Birch followed the drones through kitchens, workrooms, armories. Along the way, they collected remnants discarded by the wreths: scraps of metal, fabric, broken tools, worn furniture, knobs of crystal, tubes, polished bits of stone. The drones spoke a strange chittering language among themselves that made no sense to him, but he listened closely.
In large, smelly laboratories inside the glacier, grim wreth mages performed horrific tests on animal victims and test subjects. Birch watched in nauseated silence as they tortured huge white bears and reindeer captured outside. Bound to a rack of silver and crystal, one of the wreths’ large wolf-steeds, which they called oonuks, had been flayed of its fur; the agonized beast snapped and twisted, its body a mass of glistening red meat upon which the mages burned runes.
Fascinated and sickened, Birch didn’t dare make a sound. After they hurried beyond the hearing of the mages, the drones spoke more easily. They strove to teach him, and he tried to imitate their language. When they showed him the words for wall and sword and queen, he responded with human words, and the drones shared the new words among themselves.
The party grew larger as more drones joined them over the course of their activities. By the end of the day, when they emerged from the frozen palace into the biting wind and open sky, Birch knew more than a handful of their words. He began to make conversation, and the drones chittered back at him.
In the frigid air, the drones dumped their gathered bounty into a midden pile out of sight of the palace. More drones sorted through the day’s prizes, and bits of shiny metal or fragments of crystal caught Birch’s eye. He realized some of those scraps were substantial enough to be sharpened, turned into makeshift weapons.
Birch had had a knife once. It was larger than Tomko’s. Their grandmother Tafira had given each boy a dagger and taught them how to throw them. She was quite proficient, entertaining the boys with her tricks.
He pocketed some metal and crystal fragments. Maybe he would use them to make a knife.
Birch followed the drones to their low huts and ducked to enter the stuffy interior. The air was thick with a rotting stench, but at least it was warm, and he enjoyed the company. Although he was different, the drones accepted him.
Sitting inside, they exchanged more words. Birch learned how to say pot, water, fire, teeth, and he taught them his language as well. Their gestures were complex, and he could tell they understood far more than Queen Onn imagined.
As the drones watched him, he withdrew the wooden pig from the pocket of his new trousers and set it on the frozen dirt floor. The drones gathered around, bending close to admire it. “Pig,” Birch said. He picked up the toy and moved it across the floor, making snorting and oinking sounds, as if it were alive.
The drones repeated the word and the pig sounds, but they didn’t have a corresponding word in their own language. Birch wondered if the drones had ever seen a live pig this far north. The Lake Bakal village had been frozen and dead before the frostwreths brought any drones to the fortress.
He thought again of his grandfather King Kollanan carving little animals as gifts for him and for Tomko. The frostwreths fashioned drones in the same way, like toys to be discarded.
The wind picked up outside, flapping the skin walls of the hut. He enjoyed the stumbling conversation with the friendly drones. He pointed to the cookpot that contained shreds of meat, grease, and simmering liquid over heating crystals. “Cook,” he said, trying to demonstrate the concept. He took out the sharp fragment of metal, found the pointed edge, and sliced a gouge on the frozen ground. “Cut,” he said.
The drones chittered and each took something sharp and cut a gouge in the floor. They shared their equivalent word.
Birch thought of the hated wreths, his dead family at Lake Bakal, and everything that he endured as a captive here. Someday, he hoped his grandfather would come and rescue him.
If he made his own knife, Birch could help in the fight. He and his drone friends could hurt the frostwreths.
As the drones served up a pasty mixture of salvaged food, Birch reviewed the words he had learned. He had actually enjoyed teaching the drones and learning their language.
He wasn’t sure how he would convey the idea of revenge, though.
18
IN Serepol Harbor, seven Isharan warships prepared to launch against Fulcor Island. The seagulls in the air above reminded Klovus of the screams of the dying.
Feeling good, he stood on the main docks wearing a dark caftan embroidered with the marks of his high office. His freshly shaved scalp and cheeks glowed with softening oils, and his belly was full from a fine breakfast. He had rested well despite being entertained by a skinny but winsome young lady no more than fifteen, whose parents had offered her as a sacrifice for a special blessing from the godling, and Klovus had been happy to oblige.
Crowds along the waterfront cheered the uniformed soldiers who marched forward in perfect ranks, wearing dispassionate expressions. They seemed completely confident that they would recapture the strategic island.
After tapping into the outrage of the people, he knew the best way to keep them firmly in line was to launch this attack as soon as possible. Very few in Ishara actually cared about Fulcor Island, a rock that happened to be a good anchoring point between the two continents, but after the atrocity committed against their beloved empra, the populace now considered Fulcor the most important piece of land in the whole world. Klovus wanted them to keep believing that.
His authority to order such a bold strike might be questionable, but with the empra incapacitated, Klovus had filled the void before anyone else dared, even that street girl who did not know her place. As key priestlord, he was a leader of Ishara, too. He merely helped facilitate what they all knew needed to be done. Who would dare contradict his orders to avenge their beloved Iluris? Anyone trying to stop him would have been torn limb from limb.
The cheering crowd gave the soldiers energy as they marched along the docks to the waiting warships. Commercial vessels had been anchored out in deep water so that the seven warships had the primary pier all to themselves. Preparing to set sail, the naval crews adjusted rigging, checked the anchor chains, and made way for the soldiers to board. Porters lifted crates of dried food, blankets, firewood, lamp oil, arrows, and other supplies to stock the garrison for months, once the Isharan army recaptured the island.
After the main ranks boarded, a last squad of Isharan soldiers moved along the dock in perfect formation. Their leader, a nondescript man with a plain face, paused before Klovus. He spoke in a low voice. “We are in place as you requested, Key Priestlord. We will ensure your victory on Fulcor.” Startled, Klovus realized that the man was Zaha, leader of his Black Eels. The assassins could shift their appearance to mimic anyone they chose.
Klovus gave his blessing, and the soldiers—his handpicked assassins—marched aboard the lead ship. He already felt confident about this mission. Now they just had to wait for their secret weapon, the godling.
A gong rang from the harbor temple at the end of the docks, and the carved wooden doors swung open wide. In awe, the people murmured, “Hear us, save us!”
Ur-Priest Xion emerged from his temple, eyes intent on the harbor. His weathered face and rough skin signified his earlier life as a fisherman; the man had faced storms and even survived a shipwreck before he felt called to become a priest. With his devotion and coolheaded command, Xion had risen quickly in the priesthood, and now would serve an even greater calling as he commanded his godling to a victory for Ishara.
Aware of what was coming, the awed crowd backed away, clearing the street.
With a humming, swirling sound, like a thunderstorm comprised of bumblebees, a terrifying shape oozed out of the temple’s open doorway. Summoned from its arcane realm, the godling extended tendrils of smoke, which retracted and swirled into a ball of snakes. Faces appeared on the indistinct body, a smoky mass of screaming human visages, frantic expressions of power and anger. Small bolts of lightning skittered throu
gh the amorphous form.
“Hear us, save us!” the people chanted, their voices growing to a roar. Klovus was glad to hear they had stopped whimpering their grief over the comatose empra.
Klovus felt a chill as he saw the monstrous harbor deity. Because he had served in Xion’s position for years, tending the harbor temple early in his career, he felt a special bond with this godling. He had recently taken this entity on a warship to raid Mirrabay.
Xion led the entity toward the waiting warships with a proud and confident gait. The godling rumbled and seethed behind him, completely under his control. If unleashed, it could wreak incredible damage, a swift storm filled with monsters of superstition, terrors of the deep sea. Only a strong priestlord could guide such chaotic power, and this time Ur-Priest Xion would lead the attack.
The crowds parted to make way for the godling. Dock boards creaked and splintered, some parts smoking, other sections covered with a sheen of frost.
Klovus stood at the boarding ramp. “We have been attacked and betrayed. We have been insulted by vile people who do not deserve to live.” He drew a long breath through his nostrils and gestured behind him to the seven warships. “Our powerful navy will break down their defenses, but you and your godling will be the key to conquering Fulcor Island.”
Xion gave a minimal bow. The thundering entity roiled and shifted behind him, like a pack of wolves turned into mist and lightning. “Key Priestlord, we will protect our land.” For the first time he showed a flicker of uncertainty and he lowered his voice. “Are you sure I should leave my followers without their godling?”
“You need not fear for the people here,” Klovus said. “The Magnifica godling grows stronger every day, and we can easily protect Ishara. Our greatest threat is the Commonwealth, and yours will be our first blow against them.”
Xion raised his hand, showing a long scab across the palm where he had gashed himself to sacrifice blood. “As I take my godling far from Ishara, its strength diminishes. Will we be strong enough for a battle so far away?”
Klovus scoffed. “The beliefs of our people anchor it and give it form. The godling was strong enough to devastate Mirrabay on the other side of the sea. It will be sufficient to take over Fulcor Island.”
Xion bowed and moved up the boarding ramp. “Hear us, save us.”
The godling boiled behind him, rushing, pushing, lashing out a tendril of smoke, then drawing it back. On the warship’s deck, the soldiers withdrew in fear. Near the waterline, all hatches had been covered with wooden shutters. The cargo hold was ready.
As the ur-priest walked aboard, the godling rolled onto the ship, leaving burned spots and a smoking, misshapen footprint on the deck before it extended an appendage toward the open cargo hatch and poured itself down into the hold below.
By himself, Ur-Priest Xion swung the hatch shut and secured the bolt in place, sealing the godling inside the hold. He called out, “We are ready.”
The seven warship captains shouted to one another across the harbor. The crews worked the ropes, climbed the masts, set the sails, pulled up the anchors. While the godling simmered in its confinement, the seven formidable vessels headed out of Serepol Harbor.
19
THE upper tower of the empra’s palace was well guarded. Neither Captani Vos nor Cemi left the chambers, and other hawk guards took their stations in regular shifts so that each man remained rested and alert.
The empra lay pale and still on her sumptuous bed, looking too much like a perfectly preserved corpse. It startled Cemi every time she looked at her. She touched the woman’s cool hand, was relieved to feel a faint pulse on her wrist. She spooned tepid broth between the Ilursis’s dry lips, enough to keep her alive.
Cemi spent all day, every day with a hard knot in her heart. The entire land teetered on a precipice and the slightest change could send them all tumbling into an abyss. Setting the soup aside, she gripped Iluris’s hand, muttering, “We are here to help you, but you have to help us. Hold on!”
Chamberlain Nerev arrived at the end of the corridor. His expression sagged, and his eyes looked sad and weary as he requested entrance into the royal suite. Cemi looked at Captani Vos. Since taking refuge here, the two of them had had many quiet discussions, sharing their concerns. They both agreed the chamberlain was on their side. Vos gave a signal to the guards.
Nerev wore black and purple robes stitched with patterns, and a heavy amulet hung from a gold chain around his neck. Moving ponderously, he paused before the empra’s bed and bowed deeply, his gold chain swaying, then he turned to Cemi and gave her the same gesture of respect, though he didn’t seem to know which title to use for her.
“My lady, Key Priestlord Klovus just dispatched the Isharan navy to recapture Fulcor Island. He sent the harbor priestlord and his godling to aid in the attack. I thought you should know.”
From the tower windows, they had already watched the red-and-white sails depart, sailing out onto the ocean. “I do not disagree with that. It is important for Ishara … after what happened there.” Still, Cemi tried to think of reasons why the barren island had been worth fighting over for so many generations. Was it just for the symbol? When she and Iluris had first seen the bleak, craggy rock from the deck of their diplomatic ship, Cemi had not been impressed. “It is a necessary military mission.”
Nerev rubbed his lantern jaw. “The point remains that Key Priestlord Klovus should not have given the order. None of the military advisors would speak out against him because they support the same course of action, and Klovus offered to send the harbor godling to guarantee victory. But it makes me uneasy. No priestlord commands the military of Ishara. That is the authority of the empra.”
Captani Vos also seemed unsettled, but he lowered his gaze. “Klovus claims he is doing what the empra would command, and she isn’t able to contradict him.” All the guards muttered their agreement. Vos seemed to be convincing himself. “But how can we object? Striking Fulcor is the obvious course of action. After what happened to our mother there, we must purge the island of godless vermin. They deserve to die.” He looked down at the gray form of Iluris, and Cemi noticed that his lips were trembling. “All of Ishara wants the same thing.”
Cemi brushed a strand away from the empra’s forehead. “It has to be done. Who else would give the order?”
The chamberlain looked pointedly at her. “Why not you? With each command Klovus issues, the next one becomes easier, and the people grow more accustomed to listening to him.”
Cemi tried to think what Iluris would say or do. Cemi had grown up in the gentle Prirari District, a place of orchards and rivers. Parentless, she lived on the streets, scrounging for her existence, occasionally offering sacrifices to the benevolent Prirari godling. Here in Serepol, she had learned only the rudiments of statecraft, thus far. She studied hard, but there was so much she did not know yet. “I am not ready. You realize that, Chamberlain, as did Iluris.”
Nerev focused his attention on Cemi, rather than on the silent woman on the bed. “I’ve served the empra throughout her reign. I know Iluris as well as anyone, better than any of her husbands. Her wishes were plain. She wanted you to be her successor.” He looked around at the hawk guards standing at attention in the room. “The rest of you understood that as well.”
All of the guards gave nods or murmurs of agreement.
Cemi just wanted her beloved mentor to wake up and for things to go back to the way they were. “I am still studying, but I am not wise enough to be empra!”
Nerev grew more serious. “Nevertheless, I know what my empra intended, and I know that your heart is not corrupt. Ishara needs a leader. Now.”
“I’m not ready to rule,” Cemi insisted, but her objection felt weaker. She understood in her heart that it was indeed what Iluris would have asked of her.
“No one is, but I suggest we begin to prepare.” When Cemi nodded, he straightened his robes and turned to exit. He moved with his usual ponderous gait, but she could tell he left a heavy par
t of his burden behind.
* * *
The loyal servant Analera delivered broth and juice for the empra, along with more substantial food for Cemi and the hawk guards. She had a bent back and fragile bones, so old that she seemed a marionette made of sticks and leather. Since the day they had returned home, the old woman had tended all of them, taking charge of the other servants, overseeing the empra’s care, escorting physicians who ultimately could not do anything beyond healing her external wound. Other servants under Analera’s guidance took shifts to bring what was needed, but she often did the work herself. She showed as much devotion as the hawk guards.
Entering the tower chamber at noon, the woman carried a tray that seemed to weigh more than she did. A tremor in her hands made the dishes rattle, but she did not waver as the guards let her pass. With a slow, careful process, Analera placed the tray on the side table. The open bowl of broth smelled of beef and mild spices. Cemi thanked her. “You take good care of us.”
The old servant paused, fighting back tears. “Iluris has always been my purpose. I worked to keep her safe and alive most of her life. This isn’t the first time someone has tried to kill her, you know.” She ladled the soup into a bowl and placed it in Cemi’s cupped palms. She offered to spoon broth into the empra’s mouth, but Cemi insisted on doing it herself.
Analera continued, “I was a girl of sixteen when I entered palace service. I began under Emprir Daka … who was an awful man.” She made a disrespectful noise, then muttered, “Hear us, save us,” as if in apology.
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