Kast swung around and studied the sea and sky. “No. Not clouds.”
“What are they then?”
“Islands. We’ve reached the southern edge of the Archipelago.”
Elena glanced over as Flint stepped beside them. His eyes were fixed on the horizon, too. “We should be returning to the Pale Stallion, Elena. It is time we prepared for our own departure.”
“How long until we near A’loa Glen itself?” she asked.
Flint pointed to one of the dark shadows to the northeast. “We are already there.”
FROM THE RAIL of the Pale Stallion, Elena stared through a spy-glass at the island. A chill breeze slipped past her woolen scarf and shivered her skin. After almost a full turn of seasons, her goal was finally in sight: A’loa Glen. As she stared, Elena felt no joy, only a cold dread that filled her belly. How could a place so fraught with darkness appear so bright in the midday sun?
Formed from three peaks, the island was roughly shaped like a horse’s shoe. Its two arms seemed to stretch toward her, welcoming her into its embrace. Through the glass, Elena spotted the city itself, a bristling of towers and spires that climbed from the seas and spread up the slopes of the central peak. Atop this middle peak, like a crown on a king, stood a massive castle. Elena studied the structure’s towers and knew somewhere beyond its walls was hidden the Blood Diary and the fate of Alasea.
Yet as Elena drew her gaze over the battlements and broken towers, her thoughts dwelled on one other prize hidden behind its cracked walls: Er’ril. If Rockingham spoke truthfully, the plainsman was trapped in a dungeon beneath the castle; by nightfall, with the rising of the full moon, he would be sacrificed in an attempt to destroy the book.
Elena lowered the spyglass. She would not let that happen.
Ahead of her, the massive ships of the Dre’rendi seemed to dwarf the Pale Stallion. The fleet filled the seas with sails and dragon-carved prows. With the sun shining directly overhead, the islands around them were no longer misty shadows but had grown into sheer red cliffs and towering green mountains.
“May I see?” Joach asked, reaching for the spyglass.
Elena numbly passed him the tool. All around the rail, her companions had gathered on the deck. With the fleet sailing toward the island, the Pale Stallion would soon be parting ways. They would drift behind the last of the Bloodriders’ ships, and as the fleet rounded the isle of Raib’s Saddle, the Stallion would slip farther west to the island of Maunsk. Flint knew of a back door to reach A’loa Glen in secret, a magickal gateway similar to the Arch of the Archipelago, but he kept the details a mystery.
Joach spoke, drawing her attention. “I see watch fires in many of the drowned towers that edge the island. At least a hundred. They know we come.”
Flint took the glass from him and raised it to his own eye. “They’ve known our every movement since we first entered these seas, and we will use that to our advantage this day. The fleet and the mer’ai will draw their gazes. While they’re blinded by our forces, we’ll slip in a back door. With luck, we’ll be in and out before they even know we were there.”
Tol’chuk grumbled nearby. “Og’res do not trust luck. It be as likely bad as good.”
Flint patted Tol’chuk’s arm. “That is why we go with Elena. I do not trust fate any better than you, my big friend.”
Meric leaned on a cane with Mama Freda at his elbow. After the elv’in’s recent injuries, the taxing use of his elemental gifts had left him wasted, but at least the fire had returned to his blue eyes. “Fates be damned. We risk Elena needlessly here. We should leave her within the protection of the fleet and seek the book on our own.”
Flint shook his head. “The book is bound in a spell of black ice. I wager it will take the ward’s magick and Elena’s power to free it.”
Elena added her support. “I must go. If the Blood Diary is truly meant for me, I must free it.”
Meric scowled but let the matter drop, knowing he could not sway her.
The tiny fiery-maned pet of the healer clung to Mama Freda’s shoulder. “If you are all done admiring the island and plotting,” she said, scratching the beast behind an ear, “I have prepared an elixir to ward off fatigue and sharpen the senses. We should rest and be ready.”
Flint nodded at her words. “She speaks wisely. The zo’ol will man the sails and wheel. We will be striking on our own soon and—”
A sudden whoosh of expelled air and a spray of water exploded near the starboard side of the ship. All their gazes swung to the massive black dragon and its green-haired rider. Sy-wen spat out her breathing tube and raised an arm in greeting. “I bring news from the mer’ai outriders!” she called and waved back toward A’loa Glen. “A massive fleet lies in ambush on the lee side of the island, and flocks of strange, tentacled beasts lurk in the deep waters that border the sunken city. The Bloodriders fly ahead to flank both sides of the island, while the mer’ai have been ordered to hunt the deeper seas for the monsters!”
“Look!” Joach called out and pointed toward the island.
The small, sleeker ships of the Bloodriders, nicknamed shark hunters, had already sped forward of the main fleet. As they coursed nearer the edge of the city, racing the waves with full sails, a cascade of flaming embers blew out from the half-sunken towers and rained down upon the smaller ships. A few sails caught fire, flaring bright. Before the shark hunters could even begin dousing the flames, a barrage of boulders followed the trails of the fiery arrows, flung from catapults atop the towers. Even from this distance, the explosion of splintered wood and the concussion of striking rocks crashed over the waters.
Elena gasped at the slaughter. But she was not the only one to react.
Ahead, the larger ships of the Bloodriders dove forward, splitting into two flanks. They were a storm of sails upon the sea.
Suddenly, from around either arm of the island, foreign ships of every shape and size suddenly hove into view, ready to meet the Bloodriders.
Sy-wen called again from atop her huge black dragon as it glided the waves beside the boat. “We must be off! Ragnar’k and I will coordinate the attack from the air.” With these brief words, Sy-wen swung her dragon around. “You must leave! Now!”
“We’re off! But be sharp yourselves! Watch for our signal fire atop one of the towers near sunset!” Flint called after her. “If we get the book, we will need rescue from the island!”
Raising an arm, Sy-wen signaled her acknowledgment. “We know! All eyes will be watching for you!” With these last words, the great beast surged away, wings rising from the water to either side. Striking out, the wings beat at the water and lifted rider and dragon from the seas. With a roar of war blasting from his throat, Ragnar’k climbed into the air, seawater sluicing from his scales. He angled over their ship, passing just above the tips of the masts. The whump of his massive wings beat down at them. In a flash of sunlight off pearlescent scales, he dove away.
Flint handed back the spyglass to Elena. “We must not be caught in the edge of this fighting.” Flint waved Tol’chuk to his side and marched toward the stern wheel.
Elena raised the spyglass, unable to look away. She followed the dragon’s course across the blue sky as horns of battle blared from the Bloodrider’s ships. Spread out before them, the seas now frothed with cutting keels. Near the city, smoke from burning ships smudged the clear skies while pale tentacles rose from the depths to grab at rail and men as boats foundered.
Dragons rose, too, from the waves to tear at these blubbery beasts. Some of the seadragons also clawed aboard ships to protect their ship-bred brethren, while riders bearing swords attacked foe and beast alike. For the first time in ages, mer’ai and Dre’rendi were united in battle.
Near the island, a giant leviathan suddenly exploded to the surface. From the behemoth’s belly, mer’ai surged out of countless openings. With daggers and swords, they joined the battle at the city’s edge, climbing towers to attack the soldiers inside. Mer’ai, impaled on spears, toppled bac
k into the seas even as others replaced those who had fallen.
Elena covered her mouth in horror, tears blurring her vision. Everywhere she swung the spyglass, men and dragons died. It was as if the mer’ai and Dre’rendi were a fierce surf pounding themselves to death against jagged rocks.
The spyglass was suddenly taken from Elena’s fingers. She did not resist; she had seen enough. Without the aid of the lenses, the battle now seemed so distant, almost like a bad dream. But sound carried different tidings over the water. Screams, horns, bellows from wounded dragons—all kept the immediacy of the battle raw in her ears.
Joach was at her side, pulling her away. He passed the spyglass to one of the zo’ol. “Xin, take this. Watch the battle and keep us informed.”
“So much death,” she mumbled. “All for a cursed book.”
Joach tried to soothe her. “Not for a book, El. They die for the chance at freedom—and not just for themselves, but for their sons and daughters. They shed blood for a future dawn—a dawn only you can bring.”
Elena glanced at her brother. “But when does a price become too high—even for freedom?”
“That is not for you to judge, El. It is a price each man must weigh in his own heart.”
Elena glanced at the war raging around the lone island and judged her own heart. What price would she pay for someone’s freedom? She pictured the hard planes and gray eyes of Er’ril and knew her answer.
She turned her back on the death across the waves.
Some freedoms were worth any cost.
MERIC OPENED THE door to his cabin. He was greeted by the ruffle of feathers from the perch by his bedside. The sunhawk’s snowy plumage flared brighter with the slight motion. Black eyes, unblinking, studied the elv’in as he entered the room, but the bird did not raise an alarm. The creature knew Meric. The hawk had been seated above his mother’s throne in Stormhaven for the past sixteen winters.
Slipping a bit of dried beef from a pocket, Meric crossed to the bird and proffered the tidbit. The hawk cocked one eye at the strip of meat, then shook its mane of feathers, declining the offering with a flip of its hooked beak. Meric frowned at the insult. He should have known better. The bird liked its meat fresh and bloody, not limp and salted. Chewing the meat himself, Meric crossed to the small chest at the foot of his bed.
He needed a moment to himself to prepare for the battle to come. He ran a hand over the scars on his face. Memories of old tortures threatened to unman him, but he fought back such feelings, hardening himself.
He would not fail his queen. He had been sent to recover the lost bloodline of the elv’in king, and he must succeed. He would protect Elena with his own blood if necessary. Meric pictured the girl. Now grown into a woman by her magick, Meric recognized the subtle elv’in features in her: her tall, thin physique; the slight curving of her ear; the sharp corners of her eyes. There could be no mistaking their shared bloodlines.
Still, Meric had to admit that his concern for Elena had grown into more than just a desire to see the king’s line continue. He again fingered the scars on his cheek. He had faced the horror that walked this land and knew she and the others fought in a just and noble cause. On their long journey here, Elena had demonstrated that her heart was as noble as her heritage, and Meric had no desire to fail her, either. Luckily, for now, his role as protector of Elena served both women in his life—queen and wit’ch. Elena must be safeguarded—not just for the preservation of the king’s bloodline, but also for the hope of this land.
But as Meric eyed the stoic sunhawk, the symbol of his queen, he wondered how much longer the goals of these two women would share the same path. And if they should diverge, what path would Meric take?
Sighing, Meric pushed aside the question for now. From the sea chest at the foot of his bed, he removed a small stone. Rubbing its cold surface, Meric lifted it to his lips and breathed across it. A brilliant glow blew forth from its heart. Satisfied, he placed the windstone on his bed and removed another object from the depths of his sea chest. It was a long thin dagger. He ran a finger along the flat of the blade; his touch brought forth a crackle of silver energies along its length. Like the sunhawk, the ice dagger was a heritage of his family. More a relic than a true weapon, it would have to serve him on the journey ahead. He rested the ice dagger next to the stone. Next, he tenderly removed the last object from the chest, using both hands to carefully lift it free. It was the true reason he had returned to his cabin for a moment’s respite.
He lifted Nee’lahn’s lute from the chest and settled it in his lap. He studied the whorls of grain in the wood. It had been carved from the heart of the nyphai’s tree as it died. Gently, he let his fingers strum the lute’s strings. The sound was like a soft sigh, a whispered exhalation of relief at finally being able to speak again. Meric leaned into its allure, strumming through a few minor chords. He played softly to settle his heart for the battle to come.
As he let the lute’s voice lull him, his mind returned to Elena’s own quandary. Just what were they fighting for? Was it freedom, as Joach had insisted? Or was it perhaps something more tangible? In the music of the heartwood, pictures of Meric’s own home, the cloud castle of Stormhaven, bloomed in his mind. These fond memories drew Meric away from battle and warfare, at least for a brief moment.
Suddenly, a scuffle of heel on wood disturbed his reverie. It came from just outside his door. The elv’in’s fingers stopped their strumming. Silently, he crept from his bed, lute brandished like a sword, and crossed to the door. Meric listened for a moment. He heard no further sound, but he sensed that someone still stood at his doorstep.
Reaching to the latch, Meric whipped open the door to find a small boy cowering in the hall. Meric lowered the lute. It took him a moment to recognize the terrified figure of Tok. “Boy, why are you slinking outside my door? Weren’t you supposed to be sent to one of the leviathans for safety?”
“I . . . I hid,” he said sheepishly. “With the horses.”
Meric scowled at the boy. “Not a wise choice, boy. You would have been safer with the mer’ai under the sea.”
“I didn’t want to go with those others, sir. You’re . . . you’re all the people I know in the world.”
Meric shook his head. “Well, stowing away or not, why were you skulking in the hall just now?”
“Th-the music.” He waved toward the lute still in Meric’s hand. “I wanted to hear it better. It makes me feel good.”
Meric remembered how in the past Tok had always been underfoot whenever he played the lute. The boy had been constantly enraptured by its song. Meric settled back to his bed with the lute on his lap. “Does the music remind you of your own home?”
Tok shrugged. “I never knew no home, sir.”
Meric frowned. “What do you mean you knew no home?”
Tok shuffled nervously in the doorway, clearly unsure whether to enter or not. “I was orphaned on the streets of Port Rawl, sir. I took up with the boats to earn a keep. The sea’s been my only home.”
Meric weighed this story with his own history. He could not imagine what it would be like never to know one’s past, never to call any place home. He finally waved the boy to the sea chest beside the narrow bed. “Sit.”
Tok’s shoulders slumped with clear relief. He scurried to the chest and sat silently. His eyes grew wide at the sight of the sunhawk on its perch nearby. But the boy’s gaze quickly returned to the lute, all but begging Meric to play.
“Then what do you hear in the lute’s music, Tok? What draws you to it?”
The question made the boy squirm. When he finally answered, his voice was a whisper. “It makes me . . . warm.” He pointed to his chest. “In here. It’s like . . . like it takes me somewhere where no one laughs at me or tries to hit me. I close my eyes, and in my belly, I think . . . I think I can finally belong somewhere.” The boy’s eyes were bright with tears.
Meric’s gaze drifted to the lute in his lap. He found it hard to stare at the boy.
&
nbsp; “P-please play something for me,” Tok asked so hopelessly. “Just for a little while.”
Meric did not move for several breaths. Finally, he handed the boy the lute. “It is time you played for yourself, Tok.”
The boy held the instrument at arm’s length, as if he clutched a writhing snake, horror clear in his eyes. “I . . . I couldn’t!”
“Put the lute in your lap. You’ve seen me do it enough times.”
Gulping past his terror, Tok did as he was told.
“Now put your left hand on the neck of the instrument. Don’t worry about where to put your fingers. With your other hand, use your nails to brush the strings.”
Tok’s fingers trembled, but he listened and obeyed. He treated the lute with a reverence that bordered on worship. When his fingers stroked the strings for the first time, the sound froze him. The chord hovered in the air like a frightened sparrow. Nee’lahn’s lute spoke more with its own voice than with the skill of the player. Tok raised his eyes toward Meric, joy and wonder bright in his gaze.
“Now play, Tok. Listen with your heart and let the music move your fingers.”
“I don’t know what—”
“Just trust me, Tok. And for the first time in your life, trust yourself.”
The boy chewed his lower lip and once again brought his fingers to the strings. He strummed lightly, almost apologetically. But soon his eyes drifted closed, and he let the music move through him. Meric watched the boy transform from a lowly urchin to something full of grace. Music flowed from the wood of the lute through the boy and out into the world.
Meric leaned back and listened. There was no art to the boy’s playing; it was all heart, passion, and an ache of loneliness. It was the last song of Nee’lahn’s blighted forest and the song of a boy who longed for a past that had been stolen from him.
Meric stared at the plumage of the sunhawk as it perched so imperiously upon its branch. In its stiff stance and unforgiving eyes, Meric saw himself—or at least the person he had been when he had first arrived on these shores—momentarily mirrored. Haughty and righteously indignant with all others. But was he still the same? Since coming here, Meric had experienced acts both brave and craven. He had beheld those of low birth shine with the majesty of kings and witnessed those of noble heritage crawl through mud to satisfy their baser lusts.