Fight by my side, and we will be heroes of daylight. All other kings will bow before us. Ready your sword, Torin Greenmoat. War is here."
Feet scuffled across the deck, and Bailey Berin came racing up toward them. Her eyes flashed and her braids flounced. She had joined their army wearing the crude armor of the outposts. Ceranor had outfitted her with true steel; she now wore a fine breastplate, and a cloak of black and gold draped across her shoulders. She clutched a shield, its surface sporting a raven upon a golden field, and drew her sword.
"I am with you, Torin," she said and raised her chin. She turned toward the king. "Without me, he'd fall into the water." She looked over her shoulder and shouted out. "Hem, Cam! I told you to stay with me. To me, boys!" She patted her thigh. "To me!"
The two young villagers stumbled forth, panting. Ceranor had outfitted them in new armor and cloaks, yet even shiny steel couldn't hide their countryside awkwardness. Ceranor smiled thinly—his second smile in long years.
They remind me of my own youth, he thought. Wasn't I clumsy when I was their age . . . but still eager for the fight?
"You are blessed to have such close friends, Torin," he said. "Now look! A boat sails our way. First blood will soon spill."
Ceranor's heart pumped and he inhaled deeply, savoring the cold air. This was what he lived for—not stuffy courts, not twisting politics, not silly young wives—but this . . . the open air, the anticipation of blood, and the thrill of looming battle.
The boat sailing their way was small, hardly more than a humble pontoon. Poles rose from its corners, supporting a silk canopy. A battened sail billowed upon its mast, sporting a circle within a star. Lanterns floated above the hull, tethered to the railing with strings, casting green and red lights that glimmered on the river; the lanterns seemed to use the same magic as the flying ship.
Ceranor nodded at the archers who stood to his left. They nodded back and drew arrows.
When Ceranor returned his eyes ahead, the pontoon was closer, and he could discern figures standing at its prow. This was no military ship. Three Elorians stood there, elders clad in blue silken robes, their beards flowing down to their slippers. They held out strings of gems, chains of gold and silver, and amulets.
"We might not even have to fight for this treasure," Ceranor said, raising his eyebrows. "The night folk bring us their jewels willingly, it would seem."
The ships sailed closer together—a fleet of mighty warships sailing east and a single pontoon, barely larger than a carriage, sailing to meet them. Upon their boat, the Elorian elders smiled. Silver stars and moons gleamed upon their robes, and beads shone around their necks. The sight of Elorians still unnerved Ceranor; their eyes were as large and green as limes—freakish things. Ceranor's own eyes could only see where lanterns glowed; he had a feeling these Elorians could see across the plains as clearly as in daylight.
It makes them dangerous foes, he thought, then let his eyes linger upon the jewels they bore. Wealthy foes.
One of the elders called out to them, voice pleasant. He spoke in a language Ceranor could not understand; its syllables flowed from sound to sound, full of vowels and almost no consonants he could recognize, a language like wind on water. The elders held out their jewels and smiled.
"They're welcoming us," Torin said, his voice barely a whisper. "We burned their village, yet they welcome us peacefully. They offer us gifts."
"They seek not to welcome us," Ceranor said, "but to appease us. They see our mighty fleet, and they know they cannot defeat us. They seek to send us away with a few trinkets." He looked up at the crystal city that rose several miles away. "But we will have more than the few jewels three elders can bear. Arden will have the wealth of this mighty city."
The Elorian boat reached them, swaying in the water, its silken canopy strewn with golden stars, moons, and fish. The elders smiled up at them.
"Let them on board!" Ceranor cried out. "They bear gifts. Lower the plank!"
Sailors bustled about, and soon a wooden plank ran down from the River Raven to the smaller ship. The elders stood upon their deck, smiling up, but did not climb onto the larger vessel.
"They're afraid," Torin said. "They smile but fear fills their eyes."
"They should be afraid," said Ceranor. "They face the might of the sun. Come with me, Torin. We'll climb aboard their vessel and accept their treasure. It would be a pity to sink a boat laden with jewels."
Hand clutching his sword's hilt, Ceranor crossed the deck of his flagship, stepped onto the plank, and walked down toward the Elorian pontoon. Behind him, he heard Torin's footsteps as the boy followed.
When he reached the pontoon, the elders smiled and bowed their heads, jewels and chains still in their hands. Ceranor stepped on board. The deck seemed made of clay molded around a metal frame; it thumped hollowly with every step. Lanterns glowed along the railings, shaped as faces with bright eyes and mocking mouths. Torin came to stand beside him, face somber.
"Sen sen," said one of the Elorians, hand raised in welcome. He was an ancient creature, his pale face wrinkled like a raisin, his beard white and flowing. He held the gifts out toward Ceranor. "Tinshay Eloria."
Ceranor took the jewels, strings of gems, and golden chains. He bowed his head.
"Sen sen," he said, guessing—hoping—that meant 'hello.' "I am King Ceranor of Arden, a kingdom of Timandra. My companion is Torin Greenmoat."
The elders brought forth more gifts. One held out a chest full of golden coins. They spoke more in their lilting language, bowing their heads and smiling. They seemed like servile pups groveling before a larger dog, Ceranor thought. It pleased him.
"Imagine the treasures in this city, Torin!" he said, pointing at the cluster of lights, which still lay on the horizon. "This land is wealthier than we imagined."
Finally the elders' smiles faded. Their eyes darkened. They shook their heads and pointed west, away from the city. Their voices grew more vigorous.
"Loy Pahmey," one said firmly, blocking the view of the city with his body. "Loy. Loy! Timandra loy Pahmey."
"My king," Torin said, stepping closer to Ceranor. "They are telling us that their city is forbidden. Loy probably means no. The city is probably named Pahmey." The boy turned back toward the Elorians, pointed at the city, and asked, "Pahmey?"
The elders nodded, then pointed westward, back toward distant Timandra. They spoke some more; Ceranor could understand none of i
t, but he knew what they were saying.
"They want us to sail back," he said. "Do you see, son? They hoped to appease us with gifts, then send us on our way." Ceranor sighed. "It is sad. We have a hundred ships; they cannot hope to oppose us. We'll take these elders back to the River Raven and chain them in the brig; they will become our servants. We will keep their ship; it's a useful vessel."
Torin swallowed, looked at the Elorians, and pointed at Pahmey again.
"You must let us sail in peacefully," he said to the elders. "Do you understand?" Torin gestured with his hands, mimicking a ship sailing through a gate. "Let us into Pahmey and we won't harm you. You must let us in peacefully or we will fight."
The Elorians only shook their heads more vigorously, looking distraught. They spoke louder; Ceranor only understood "no" and "Pahmey" over and over.
He placed his hand on Torin's shoulder.
"Come now, it's no use, son. They don't understand. They are simpletons; I doubt Elorians have more sense than children. We'll take them back to our ship." Ceranor reached out toward the Elorians and gestured for them to follow. "Come, my friends! Return with me to my flagship."
The Elorians recoiled and reached into their robes. They produced more jewels and held them forth.
Whistles sounded.
Shards tore through the night.
An arrow slammed into one Elorian's chest.
Ceranor inhaled sharply and drew his sword. Before he could react, two more arrows whistled. Two more Elorians fell, clutching their chests.
Blood splashed the deck. One of the elders managed to crawl to the railing, and two more arrows slammed into his back. With his dying breath, the bearded Elorian untied a red lantern. The light floated away from the ship, rising like a phoenix, the color of blood.
Growling, Ceranor spun around toward the River Raven. Sailith monks stood above, clad in yellow robes, bows in hand. Ferius stood among them, teeth bared, and lowered his bow.
"Are you safe, my king?" the monk called down from the larger ship, though no concern filled his voice, only restrained glee.
Damn the man!
"I needed them alive!" Ceranor shouted up at him.
Ferius only smirked. "They were reaching into their robes for weapons, my king. I had to keep you safe."
"They were reaching for gifts, you fool."
Teeth bared, Ceranor turned back toward the Elorians. All three lay dead. Torin knelt above them, fists clenched.
"Now do you see, my king?" the boy said, voice strained. "Now do you see the evil we bring with us? These monks will spark a flame to burn us all. We could have entered the city peacefully. We could have negotiated."
Ceranor forced himself to swallow down his anger. Evil or not, the Sailith Order was almost as strong as the crown; they were a beast that needed constant feeding. Here, bleeding upon the Elorian deck, were three more logs for their fire.
"Come with me, Torin. Back to our ship. We sail on." Ceranor looked toward the cluster of towers, bridges, and glass domes. "We sail to Pahmey."
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE:
FIRE ON THE WATER
Once back aboard the River Raven, Torin couldn't help himself. He lunged toward Ferius, grabbed the man's robes, and shook him wildly.
"Next time shoot yourself and rid the world of your idiocy!" he said.
Torin had never been quick to anger, yet now his rage pulsed through him, shaking his arms. Ferius only smiled thinly, eyes full of amusement.
"Are all gardeners so violent?" he asked, clutched in Torin's grip. "My my, aren't you a feisty one. Save your fury for the enemy, boy, not for a humble monk."
Torin gripped tighter, thrust his face close, and glared at Ferius. The two's faces were but inches apart.
"Oh, but you are my enemy, Ferius," he said. "And I am no gardener here, but a soldier clad in armor, bearing a sword. You wear simple robes of wool. Anger me again, and you will not find me so meek."
Ferius raised his eyebrows, but his smile remained mocking. "But I only seek to serve my king. I believed him threatened. I believed that the demons, those creatures you love, meant to harm him. I slew them. I rid the world of their darkness. You sought to bring their darkness aboard our ship."
Torin twisted the man's collar. He snarled, surprised at how much hatred filled him. "I tire of your lies, Ferius. Have you ever spoken a word of truth? You might fool the king but not me."
With a smirk, Ferius leaned close, and his voice dropped to a whisper. His breath fluttered against Torin's ear.
"Truth, gardener? You want to hear the truth?" Ferius said. "Here is the truth for your ears only. I will slay every man, woman, and child in this city of darkness. I will slay every last Elorian in the dark side of the world. And you will watch, Torin Greenmoat. You will watch them burn."
Iciness flooded Torin, and for a moment he could only stand frozen, clutching the monk's robes. The slaughter in the village still haunted him. To slay an entire people . . . Torin felt sick. He gave the man's robes another twist. He was about to shake him again, to shout, even to toss him overboard. A hand on his shoulder jolted him. He turned to see the king.
"Torin, leave him!" said Ceranor. "Let him be. Look off the prow. The city is near and another ship approaches."
With a grumble, Torin tossed the monk free. Hunched over, Ferius sneered and snapped his teeth at Torin, but all the while, his smile stretched across his face. Torin forced himself to turn toward the eastern waters, resisting the urge to attack the monk again.
Since entering the darkness, Torin had begun to notice that he could see farther and clearer than others. It had taken him several hourglass turns to realize that his wounded eye, the one with the permanently dilated pupil, worked perfectly in the darkness. Back in Timandra, that eye saw only blurred smudges, nearly blinded by the influx of light. Here in Eloria, it was his good eye that felt blind. As Torin stared ahead, he knew that he could see the distant city better than anyone on his ship.
Pahmey loomed ahead, only four or five miles away now. While before it had seemed like a cluster of distant crystals, now Torin could make out individual buildings. A hundred towers soared here. Smaller buildings rose between them, their walls glimmering as if made of glass, their roofs green and silver. Domes reflected the moonlight. Bridges ran from tower to tower, and streets snaked across a hill like cobwebs. Black walls surrounded Pahmey, silver where the moonlight touched them. Outside the walls, a hundred ships were moored along docks.
One ship, larger than the elders' pontoon, was sailing their way. A single sailor stood upon it, steering it forward. Its two sails were wide and battened, and painted blue dragons coiled along its hull. The deck was laden with narrow tubes of many colors. Each tube rose as tall as a man, painted green, red, and blue and topped with a colorful cone. They were stacked together in a pyre.
"I don't like this, Torin," said Bailey. She came to stand beside him and held his hand. "What are those things?"
Torin narrowed his eyes and stared. "They're too colorful to be weapons. Some are painted with stars and moons."
The Ardish fleet sailed on, a hundred ships of war. The single Elorian cog sailed toward them, laden with its colorful pyre of tubes. The Elorian sailor steered his boat toward the River Raven. This one was no elder, but a young man with clear cheeks and somber eyes.
King Ceranor turned toward his soldiers.
"Archers!" he said. "Send a volley his way. If he's a madman, he'll die for it."
A dozen men nodded, lit arrows tipped with kindling, and tugged their bowstrings. With a dozen twangs, flaming arrows flew toward the Elorian vessel.
Several arrows landed in the water, extinguishing with hisses. Several more thudded against the ship's hull, but this ship too was built of metal and clay; it did not burn. One arrow struck true, thrusting into the Elorian. The man grunted but kept steering hisclinging to the railing ship onward.
"Archers, fire!" Ceranor shouted.
A dozen more flaming arrows flew, their
light reflecting against the water. The Elorian sailor ducked for cover. Several arrows slammed into the hull, while two clattered against the deck.
The ship kept sailing forward; it was only a couple hundred yards away.
A fizzling sound rose.
Fire crackled aboard the Elorian boat.
With a whiz, one of the colorful tubes blasted upward like an arrow from a ballista. It soared into the night sky, twirled madly, and then exploded, showering a tree of green sparks.
Aboard the River Raven, men gasped and pointed. Soldiers stared at the cascade of lights above, a fountain of emerald beads. But Torin only glanced upward and then returned his eyes to the Elorian boat.
"Merciful Idar," he whispered. "There are hundreds of them . . . thousands."
The Elorian ship's sails billowed. It came racing toward them, only a hundred yards away and closing the gap. Atop the Ardish ships, more archers tugged back bowstrings.
"Stop, wait!" Torin shouted, but he was too late.
A hundred flaming arrows flew toward the Elorian vessel.
Fire crackled against its deck. Whizzes and hisses rose and sparks showered.
"Bailey, get down!" Torin grabbed his friend and pulled her flat onto the deck. "Hem, Cam—down!"
Flat on the deck and holding Bailey, Torin raised his head to see the Elorian junk barrel into the Timandrian fleet. A tube flew upward and exploded, blasting red sparks. From a dozen Timandrian decks, arrows flew.
For an instant, Torin dared to hope that was it.
Then, with a crash that nearly deafened him, a thousand of the colorful Elorian tubes blasted out.
Fire lit the sky.
Thousands of streams of smoke spurted every which way. Flames burst. Shards of color—green, blue, red, and yellow—showered like shattered stained glass. One tube buzzed over Torin's head, leaving a wake of smoke. Another crashed into the ship's hull only feet away.
The River Raven rocked.
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