He tore open the doors with such force that the floor of the Hall of Scholars vibrated, sending books and scrolls tumbling from the shelves that lined the rotunda above him.
Slamming them shut with equal force behind him.
* * *
Ashe strode out of the Citadel of Scholarship at a pace that increased with each footstep. He broke into a run when he reached the fountains in the gardens at the center of the Academy of Science complex, startling the robed and hooded academicians who scrambled quickly out of his way.
His dragon sense and the memory of his previous visits allowed him to head unerringly to the beach on which he had landed. That same inner sight made note of his uncle watching from the wide arched window on the second floor of the Hall of Scholars, following his departure as he left the Citadel.
Ashe spat on the inlaid stone walkways as he left, desperately seeking to dispel the rampage that was rising within him, by which, if he were to give himself over to the dragon in his blood, he would destroy everything on the island, beginning with his uncle.
When the beach was in sight he drew his sword. Kirsdarke’s blade was raging almost as angrily as he was, with searing blue waves rolling savagely from the tang to the tip, where they appeared to vanish into nothingness. As he ran into the tide, he swung the blade above his head, banishing the disappointment from his mind.
And threw himself into the arms of the sea.
Heading west again.
* * *
Edwyn Gryffth watched, frozen in his stead at the window of the Hall of Scholars, watching his nephew, the only member of the next generation in the royal line of the Cymrians, making his furious exit from the Citadel of Scholarship, tearing elemental power from the air around him and leaving a barely visible path of residual smoke in his wake.
He was so riven with anger that he could not quell the shaking of his body, even as his Longsight, a skill he had learned a lifetime before, allowed him the view of Gwydion running into the waves of the Gaematrian coast, swinging the elemental blade of water ferociously over his head as he entered the sea.
More like Anborn than his father, he mused as he narrowed his eyes, trying to catch a last glimpse of his nephew’s disappearance. A shame.
He turned to see his chancellor, the dean of sciences, and Jal’asee, the ambassador of Gaematria, staring at him, wide-eyed. Edwyn sighed deeply and waved them away, almost dismissively.
The High Sea Mage waited for the scholars to depart, then slowly made his way out of the Hall of Scholars and deeper within the Citadel, to the place where the White Ivory tower stood.
The sea wind was high as he exited the lower levels of the Citadel, whipping his hair about him and filling his nose and mouth with salt, a sensation akin to having them bloodied. Edwyn ran a hand through his flying curls, salt-and-pepper tresses that had been the hallmark of his father, which his nephew had inherited, though Gwydion’s shone like metallic copper, a gift from his grandmother, Anwyn, Edwyn’s mother. He pulled his hair back angrily and shielded his brow with his forearm in the screaming sea wind.
He made his way through the hallways that led to the obelisk, carefully maintained yet rarely visited, and crossed the threshold of the circular mosaic that meticulously graphed the seven seas and landmasses of the world on the near side, and astronomical charts that represented the major constellations on the far side, to the circular building of sand-polished rose stone which was erected around the tower almost two thousand years before. Then he pulled from the massive key ring at his belt a series of almost identical keys and, pushing his flying curls aside one last time, he stepped forward to address the door.
As he stood on the silver square at the threshold, a column of light appeared from below him, wrapping him for a moment in a clear, glorious vortex of spinning illumination, humming with sound.
“Edwyn Griffyth ap Gwylliam ap Rendlar tuatha d’Anwynan o Serendair,” the Sea Mage said.
After he had spoken, the spiraling light whirling around him shattered and fell, as if in solid pieces, to the ground around the silver square and vanished like snow. The clear, bell-like sound ceased, and a series of thousands of keyholes appeared in the door.
Quickly and rotely, Edwyn inserted the keys in the pattern he had known for most of his life, since the time he had abandoned his family on the continent and had come to live here, among the Sea Mages, seeking to learn their wisdom, their secrets, as well as to distance himself from the parents he loved but could not appease. After three dozen had been placed in the correct holes, the door disappeared in much the same way the vortex had.
The High Sea Mage hurried inside.
Above him the obelisk towered, its thin rockskin infusing the space beneath it with pale, ivory-colored light. Edwyn made a quick visual check of the doorways that led off of the great round foyer and, seeing nothing amiss, made his way to the circular stairway leading to the top of the tower and began to climb.
Though his Cymrian physiology had granted him an excessive life span, his energy and vitality were no longer what they once were. Edwyn gripped the polished stone handrail as he ascended the stairs, taking his time, measuring his breathing, pausing every now and then, promising himself a respite from the delicious pastries and heavily sauced seafood he had been indulging in of late, until at last the wind of the sea coming in through the open windows rippled through his hair once more.
“Damnation,” he snorted as his curls fell across his eyes.
He fought his way through the thickening sea breeze, which was growing stronger with each step, until finally he came to the room atop the tower. It was little more than an enclosed platform, and the largest telescope of the Gaematrian isle stood in the center, pointed at this moment out to sea to the south.
Edwyn stepped carefully across the platform until he came to the enormous ancient spyglass. While the astronomical telescopes were housed within the high towers off the central foyer, this instrument was specifically built to view the welkin of the sky, the horizon, and the expanses of the sea all the way to the Manossian islands.
He sighted the instrument, then looked through the lens.
At first he could see nothing but the vastness of the ocean beyond and around the island. The sea appeared as it always did, neverending, endlessly blue-green, reaching to the horizon. Except for the occasional passing bird and a strong, heavy-hanging mist that sparkled brightly, the vista was unbroken.
Strange, Edwyn mused. Not even a single vessel within a hundred leagues.
He shook his head, annoyed and bewildered at his nephew’s unfounded hysteria, and had proceeded to move away from the lens when an infinitesimal flash caught his eye.
Had he not been shaking his head in disapproval, it was unlikely he would have seen it, but just in case he positioned his eye on the lens again.
And looked closer, from a different angle.
Allowing his eyes to relax and go unfocused.
At first, he saw nothing but a blurry blue sea.
Until the sparkling mist flattened before his eyes like a card.
Revealing an armada that stretched from the edge of the island’s reef into the endless distance.
With serpentine shapes flying above a large number of the vessels.
Exerting an unmistakable and threatening control of the vast sea.
“Sweet God, the One, the All,” Edwyn whispered.
18
FIELDSTAFF, PROVINCE OF CANDERRE
The Lord Marshal had been hearing updates all morning of the approaching armored caravan. By the time it finally arrived within the garrison’s walls, he had been striding the grounds below the ramparts, impatiently wearing a pathway in the mud left over from the rains of the previous two nights.
He made his way quickly to the carriage, only to see that the person he sought was actually on horseback in the center of the mounted brigade before the coach. He hurried through the other horses and men atop them until he came to a Lirin forest horse shaking the rain from i
ts mane.
“You are looking well,” Anborn ap Gwylliam observed, smiling up at the Lady Cymrian on her plaited roan. “I see you have recovered from the arrow you took in Bethany.” He reached up without waiting for acknowledgment and gently took hold of her waist, hoisting her from the mare and delivering her easily to the ground. “I trust you are feeling better.”
“I am, for the most part,” Rhapsody said, kissing his cheek. “Still don’t have full range of motion on the left side, but the pain is all but gone.”
“I would think Lirin healers would have been able to bring you farther along,” the Lord Marshal grumbled as he hoisted her saddlebag off the roan and took her by the elbow. “You are just in time; I was concerned that you might miss the briefing.”
“We came as quickly as we could,” Rhapsody said, allowing him to steer her around mud puddles and fresh horse droppings that had yet to be cleared. “Tyrian had been enduring and repelling increasing numbers of raids from the southeastern border; it’s clear that Sorbold is testing us, gauging our resolve and our military capacity while it sacrifices a few of its seemingly unending supply of soldiers in the hope of escaping with intelligence it cannot get from outside of Tyrian.”
“What do your commanders think they are trying to gauge specifically, if anything?”
“They think they are trying to discover the trap system and the natural defenses that were developed within the forest and not built or designed with any components from Talquist’s trade stream,” Rhapsody replied, nodding pleasantly to the soldiers that bowed as they passed her, staring intently at her until they caught Anborn’s glare of displeasure, then quickly returning to military decorum. “I’m not certain I entirely agree.”
“Oh? What do you disagree with?”
“Well, I have no doubt they are interested in the forest defenses, but it seems odd to me that they keep taking pieces of trees with them when they retreat.”
Anborn’s brows drew together. “Please elaborate.”
“The incursions that were occurring just before I left had a common pattern—the scouting parties would send a preliminary sortie to just outside the forest, then veer off, whether they had drawn a response or not. Then, shortly thereafter and no fewer than two leagues away, another sortie would actually broach the forest, riding a protective barrier around a swift group on non-barded horseback that would break off limbs of a few trees, then retreat quickly, the rest of the assault force covering them.
“There was enough enemy fire to hide this action in what looked like regular offensives and attacks, but I noticed on my way back from seeing Achmed off at the southern border that certain trees had been sampled, harvested, it seemed, in ways that no Lirin would have done.”
Anborn opened the main flap of the conference tent and held it for her.
“And what do you conclude from all that?”
Rhapsody’s face was serious as she passed beneath his arm.
“I believe they are testing substance weapons on the wood,” she said, nodding politely to Solarrs and Knapp, two of the general’s most trusted men-at-arms, who bowed in return. “I am not certain, of course, but I believe they are looking for materials that might be capable of burning the specific trees native to Tyrian. Word has no doubt spread of the sapling of Sagia that is growing, unmolested, in Highmeadow after an attempt was made to set it on fire by a soldier who had deliberately allowed himself to be taken prisoner from a raid in Avonderre. He didn’t survive his attempt, of course, but that seems an odd thing to do unless there is a plan of chemical attack in the works.”
She came to a stop in front of a table around which traveling chairs had been set.
“Is that the tree in which you put a harp that endlessly plays a protective melody?” Anborn asked.
“It is, so it is a unique situation. The trees of southern Tyrian—white elms, heveralts, and gray gums, along with a unique group of pine species—are well suited to withstand fire attack, some because they shed their drier, older layers, assuring a high moisture content in their leaves or needles, and others because they actually reseed through fire. I imagine that their plan is to systematically burn the forest and establish temporary bases as they continue to move the burn line forward. Sooner or later, if successful, they’ll have a foothold in the south that they can connect all the way to the occupied harbor of Port Tallono on the west coast. Then they can off-load troops from the sea and press forward from the south until they meet up with their forces that have already taken and occupied coastal Avonderre in the north.”
“Hmm,” said Anborn. “Were you able to set anything in place as a deterrent?” He pointed at a chair and took up the pitcher on the table, pouring two glasses of water from it, handing her one.
Rhapsody took the cup and raised it to her lips. “Thank you,” she said after taking a sip. “Gavin and I did a universal blessing of the trees and plants of the Great Forest, which should protect them somewhat from damage by fire, though little else. In the Tyrian raids I noticed the heveralt seemed to be of special interest, or at least that is the type of tree which seemed to have the most samples taken from it. It is certainly one of the most plentiful species in the southern forest, so before I left for the Circle, I sang a song of protection in its language, the name of the species, in the hope that it might help specifically.”
“I hope so, too,” said the Lord Marshal. “Now, take a seat, if you please, m’lady. While you, the young duke of Navarne, Solarrs, and Knapp are about to be assigned to the division command of one of each of the northern cities and basilicae, the other half of the new military forces are about to be deployed under my direct command to the south along the Threshold, which the reserve troops have been holding since our far-too-easy victory in Bethany, north of Sepulvarta. We need to rid the holy city of its occupiers and move the front back into Sorbold proper.”
Rhapsody nodded. “Where are you putting me, Lord Marshal?”
“I was going to offer you the choice. Your husband has been recruiting and training these troops I am about to see for the last three years, or so he continuously claims. Those men have been mostly deployed for training in this province, and within the other northern states of Yarim, Bethany, Navarne, and Bethe Corbair. There were mercifully few in Avonderre, owing to that being a naval area, not an army installation, and so at least those new soldiers were spared. So, if there is one place that you think you would prefer to be assigned as the division leader, now is the time to say so. I assume young Navarne will want to be similarly assigned in the encampment of his own province.”
“That would make sense.”
Anborn’s face grew serious.
“I think you might wish to avoid Yarim, and potentially Bethe Corbair, m’lady,” he said, a quieter and more direct tone in his voice. “Those are bad places traditionally for women. Now, you will have a whole garrisoned city of men to protect you, but I am only leaving a half contingent in each and moving the rest down to the Threshold of Death in the south.
“Talquist’s forces have a history of harming women and children, and rape is an instrument of war where he is concerned. Fhremus Alo’hari, the supreme commander of the Sorbold forces, is a good man, or at least he was when he trained with me long ago, but since the Merchant Emperor has taken the throne, the atrocities that have been reported are inconceivable. I would not want anything to happen to you.”
His words ground to a halt.
Rhapsody was staring at him as if his head was sprouting fire.
“Please tell me you are joking,” she said flatly.
A smile passed between Solarrs and Knapp as they directed their gaze down at the tabletop.
Anborn drew himself up severely.
“I never joke in the advent of war,” he said, equally flatly. “I have only the greatest respect for your abilities with a sword, m’lady—”
“Clearly.”
“—but as your sworn knight, I have pledged my life to you for your protection and need. It will
be hard to defend you in a place where both the enemy army and the populace are known for brutal attacks on women, at least historically.”
“Not since the new Cymrian Age has begun,” Rhapsody said, trying to keep the amusement that had risen within her out of her voice. “Ashe sent extra divisions to Yarim at the very beginning. Ihrman Karsrick has assisted in the undertaking with his provincial troops. The crime rate has dropped markedly.”
“You cannot undo two thousand years of culture overnight, m’lady,” Anborn said darkly. “And so, since you asked, I will amend my offer to ‘any of those provincial garrisons except Yarim.’ ”
Rhapsody bowed her head humorously.
“I will request Bethany, then,” she said. “The basilica of Fire is there, and that is an element I am very comfortable with, given that I bear the sword dedicated to it.”
“An excellent choice—a well-fortified citadel and centrally located. Should all else fail you could evacuate the province and flee to the south, to the central garrison of the Threshold of Death just north of Sepulvarta that we defended together a short time ago.”
“Thank you,” Rhapsody said, a wry smile touching the corners of her mouth. “Now, if you will allow me, Lord Marshal, I should like to show you some precautionary armor that might make you worry less about me and the women of that province.”
Anborn nodded agreeably.
She rose and went to the saddlebag Anborn had carried for her and rummaged through it. Finding what she was looking for, she returned with a ring about a knuckle and a half in diameter, forged of thin, flexible metal. Inside the ring were tiny metal wires, similarly thin and forming a fluid, bristly circle that resembled a miniature wire cleaning brush. Anborn touched one of the tiny wires and then withdrew his finger, bleeding slightly.
“What is this?”
Rhapsody smiled. “Protection against rape. Or at least deterrence.”
The three men exchanged a blinking glance.