Stormcaster

  32

  WEEPING SISTER

  For the first few days of the crossing, the weather was blustery and cold—typical for early spring in the northern oceans. Personally, Breon enjoyed the ride, spending as much time as possible on deck, chatting up the crew and asking questions about the ship, the rigging, and the ports they’d been to. Gathering information that he hoped to use later.

  Most were the empress’s purple mages, and they were a dour lot, not particularly receptive to his considerable personal charm. Gradually, though, they grew to tolerate him, allowing him to help them in their work and join them on their watches.

  The Siren was built for speed and maneuverability and not for the tender stomachs of day sailors. Her Highness huddled miserably in her cabin until Breon finally managed to coax her up on deck. Once they were there, he advised her to put her face in the freshening wind and fix her eyes on the horizon. After that, she was less prone to spewing, which made their shared cabin a lot more livable.

  Since that day on the beach, when she’d murdered Aubrey, the empress had been sweet, solicitous of their comfort, so kind that butter wouldn’t melt in her mouth.

  Breon listened hard for Celestine’s music, but he heard only the raging storm—the crash of thunder, the creak of the masts and singing of the lines as the sails filled, and the flapping of the sheets when they lost the wind. He watched and waited, looking for a chance to get hold of one of Celestine’s belongings that might give him a clue. But she was exceedingly wary of him, as if she knew all his tricks and how to sidestep them.

  He meant to make her pay for Aubrey somehow. Now that he was clean, he seemed to have lost his limitless ability to make excuses for himself. He’d done some low-down things in his life. He understood what it was like to have nothing and want something, and know that the only way to get it was to take it. His “manager”—the streetlord Whacks—had taught him that honesty was something only a blueblood could afford. And then he’d come to realize that most bluebloods lie and cheat and steal even if they don’t have to. The only difference was that their takings were bigger and they nearly always got away with it.

  As they neared their destination in the Northern Islands, the seas rose and the weather worsened. A howling wind drove needles of rain into their faces and made it all but impossible to remain on deck. Visibility was so poor that Breon couldn’t see more than an arm’s length past the gunwales anyway. He worried that they wouldn’t know they’d found land until they broke apart on the rocks.

  The seas would rise under them, lifting the Siren until she was perched atop a mountain of water. Then she’d begin to slide down the other side, plunging nose first into a trough between the waves so deep that rain and salt water mingled together in Breon’s mouth. Eventually, his stomach would rejoin his body and it would happen all over again.

  Breon watched as the empress strode up and down the quarterdeck, her hair seething in the wind, barking orders at the helmsman and the first mate, muttering curses at someone named Latham Strangward. It was as if she were in a personal grudge fight against the sea.

  She knew what she was doing—that was clear enough. Her crew clung to every order like it was a lifeline that would pull them out of the storm and into the blue.

  Her Highness was clinging to the rail, eyes closed as if she could pretend she was somewhere else. Breon leaned close, shouting to be heard over the wind and waves. “If she goes down, let go and jump as far as you can so you don’t get pulled under. Then swim like the Breaker’s on your tail so you won’t get tangled in the lines.”

  She nodded, so he knew she’d heard him, but said nothing. That was when he remembered that Her Highness couldn’t swim.

  All right, then.

  “Hold my hand,” he said, prying one of her hands loose from the rail and gripping it. “Don’t let go. When I jump, jump with me.”

  She gave him that look of hers and said, “Save yourself, busker. I would prefer not to be responsible for your drowning.”

  “If I drown, nobody will miss me,” he said. It was true, now that Aubrey was gone. “In your case, the fate of the realms hangs in the balance.”

  That wrung a damp smile from her. “If I die here, busker, write me a song. Legends live longer than actual people.”

  Moments later, they were crushed to the deck as if the air were a lead weight pressing down on them. Just as Breon began to worry that he might suffocate, the pressure was gone. They seemed to pop through an invisible wall, leaving the howl of the wind and the crash of the waves on the other side.

  The winds that had been filling the sails and straining the lines to the breaking point died away. The Siren glided forward in the sudden silence over a moonlit sea toward an island shrouded in mist and cloud. Overhead, the stars seemed impossibly bright after so many days of gray. Weeping Sister—it must be.

  It was not their day to die after all. Maybe. There was a saying Whacks liked to use—“out of the frying pan and into the fire.” Breon wondered if it might apply in this case.

  The princess opened her eyes. They looked at each other, rendered speechless, which was rare for him, personally.

  As they drew closer, Breon saw the source of the mist: multiple waterfalls cascaded from the cliffs, sending up clouds of steam when they hit the cold ocean. Fumes erupted from fissures, and the mountainsides were lit with sullen orange wherever lava leaked through. The Weeping Sister wept scalding tears.

  Three tall ships were moored in the harbor, sails rolled and bound to the masts. Warehouses newly built of raw wood squatted in concentric circles around the quay. Surrounding those was what appeared to be a newborn city, devoted to military and marine purposes—barracks and stables and paddocks, a sprinkling of small stone houses in a uniform gray color.

  Beyond the warehouses and stretching up the slope were the ruins of a once-great city, built of timber and stone. Now the roofs had rotted through, the walls had caved in, and stone pillars—monuments to the old gods—had toppled and broken.

  And, there, overlooking the harbor, extending higher than anything else on the shore, was a marble palace, apparently still under construction. It seemed to glow in the moonlight, as if the walls couldn’t contain the light within. The center part looked finished, frosted with elaborate carvings of dragons and sea serpents and sirens. Two wings were like broken-off teeth, still ragged at the top, swarming with workers who resembled insects at that distance. Working through the night.

  Breon had an affinity for the music of harbor towns—for the discordant clamor of the flotsam and jetsam that accumulate wherever seafarers come ashore to do business and forget their troubles. They were places where ugly rubbed shoulders with uglier, where utility outranked beauty, where new elbowed forward, embarrassed by the old. It was a place for living and dying and making bad decisions of all kinds.

  This looked like no harbor town Breon had ever seen. It was as if it had no soul, no memory, no history, no music at its heart. It told no stories. Breon didn’t like it one bit.

  On the other hand, Her Highness looked cheerier than she had in days. She was probably encouraged by the prospect of stepping onto solid ground again. She stood, chin up, shoulders back, drinking in the view, as if storing it away for future use.

  The helmsman shouted orders to the rowers as the Siren made a graceful turn, coming up alongside the largest of the docks, which was emblazoned with the siren emblem Breon had come to associate with the empress.

  The empress descended from the quarterdeck and strode toward them, smiling. “Welcome to Celesgarde,” she said. “You’ll be housed in the palace as my honored guests.” Her purple eyes flicked over them. “I am not surprised that you have an affinity for the sea,” she said to Breon. “You have . . . so many gifts.” Impulsively, she drew him into her arms, so that his face was pressed into her leathers while her other hand toyed with his hair, raising gooseflesh across his back and shoulders. “I have waited so long for this day,” she murmured. “We will be so gr
eat together, I promise you.”

  What did she mean by that? Was she speaking of some sort of . . . relationship?

  Breon’s heart slammed around in his chest, as if it might break through skin and bone. Fear and revulsion shuddered through him by turns, and his magemark seethed and burned. He steeled himself, focused, reaching out, listening for any whisper of song.

  When it came, it was hauntingly familiar, as if it was already embedded in his bones. He couldn’t help thinking, Is it really her song, or my own?

  This is where it all begins.

  This is where it all ends.

  The shattering,

  The rejoining.

  Forged in the bleeding earth,

  As it has been, it shall be again.

  At midsummer,

  When the sun pauses in the sky.

  It echoed between them, reverberating into a clamor of notes until he pressed his hands over his ears—but there was no way to shut it out.

  Finally, blessedly, Celestine released him and turned to Her Highness. “I trust that you are more capable on land than you are on the water.” It sounded like some sort of threat or warning.

  “I am more capable on land,” the princess said, with a flash of her usual spirit. The color had returned to her cheeks. She stood, hands on hips, studying the harbor, the ships, the new-built town, the palace—no doubt looking for any vulnerability or advantage in an impossible fight.

  Good luck, Your Highness, Breon thought.

  This thought was interrupted by shouts from the others on the quay. They were pointing at the sky, some crouching and covering their heads with their hands. Breon looked up in time to see a dark shape flap across the face of the moon. It circled once, glittering, then beat it toward the mountains, its flight disjointed, erratic, as if it was injured.

  They all watched it until it was out of sight. Lyss turned to the empress. “What was that?”

  “Sun dragon,” the empress said. “The mountains in Carthis are infested with them, but we don’t see many of them this far north. Most can’t make it through the Boil, but it’s good hunting for those who do.”

  33

  THE BLACK WIDOW

  In the days following his visit with the Matelon brothers, Destin wished he could warn Evan that their gambit had failed. But he had no idea where he was. When they’d parted, Evan had mentioned sailing north, which was why, for one heart-stopping moment, Destin had thought that Evan was the prisoner Matelon described, the target of Celestine’s attack on Chalk Cliffs. Especially when Matelon said that he was from Tarvos.

  But no. This red-haired busker did not match Evan’s description. So, who was it? Was it another magemarked target that had brought the empress here?

  Be careful, Pirate, he thought. Be smart. Keep moving. In the meantime, he resolved to do whatever he could to keep Celestine from expanding her foothold in the wetlands. He needed a plan.

  These days, though, it seemed events were moving too fast, spiraling out of control. These days, his plans seemed slapdash and reactive. But he had to try.

  Destin found Queen Marina on the terrace with the princess Madeleine and a handful of her most trusted ladies—the survivors from among those who had come with her from Tamron when she’d married King Gerard. Whenever Gerard had wanted to punish Marina for some particularly grievous sin, one of her ladies-in-waiting would disappear, to be replaced by a Montaigne loyalist. It was heartbreaking to watch Marina become more and more isolated.

  Until Destin was put in charge of the disappearing. He stashed the ladies in a temple in Tamron, and they’d gradually returned to their queen since the king’s death.

  The queen spent much of her time on the terrace, or in the gardens—places where there was less risk of eavesdroppers. It was something she’d learned from Gerard. It was a good thing she lived in a warm climate.

  When she saw Destin, Marina lit up, rising in a rustle of satin and extending her hand for kissing. “Look, Madeleine,” she said. “It’s Cousin Destin.”

  Madeleine charged at Destin and threw her arms around him. The princess was nine years old going on twenty-five. It was no wonder—she’d seen too much in her brief life that was unsuitable for children. Or anyone.

  When the general had dragged Destin back to Ardenscourt, Marina had welcomed him into her small circle of hurt. She would tend his wounds, both physical and emotional, and he did his best to reciprocate, by sharing information and commiseration. By putting as many weapons into her hands as he could.

  “Please. Sit,” the queen said, waving him to a bench. Destin sat, and Madeleine squeezed in beside him. Marina motioned to two of her ladies, who immediately picked up their basilkas and began to play loudly enough to cover the conversation in case anyone was listening.

  The queen was dressed in black and purple, as was her custom these days.

  “Mourning suits you, Your Majesty,” Destin said. And it did—she looked happier and healthier than he’d ever seen her. The colors she’d chosen set off her raven curls and Tamric complexion.

  Marina lifted her skirts and kicked out her feet, exposing bright-red shoes. “I chose these colors in memory of Gerard—to remind me of all the bruises I received at his hands. I don’t want to forget that there are worse things than being a young widow.”

  Destin laughed. “Things can always get worse, but every now and then they get better.”

  “Maybe,” Marina said, her smile fading. “We’ll see. I think Gerard should have died sooner, when Jarat was younger and I had more influence over him.”

  Destin slid a look at the queen. He’d long suspected that Marina knew more about the king’s tragic end than she let on. If she did, she had not shared it with him. While they exchanged information, they each had secrets they kept close.

  “Speaking of King Jarat,” Destin said, “what news of the young hawk?” He and the queen often played at pretty speech when discussing the ugliness at court.

  Madeleine leaned toward him. “My brother has been drinking all afternoon with Charles and Georges and Luc.” She rolled her eyes. “They’re disgusting.”

  Charles and Georges Barbeau and Luc Granger were members of a group of young lordlings—what the young king called his “privy council.” Emphasis on privy. Most were in their early twenties, and so a few years older than Jarat (and Destin, for that matter). They were the sons of thane loyalists, and were minor bannermen, with a lot to gain from a relationship with the king. None were tainted by a history with King Gerard, nor were they spoiled by wisdom or experience—or common sense. They were more than happy to take the young king under their tutelage in the study of drinking, hunting, dicing, wenching, and swordplay.

  “I’ve told you to stay away from them,” Marina said. “It’s not suitable conversation and company for a young lady.”

  “How else am I supposed to find out anything?” Madeleine said. “Jarat was bragging that he’s going to marry a northern princess.”

  It took Destin a moment to process that. “Really? Does he have one picked out?”

  Madeleine shrugged. “There’s only one left, isn’t there? They were talking about all the women they’d had, and would have. Jarat said Father never bedded a wolf, but he would, and even a wolf could be tamed with the proper—”

  “Madeleine!” Marina scowled at her daughter and thrust out her hand. Madeleine sighed deeply, dug in her tiny purse, pulled out a copper, and dropped it into her mother’s hand.

  “What’s the copper for, Your Highness?” Destin said to Madeleine.

  “Mama is trying to teach me dis . . .” She frowned and looked at Marina.

  “Discretion, darling,” Marina said.

  “Whenever I’m . . . indiscreet, I have to pay Mama a copper.”

  Destin reached behind Madeleine’s ear and pretended to pull out a silver. He handed it to her and said, “You were saying?”

  Mother and daughter both laughed.

  “I think it was just Jarat bragging like he always does,
” Madeleine said, tucking away the silver.

  I hope so, Destin thought, recalling what Matelon had said about the northern queen. “If your brother means to marry a wolf, you should tell him that wolves eat hawks for dinner,” he said.

  “No,” Marina said sharply. “You should not tell him that. Now, isn’t it time for your dance lesson?”

  “She wants me to leave,” Madeleine confided in a stage whisper. She kissed Destin on the cheek, curtsied to her mother, and flounced away.

  Marina gazed after her. “She will make somebody a clever queen if she lives that long.” She turned back to Destin, set out two cups, and poured them both some cider. “What brings you into the garden today?”

  It was an odd echo of his garden walks with Gerard, during which he’d receive his marching orders.

  Destin nodded toward Madeleine, a bright spot of color disappearing through the gate. “Is there anything to what she said? Is there some kind of plan or negotiation with the north afoot?”

  Marina sighed. “Not to my knowledge, Destin, but the king doesn’t confide in me much anymore, either. I’ve been giving him too much counsel that’s contrary to his nature. I don’t think he trusts me to tell him what he wants to hear. Unfortunately, there are plenty of people at court who will.” She fluffed her skirts and offered him a platter of grapes. “But enough about our family squabbles. What do you have for me?”

  It was part of their unspoken bargain—to trade information without getting too specific about sources.

  Destin sorted through bits of information, setting aside those that were too dangerous to share.

  “Do you remember the empress in the east? Who wanted to lend us an army?”

  “Of course. That deal fell through, right?”

  “Right,” Destin said. “But she’s brought an army anyway, and invaded the Fells.” He watched the queen closely, and she looked absolutely ambushed. The queen had her own sources, but clearly she hadn’t known this was coming, either.