“Close by?” Whitney scoffed. “It’s halfway across the yigging world.
“Closer than Yarrington,” Sora said. “Closer than a lot of places, at that. Besides, Whitney, we have no other choice. By sea, it won’t be that bad, we’ll be to Yevet Cove sooner than later, and from there, it’s a short walk.”
Whitney stared, incredulous, then ran a hand through his hair. It had grown long since the last time they’d been together. Sora thought she liked it.
“Well, if you were trying to tempt me by saying all that stuff about dumb thieves, it worked. You can get us there?”
“As Sora said, it’s a few days sail across the Covenstan Depths, then a short climb. But the entry ain’t too far away.”
“But, you can get us there?”
“Aye.”
Whitney clapped his hands. “Then, what are we waiting for?
VIII
The Knight
In recent times, Torsten hadn’t imagined approaching the gates of Latiapur except at the lead of an army. It wouldn’t be like last time, serving under King Liam, when the Black Sands were conquered and their former Caleef bent the knee. They hadn’t stayed long then. Not even to watch the tournament hosted in honor of King Liam, where Muskigo’s rise to fame had begun. There’d been too many other, more pressing matters at hand.
Deep down, however, he did always hate the kinship he’d felt with the Shesaitju. How disciplined and strict they were. How dedicated to the art of fighting—and for them, it truly was an art. He hated how he felt more in common with them than most of the nobles in Old Yarrington. More in common with heathens who worshipped the sea than the people he’d grown up around.
When he’d first battled Muskigo, Torsten saw how, if it hadn’t been for Uriah Davies’ guidance, he would have easily become like the afhem—bent on vengeance, without boundaries, and willing to kill innocents in the name of victory. And as he approached the city of their new Caleef, he wondered if those feelings had been what pushed him to despise the man so viciously.
Now, the fate of his entire world hinged on Muskigo’s daughter. A stranger. And the only thing Torsten knew about her was how soundly she’d routed Sir Nikserof’s army before supposedly rising from the dead, chosen by her people’s God of Sand and Sea.
She’d be another foreign Queen to enter the hallowed halls of the Glass Castle. Only, unlike Oleander, Mahraveh wasn’t merely hard and forceful—she was a warrior. A commander. Liam had the heart to stand up to his betrothed, but Torsten knew Pi well enough to know that he wouldn’t. Couldn’t.
Mahraveh was all the things Oleander was, and older than him.
To have any hope of defeating Nesilia, they would be handing over the Glass Kingdom itself.
“Are you okay, Sir Unger?” Lucas asked.
“Huh?” Torsten glanced up. They were atop a black dune looking down over Latiapur and a field of stacked clay buildings. Along the back, sharp cliffs rose, topped by a grand, domed palace exceeded only by the Glass Castle in pure magnitude of human engineering.
“You stopped.”
“Oh.” Torsten breathed in a mouthful of the hot, musty air. The desert was unforgiving, and he was a much younger man when last he was there. “Just thinking.”
“About what we saw?” Lucas asked. “It’s all I’ve been thinking about. Their eyes. I’ve never witnessed such evil.”
“Weirdly enough, no. I’ve seen evil. Plenty of it. That was awful, but possession isn’t surprising. It’s so much worse when a man grows impure all on his own..”
“Those people could have been strong enough, faithful enough to resist possession. Like you’d been.”
Torsten chuckled. “I’m beginning to think it’s just stubbornness. But I’ve seen what happens when the boundaries of Elsewhere tear. The mystics often pushed too far in their war against us, and some fell to demons. Even Wren the Holy couldn’t save some of them.”
Lucas seemed to shudder at the thought. He turned his attention back to the impressive Shesaitju capital, with a marketplace so bustling and colorful, it was hard to believe.
“Then what is it, Sir?” Lucas asked. “I’ve known you long enough to know when you’re troubled.”
“A desire to turn around,” Torsten admitted.
“What?”
“I understand the wisdom of this marriage. Uniting our people in a way that binds blood and fates together. Muskigo wouldn’t have offered it if it wasn’t the right strategic move. He would have hated selling his daughter too much.”
“I’m not sure what you’re trying to say, Sir.”
“Once they are lawfully joined under the Light of Iam, the Glass Kingdom we know dies,” Torsten said. “Muskigo will get his victory.”
“That’s not the way I see it.”
“Because you’re young, and the only woman you’ve yet loved is your mother. If everything about this Mahraveh is true, and she’s anything like her father, she’ll roll right over King Pi like an avalanche in the Dragon’s Tail.”
“No.” Lucas shook his head emphatically. “You forget who his father was. And his mother for that matter. And you, his chief adviser.”
“Lord Jolly is his chief advisor. I am but a relic.”
“You know that isn’t true, Sir Unger. You are the Master of Warfare and—“
“A title created by a child to make an old, blind man feel needed.”
“That’s enough, Sir,” Sir Danvels said. “I know you outrank me, and you’ve lived longer, but you’re the most respected man alive. Iam’s breath, to most of us, you should be King.”
“Bite your tongue,” Torsten said.
“We need you, Sir Unger.” Lucas trotted his mount closer, lowering his voice as if not wanting to dare Nesilia to overhear him. “You saw what’s coming. If we don’t stand together, she’ll destroy us all…” He swallowed hard and looked toward the ground. “She might either way.”
Torsten lifted his chin. “She won’t. You’re right, Lucas. The time to worry about the Glass Kingdom’s future is after we win. And if it is meant to end in defense of all the world Iam built, then so be it.”
Torsten gave his mare a kick, and it shot down the dune toward the city gates. He couldn’t let pride impede him. Nor his love for a fallen King and Queen. The kingdom of Iam needed him, and that had to mean more than a castle or a crown. Didn’t it?
Latiapur neared, and the first thing Torsten noticed wasn’t the host of golden-clad Serpent Guards lining the gates’ entry. It was the hundred or so Shesaitju warriors leaving. Men armed to the teeth marched and rode zhulong out, turning to head north.
None appeared happy. One in the lead even watched Torsten on approach, seeming to sour the nearer he got. And when Torsten pulled up in the shadow of the gate, the leader spat in his direction. He was bald, and like any afhem, tattooed from head to toe, except right along the back and side of his skull, where the mark of his afhemate had been scraped off to leave a scar just like Muskigo bore.
“They’re leaving?” Lucas asked. “Nobody is supposed to leave. We need them.”
“To face off against a goddess they don’t believe in,” Torsten remarked.
“Don’t believe in? Their own people saw her!”
“War tore the Black Sands apart. Not all their people will approve of this union, just as half the nobles of Yarrington will likely protest. It’s inevitable.”
“Torst… Master Unger, you saw what Nesilia has behind her. We’ll need everyone.”
“Everyone we can get,” Torsten agreed. “Lord Brouben is already hard at work convincing his father to speak with the dwarven kingdoms and summon as large an army as they can muster. King Pi sent a dozen gallers to Brekliodad before departing Yarrington, begging their dukes to put aside any differences and aid. We will have whatever we can get, and many won’t be eager to die for a world beyond their borders.”
“Until she comes for them,” Lucas spat.
“And then it’ll be too late. But I met Nesilia, and I fe
lt her heart. She’ll aim for the Glass first. With everything she has. She’ll come to snuff out Iam’s light, and if we fall, everyone will fall.”
“Then everyone who doesn’t fight with us is a fool,” Lucas said.
“Welcome to Pantego.”
Torsten feigned a grin, then trotted forward into the city. Only weeks ago, the Shesaitju guards might have torn Glassmen like them to pieces for coming so near. Sir Marcos had been on the wrong end of such an interaction—killed for being a messenger.
“Sir Unger, you are finally here!” a gravelly voice exclaimed. A chunky Shesaitju man pushed through the guards, then waddled over, using his hammer-staff as a crutch. It was Tingur Jalurahbak, the former afhem who’d battled Nesilia alongside Torsten and the others at White Bridge. Presently, he had a red-stained bandage over his afhemate markings and a wrap-around both his gut and bad leg courtesy of the Buried Goddess.
“Lord Tingur,” Torsten acknowledged, bowing his head from atop his horse.
“I’m no lord,” he replied.
Tingur promptly shouted at some of his men in Saitjuese, and their equivalent of stable boys hurried out to help with the horses. They assisted Torsten, even doing so much as to cup their hands so he could use them as a step. They buckled under the weight of him, then did the same for Lucas. It was unnecessary, but Torsten felt some of the tension slip from his shoulders at the warm welcome.
Tingur approached him, then slapped his shoulder. Torsten had forgotten how short and stocky the gray man was, and his curling mustache seemed even thicker, but there was no mistaking his expression. He truly was pleased for Torsten to be there. It wasn’t a show.
“Your injuries—“ Torsten began before Tingur cut him off.
“Won’t stop me from fighting that pis’truda. That lot you just saw leave might not believe what’s coming for them, but I know what we saw.”
“Good.” Torsten gestured to Lucas and invited him over. “As my ward here has said a thousand times since we left Panping, we’ll need everyone we can get.”
“Smart kid.”
“Our Shieldsmen always are.”
“King Pi arrived with more than a handful more,” Tingur said. “They’re a little younger than I expected.”
Torsten bit his lip. He couldn’t believe it was so obvious how green the warriors of the Glass Kingdom’s highest echelon now were. He wondered if, perhaps, they should consider covering their faces like the Serpent Guards. Cutting out their tongues, so they had no voices of their own, was a stretch, but something to maintain the mystique of Liam the Conqueror’s elite.
“How is the King?” Torsten asked.
“Preparing for a feast,” Tingur replied. “Come. I’ll take you.”
Torsten nodded, and two of the Serpent Guards broke off to escort them through the crowded, zigzagging streets of Latiapur. There was barely space to breathe. Markless men and women—those Shesaitju who had never committed to one of their warrior clans and instead inhabited Latiapur—cluttered around like ants, transporting supplies, selling supplies. The Yarrington markets were half the size of theirs, and infinitely less colorful.
Warriors marched on patrols. Not just single guards or even pairs, but full squads in full armor. Serpent Guards monitored every major avenue and structure. Torsten had never seen Latiapur like this before.
A show of force from our new Queen, he realized. He knew that because it was precisely what Muskigo would’ve done. Like hanging bodies off a wall to scare the enemy away from battle.
“So, what is Nesilia planning?” Tingur asked. “How many men will we need?”
“All of them. In the whole world. If we can get them,” Torsten said.
“That doesn’t sound good.”
“It’s worse than not good,” Lucas chimed in.
“It seems that Nesilia has done what even the worst mystics in the last age have only attempted,” Torsten said. “She’s torn Elsewhere wide open.”
“The Currentless Realm?” Tingur asked, his eyes going wide.
“Its name is irrelevant. But the demons of the damned who dwell there are not. They have infested the poor souls of Panping. Who knows how many…”
“Ah, those skinny Easterners?” Tingur scoffed. “This’ll be easier than I thought.”
“They are still people!” Lucas snapped.
Torsten scowled at him. But upon realizing how agitated Lucas was, his features softened. He couldn’t expect a man so young and idealistic to maintain composure in such a situation. Another reason to give all Shieldsmen masks.
“I think what Sir Danvels is trying to say is that if we can save them, we have to try,” Torsten said.
“That will not be up to me,” Tingur replied. Then he pointed toward the Boiling Keep and said, “That’s up to her.”
He stopped at the base of stairs at the end of the city’s main avenue. Gilded statues of zhulong stood proud on either side of it, their tusks encrusted with bands of flawless gems. It sliced up through a series of escarpments, leading into the colonnade of the domed Palace. Detailed murals were painted on the riser of every step, detailing the history of their people, faded from centuries out in the hot southern sun.
“What is she like?” Torsten asked.
Tingur chortled. “Oh, Sir Unger, you are about to find out. In the short time I’ve known her, she’s managed to surprise me more than any one of my wives, living or dead. If only I’d been here to watch her scrape the history off the heads of so many afhems.” He leaned in and whispered. “Don’t repeat this, but we damn well had it coming.”
“I’m not surprised. Muskigo was a brilliant tactician, coming up with that. He took away what made you all special, and with it the pride that ravaged these lands. I’m amazed Liam never thought of it.”
“Muskigo?” Tingur patted Torsten on the back. “No, my new friend. In this matter, Muskigo was a victim, same as the rest of us. That idea was all our new Caleef’s.”
Tingur used his weapon to push off and start up the stairs. Torsten regarded Lucas, and both their brows furrowed with concern. When Torsten had learned about the erasure of the afhemates, the act had Muskigo written all over it. Now, as he took the first step, his anxiety returned in full vigor.
He’d never climbed to the Boiling Keep; only guarded the bottom of the steps while Sidar Rakun officialized his surrender to Liam. Even he had to admit—the views from the upper bluff were incredible. The low dusk sunlight splintered across an endless field of foaming waves stretching out toward an ever-shifting horizon.
The salty vapor on the air was welcome. It reminded him of being back home in Dockside. It felt like ages since he’d been there, ready to set off and defeat Mak and end a war, only now to find himself prepared to fight a bigger one.
Serpent Guards permitted them into a square courtyard beyond the outer gates. Tall blackwood trees tickled the sky, casting thin shadows. The inner doors were closed, and a crowd of confused and angry people stood just outside. Important looking people.—former afhems, Shieldsmen, Lord Jolly, and even Dellbar the Holy himself.
“What is everyone doing out here?” Tingur asked, rubbing his belly. “I’m starved.”
“Lord Unger, you’ve returned,” Lord Jolly exclaimed. He strode over, then struck his chest with his one remaining hand.
Sir Mulliner did the same, muttering, “Sir Unger.”
Neither looked pleased to see him. And Dellbar remained leaning against a far column, his lips moving slightly like he was muttering to himself. He didn’t even notice their arrival.
“Bit’rudam, what is this?” Tingur asked a younger Shesaitju. He was dressed in full Serpent Guard armor, but without the helmet or mask like the others, and apparently, he still retained his tongue as well.
“The King and future Queen have locked themselves in there. Alone.” There was no mistaking the revulsion in his tone.
And Torsten couldn’t help but feel that same way. The last thing he’d hoped for was this Caleef Mahraveh getting a c
hance to manipulate Pi on her own.
IX
The Caleef
“Blessed be this feast and the One who brings forth bread from the earth, in the name Iam, Light of our world,” Dellbar the Holy said, spreading his arms over the banquet that had been laid out in the palatial throne room.
Mahi watched him. Heavy bags hung from his blinded eyes above an unkempt beard that grew wiry on gaunt cheeks. This priest looked drained and utterly exhausted. Even his voice was hoarse and barely projected.
Tingur told her what had happened to him. That, apparently, his god, Iam, had possessed his body to drive Nesilia away.
“May His Vigilant Eye watch over us,” Dellbar went on. He then traced those dark circles with his fingers and bowed his head. King Pi and all the Shieldsmen seated at the smaller tables behind him did the same.
Then, Dellbar lifted his cane, and the blind High Priest shuffled back to a seat alone in the corner of the room. Mahi watched him plop down hard, then slide his plate away before leaning back.
He ate nothing. Drank nothing. Said nothing.
At the same time, the palace sages prayed to the God of Sand and Sea in Saitjuese. A nigh’jel was sacrificed, its black blood dripping down through the open Sea Door.
“Eternal Current guide us,” they finished. The trusted Shesaitju warriors and former afhems seated behind Mahi repeated the same. She didn’t. She kept her eye on the young King of Glass and, seated directly across from her, he did the same to her.
A private, circular table had been arranged over the Sea Door of her throne room, open in the center so as never to cover the spray and whistling wind. Palace servants carried in all manner of Shesaitju delicacies, platters resting on their heads.
Their first course was a delectable rock crab curry—the very meal she shared with Jumaat on the day he was taken from her. Though it saddened her, no tears came. It was followed by broiled root mash and thick-cut zhulong ribs slathered in spices found only in the Black Sands. She didn’t think the young man would be able to handle the heat, but he did so with ease. He tried a bit of it all, yet never gorged himself. Even though he had to eat with his hands like a proper Black Sandsman, his movements were refined, noble in the way Glassmen thought they were.
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