by Jeff Wheeler
There were more murmurs now, which caused Sera to look up in surprise. Many of the members of the privy council nodded in approval. They wanted to believe that she had succumbed to Lady Corinne’s influence . . . and perhaps she had, only not in the way they thought. She had learned from the lady’s subterfuge, her ability to equivocate convincingly when the need arose. Some of the council members began conversing in low tones, creating a swelling noise in the room.
Lord Welles coughed loudly. “Your sentiments are commendable, Princess. I applaud your willingness to sacrifice yourself to become a queen.” His inflection was laced with sarcasm. “I know it’s not what you wanted. And it may come to naught. Our spies tell us that Kingfountain is going to hit us hard in this attack. Their general is cunning and, we are told, anxious to overshadow the king he serves. If they defeat us in Hautland, they will not listen to an overture for peace. It would be taken as an indication that we’re going to surrender. We’d sooner collapse all the arches rather than allow that to happen, but to do so would be to relinquish all of our trading partners. It would allow Kingfountain to win what is ours. No, we cannot allow that either.”
“Hear, hear,” said another council member sharply.
Welles held up his hand to forestall other similar agreements. “But, to put it bluntly, Seraphin, there are many people down below who might . . . misinterpret the situation. There are factions that might feel this council compelled you to sacrifice yourself.” The murmurs in the chamber grew quiet again. “These individuals might rise in revolt if they were to learn about your peace mission. As I said, you are quite popular these days. After the negotiations end, you may need to assure the populace in a public statement that you did not act under coercion. What do you say to that?”
Sera felt a thrill go through her and almost smiled. What an opportunity that would be! To voice her beliefs and convictions in front of a crowd. Oh, she would relish it.
She did not answer straightaway. They could not know her thoughts, and yet she did not wish to lie. She would be truthful. Mostly. Let them judge her words however they wished.
Sera bowed her head. “I will do what is best for our people,” she said simply. “Even if some of them don’t understand why I do it.”
Her words were met with applause from the privy council. The sudden noise startled her into looking up again, and she regarded those gathered around her with wonder. An involuntary smile came to her mouth. Their approbation did feel good, even though she didn’t want it. She touched her heart as if their applause humbled her. Some of the privy council members rose while they clapped.
Sera looked around the room, bowing her head in submission. Then she glanced at Lady Corinne, seated by her father. The regal woman wasn’t clapping. She was studying Sera with wary eyes.
You should fear me, Sera thought before turning away.
Her appearance at the council had been left to the end of the meeting. Following the adjournment, many members of the council approached her with praise and encouraging words. She even overheard a few of them praising Lady Corinne for the work she had done with the princess. Lady Corinne deflected all praise from herself.
Sera had started to wonder how long she’d be the target of such effusive attention when Lord Prentice, the Minister of Wind, greeted her with a brief bow. She had wanted to see him but dared not seek him out, knowing that she was being watched.
“Well done, Your Highness,” he said with a sour expression. He looked about to leave, but she stepped in his path.
“Lord Prentice, I was hoping to see Admiral Fitzroy soon.”
“Soon? Not likely, Your Highness. He’s on a hurricane off the coast of Hautland waiting for the storm.”
“You mean the battle?”
“No, I mean an actual storm. There’s no denying the storm glasses’ prediction. The winds are all blowing northeast. I spoke to him through the Command Leering earlier today. He’s ready for the battle. Then all will change,” he added grumpily.
“What do you mean, sir?” she asked.
“Well, there will be a season of peace, of course. And Lord Scott will no doubt become the prime minister. The Ministry of Thought is always predominant in times of peace.” He said it with such resentment, as if his turn had been too brief for him. “Well, such is the way of life. We each get our turn. I’m sure the good admiral will get his chance after Scott is done with it. Well, he can have it. I don’t want it.”
Sera could sense he was patently lying. She’d never liked the man—and he’d made his distaste for her egalitarian sensibilities known to her.
“Thank you, Lord Prentice. Have there been any more cases of the cholera morbus? I really am ignorant of the current state of affairs.”
“Oh, certainly,” he said. “Especially among the troops. There’s a young doctor, studied in my ministry at school . . . you probably know him, Mr. Creigh.”
“I do indeed,” Sera said with a smile.
“He wanted to study the disease ere he was done taking the Test. When the first cases began on the hurricane Anathema, he was sent for immediately. All the other War doctors wanted to flee for fear of infection. Not Creigh. Brave chap. Don’t know what causes it, but it will be our ministry that cures it. Mark my words!”
“I will, Lord Prentice. Thank you for informing me.”
“Not at all, young lady. I must be going.”
Sera curtsied to him and glanced over at Lady Corinne. The mistress of Pavenham Sky was still watching her closely. Master Sewell was standing beside his mistress, and after she whispered something to him, he nodded and maneuvered his way across the room.
“I think it went well?” Sera said to him.
“We could hear the applause on the other side of the door, ma’am,” Sewell answered, bowing. “Congratulations are in order.”
“I don’t think so. My part in all this has been very small.”
“Yes, but your part is soon to become paramount. My lady informs me that you will likely be traveling to the court of Kingfountain. You’ll be given a maid to attend to you while you’re there. A companion of sorts.”
“Do I get to pick her?” Sera asked hopefully, feigning her excitement.
“Sorry, ma’am. As you can imagine, none of Her Ladyship’s maids were willing to part from Pavenham Sky. But they do obey when asked. Just as you did today. Your maid’s name is Becka Monstrum, daughter of the maid of Lady Kimball from the towers in the City. She’s a quiet lass. Rather shy. She’s very nervous about going and may experience some pangs of homesickness.”
“Poor dear,” Sera said, shaking her head. “Tell her I’ll be gentle.”
Sewell smirked. “I wouldn’t expect otherwise, ma’am. If all goes to plan, you’ll be missed at Pavenham Sky, I’m sure.”
“I doubt it,” Sera replied, looking him straight in the eye. “But I will miss the beach and that fallen tree and the sound of the surf crashing on the rocks.”
“There’s quite a bit of that in Kingfountain,” he said with a bow. “They worship the waves of the sea there. Maybe you’ll meet a water sprite,” he added with a teasing tone.
“I hope so,” Sera said with exaggerated eagerness.
“Your attention, please!” said a commanding voice, silencing the chatter. Quiet descended on the room. Lord Welles stood at the entryway, his face grave. The room was completely silent, as if everyone was collectively holding their breath. “The attack has begun,” he said.
A few gasps came. Eyes tightened with dread, some with greed.
The speculation of the war was nearing its end. Some would rise. Some would fall. The machine continued its endless churn.
Again they were expecting us. Our fleets crossed the mirror gate into a storm. The waves tossed, and the skies were black and crackling. Then came the storm of bullets and fire from above. It was a catastrophe. It spelled ruin. Our first phalanx of ships was completely obliterated by the attack. The waters were thick with the dead and the drowning. But the Deep Fathom
s were not to be overruled so quickly. The weather hampered their victory as much as it ensured our failure. I personally saw three hurricanes struck by lightning and crash into the sea.
Though we lost the battle by any objective measure, I told the court at Kingfountain that we won but took heavy losses. If the other side had pressed the attack and chased us back through the mirror gate, they would have found no opposition. It’s a curiosity that they didn’t, despite the reputation Fitzroy has for leadership and wisdom. They could have taken the war to us, but instead they suffered us to retreat—even to leave a token force to collect the corpses. But sometimes the dead can be a great advantage.
When they describe the Battle of Hautland, what will be said? History, after all, is the version of past events that people have decided to agree upon. We will each tell our own version of events. And who is to know the truth save the Fountain?
—Leon Montpensier, Duke of La Marche
CETTIE
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
INTO THE GROTTO
When Cettie had last taken the river walk to the grotto, she’d been a girl of twelve, accompanied by Anna and Adam. But the memories of that afternoon were so vivid that she still recognized the path, the wood bridges, the crystal-clear water, and the narrow chasm carved by the river itself. Tree roots were enmeshed with rock on either side of the river, and some little trickles of water came down the sides.
The last time had been a pleasant journey that had ended in fear. This time, she hiked the trail with Rand Patchett, Stephen Fitzroy, and ten other men. Her quiet, stoic escort, Maxfield Strong, had remained behind at the manor, awaiting their return. Her companions each carried an arquebus, but Cettie did not, for she’d never trained in shooting at school. Though she was a proficient archer and had considered bringing a longbow and arrows, her skills were better suited to controlling the Leerings. Besides, if twelve men could not defeat the creature with their weapons, what good would she be with her bow?
A loud slap startled her, and she turned to see Stephen examining a bloody mosquito on his palm. He scowled in disgust and brushed the remains against the chasm wall. His discontented look shifted to Rand, who led the journey, much to Stephen’s disdain and embarrassment. When he noticed Cettie was watching him, his expression turned to one of chagrin.
“Have you found anything about the missing shipment of quicksilver?” she asked him, breathing hard. They were not keeping a leisurely pace.
Stephen brushed his forearm against his mouth. “No, there’s been no word at all. Not only is the shipment missing, but the tempest that carried it is also gone. Do you know how much those cost?”
“I do,” Cettie answered, her heart sinking. With the war going on, the sky ship would be impossible to replace.
“I don’t know what we’re going to do,” Stephen said darkly. “I’ve ruined everything.”
“We’ll make it right, piece by piece,” Cettie answered. “Just as Father would.”
The trail ended abruptly at a wooden ladder leading up to a trail of planks built against the side of the rock wall. Rand slung his weapon around his back with its strap and ambled up the incline. Stephen went next, his face flushed and sweating. Then Cettie climbed up and was surprised to find Rand waiting there, crouching, hand outstretched to help her up. Stephen stood nearby, hands on his hips, staring down the trail.
Cettie was taken aback, but she reached up and felt Rand’s strong, calloused grip. It was a strange sort of familiarity, since neither of them wore the traditional gloves. With ease, he pulled her onto the planked walk.
“Thank you,” she said, and he shrugged with unconcern.
“Lead the way,” Rand told Stephen. There was only room to walk single file. The other men shuffled up the ladder rungs one by one.
Stephen did as he was told, though his expression was marred by resentment. The glassy water down below looked so refreshing. In the distance they could hear the waterfall. If Mr. Patchett was experiencing any dread, he didn’t let it show. He looked as unconcerned as a man going for a walk in a garden, while Stephen grew edgier with each step he took toward the grotto. Rand looked back to count the men, then pursed his lips and nodded.
“None have forsaken us yet,” he whispered to Cettie. “That’s a good sign.”
“Your little speech before we left gave them some confidence, I think,” Cettie replied.
“Men are more apt to follow if they believe you know where you’re going,” he said, smiling. “Even if you’re lost, you mustn’t look like you are.”
They passed a giant green leaf deflecting a small rivulet of water that seemed to come from the cracked bowels of the stone around them. Rand paused to admire it, then bent low and turned his head so that the water ran into his mouth. He drank a little and then straightened, wiping his mouth on his sleeve. He nodded to her in appreciation and continued. Cettie glanced back and noticed one of the miners copying him.
They had left Fog Willows immediately for Dolcoath and planned the excursion to allow for the maximum amount of daylight, which Rand believed would help their mission. The muted sunlight emanating through the screen of trees made everything seem green and lush—the beauty of the day a sharp contrast to the dangers of their mission. The thunder of the waterfall increased as they approached the grotto, and finally they reached the heap of boulders that marked the entrance. Memories preyed on her mind. The first time she’d visited this grotto she’d barely managed to get out.
Cettie sensed the Leerings inside the cave. The magic touched her like music, and the chords and strain were hollow and mournful. She looked around and saw the worry and fear on the miners’ faces. Each man held his arquebus in a white-knuckled grip. There was only one exception.
Rand’s weapon still hung from its shoulder strap as he hiked to a large boulder and stood atop it, gazing into the deep shadows of the grotto. He motioned for Cettie and Stephen to approach, and they did.
Planting his hands on his hips, he said, “This feels like the lair of a Fear Liath. Sunlight is the only thing that makes them vulnerable.”
“There’s no sunlight that can reach the end of that cave,” Stephen said, shaking his head and pointing. His eyes glimmered with fear.
Rand looked at him and gave an exaggerated sigh. Then he gazed at Cettie. “That’s why the Leerings are there, Stephen. Their light is comparable to sunlight. So long as they shine as bright as daylight, the beast will be vulnerable to our weapons. I think Miss Cettie here could make them glow rather brilliantly—enough so that the beast will be driven toward us. The biggest danger is the creature’s ability to play with our heads . . . freeze us with fear and make us lose our resolve. Now, I’ll scout ahead and check the boundaries. I want you to set up the miners around the grotto, each with a clear shot at the mouth of the cave. There is enough light out there for them to injure or kill it. Can you do that?”
Stephen, who was still gazing fearfully at the grotto, nodded brusquely.
“Good. I’ll be back presently.”
Cettie stopped Rand with a touch. “Will it attack you if you come near?”
He looked surprised by her question and perhaps her concern. “I don’t think so. I’m not afraid of it.” Then he stepped off the boulder and entered the headwaters of the river. The water went up to the top of his boots, which were cuffed above his knees. He maneuvered over the river rock until he found a shallower path to follow.
While Cettie watched Rand venture into the grotto, Stephen began to curtly order the men into position.
On Cettie’s last encounter with the Fear Liath, its thoughts had twisted her mind into knots, paralyzing her with fear. She was a maston now, and she’d had years of practice calming her thoughts. There was reason to be concerned, but she wanted to project the same calm assurance she saw in Rand.
“No, that one. Yes, behind that boulder. You two, over to that one. Go,” Stephen said, ordering the last of the men into a protected position.
Cettie folded her arms
worriedly as Rand disappeared into the grotto. The miners had fanned out and stood with their weapons ready. She could see the concern in their eyes, but they were much more willing to defend the area outside the grotto than they were to venture inside it.
Rand returned, balancing well across the river rock until he reached them. Stephen approached, his lips pursed and grim.
“Well?” Stephen asked impatiently.
“I think you’d both better come with me,” Rand replied. “The Leerings are there, but . . . something is wrong. I can’t make it out.”
“Cettie can go with you,” Stephen said.
Rand gave him a sharp look but lowered his voice. “If she goes in and you do not, you’ll lose all respect from the miners. Come, Stephen. I’m trying to help you regain their confidence.”
Stephen’s face turned white with fear. “W-what if one of the men shoots at us?”
Rand looked at him seriously. “All three of us are mastons. They can’t harm us with their arquebuses. Come, Stephen. You can do this. I know you can.”
Stephen was trembling slightly, but he nodded again and stepped off the rock. Rand gave him an approving smile. He reached up so Cettie would have something to grab onto before stepping into the river. She took his hand again and then stepped into the shockingly cold water. Her skirts immediately hugged her legs.
“Follow where I walk,” he told her, keeping hold of her hand to help guide her. She was fearful she’d fall face-first into it and soak herself through.
Stephen gripped his arquebus and pointed the barrel toward the grotto as he moved forward, step by step. Cettie had always wondered what it looked like beyond the overhanging rock ceiling. Her heart beat fiercely in her chest, and she was conflicted by her feelings—the sensation of the cold water against her legs, Rand’s firm grip on her hand, and the unknown facing them. They all entered the shadowy interior of the grotto, but they had not gone far enough yet for it to be completely dark.