“It doesn’t grow in Theoria, Highness,” Cy says. “But we’ve brought a sackful of seeds back with us from Pelusia. We’ll set about planting them right away. Though I’m not sure how they’ll fare in this weather.”
“You’ll have to grow them inside,” Esmelda interjects. “They need very little sunlight, fortunately for you. But they thrive on the salt water from the oceans. You’ll have to add salt to any water you irrigate them with.”
“And fortunately for you,” Sethos says, “I have a fondness for Cy and his fascination with you. Otherwise, you’d be dead.”
Cy waves his hand. “Yes, yes. She deserves to be put to death for her crimes. But I must recommend we bring her health into good standing before she dies of starvation.”
“Your king did not take care of you?” Tarik says.
Esmelda nods. “At first, he did. But when Theoria began to treat the patients with spectorium, and the plague did not have its desired effect…” She shrugs. If she pities herself, she does not show it. In fact, she shows no emotion at all.
If she is not concerned with her predicament, why should I be? “How long will the Acutus take to grow, to be useful to us?”
“It’s a fast-growing plant, Highness. Two weeks under the proper care, and we’ll have enough root to make the first batch.”
Tarik gives Cy a stern look. “Have the fountains in the palace drained and plant the seeds there. In this weather, I doubt you’ll find soil that is suitable for planting so you’ll need to dry the mud first. You are personally responsible for the care of the seeds. See that it happens as she says.”
“And the Lady Esmelda?”
“Keep her under lock and key and guards. And pride of the pyramids, get her some food.”
Cy nods. “As you wish it.” He helps Esmelda to her feet, steadying her as they make their way to the door. When they are gone, Sethos gives Tarik a look of disgust. “You could have waited until I returned before taking back the palace. I’ve been itching for a good fight.”
“Then you should have started a few in Pelusia. Particularly with King Graylin, I think.”
Sethos yawns. “Where is Tulle? I could use some comforting.”
“You’ve always hated her, ever since we were children, Sethos. What changed? Why must I even ask?”
“I’ve always loved her. Hate and love are closely related, you know. I just didn’t realize it until I saw her again.”
Tarik mulls over the words and finds truth in them. He supposes passion can be mistaken for many things. “Tulle and Sepora are visiting the Baseborn Quarters. I sense a secret between them, but Sepora continues to evade my questioning.”
Sethos grins. “You’ve met your match with that one. And you’re a fool to have called it off. I could still punch you for that.”
Tarik sits and leans back in his chair. He’ll not discuss his personal affairs with the likes of Sethos. His mouth is more active than his prowess for women. “Speaking of engagements, I have some news for you. King Ankor has consented to allow you to marry his daughter.”
“You jest.”
“I swear it.”
“Do not toy with me, brother.”
“If you don’t believe me, ask Tulle for yourself. Rashidi’s visit was a success.”
“What could have changed his mind? Last time I saw him, he was leading his entire army in pursuit of us.”
Tarik tries to suppress his grin and fails miserably. This is going to be great fun. “As it turns out, you’ll be leading his army from now on. Because you and Tulle are to reside in the Ice Palace.”
* * *
After four weeks of nothing but rain, the city of Anyar was flooded. The River Nefari overflowed and Parani swam the Bazaar, attacking the citizens and merchants who chose not to seek out higher ground by the palace. Many chose to stay behind and guard their possessions and lost their life to the great flood in one fell swoop. Those who didn’t drown in the wake of the flood were taken by the Parani, suffering an even worse death than being snuffed out by water. The Wachuk warriors did their best to use the Scaldlings to extract as many Parani from the waters as they could, but the death toll continued to rise.
After eight weeks of rain, even the first floor of the palace is underwater. A makeshift kitchen has been set up in the upper west wings, and servants are forced to double up in the sleeping chambers aboveground. From his balcony, Tarik can only see the tops of roofs at the Bazaar, and the small single lights of boats drifting along the water covering what was once desert. He is weary of the sound of rain and thunder. If he never heard it again, it would be too soon.
Tarik turns to Sepora, who sits in a chair in his seating area. She sketches a pyramid on parchment with a piece of kohl, absently rubbing a bare foot up and down Patra’s belly. The cat lies in front of Sepora’s chair, purring in appreciation, flicking her tail now and again contentedly.
He’s more grateful now than ever that in the end, Sepora decided to stay as a guest in the palace instead of returning to the Baseborn Quarters—which are now flooded and unlivable. He’s met with the Great Council and his best engineers. It was decided that they’d build up shelters in front of the palace, laboring in the rain to complete their homes on stilts. In fact, most of the citizens have chosen this option, and Wachuk has supplied an abundance of wood for the job.
Chariots have been replaced by small boats and skiffs. Citizens who had solid structures to begin with have moved to their rooftops, using tents as shelter from the rain. Trading has all but halted. The Middling crops are ruined. The people have resorted to eating the Parani and other fish that venture into the city.
It would seem the treaty with the Parani will never recover from this.
Tarik shakes his head. “We eradicated the Quiet Plague only to be taken down by a weather anomaly?”
Sepora looks up from her drawing. She has been obsessed with pyramids of late, drawing them and asking questions about their construction. Such detailed questions that he’d had to refer her to his architect. Still, he’s grateful that she’s able to focus on something other than her losses. Yes, he had wanted her to mourn her losses, but he’d wanted her to recover from them, and not only because he’s been waiting for the right moment to ask her again to wed him. He wants her mind at ease. He wants her to feel better. And for all his Lingot abilities, he still senses a great sadness in her.
“It can’t last forever,” she says, “and you’re doing all that you can.”
He sits across from her and nods at Patra. “She’s restless. I’ve been running her up and down the stairs between the second and third floor, but she longs to get out of the palace.”
“We all do. Sethos is going to drive me mad with his whining.”
“Sethos has no reason to whine. He has a wife to see to his every comfort,” Tarik says dryly. He’d taken the news of King Ankor’s requirements quite well, actually. It had been no fun at all, when he’d readily agreed to live at the Ice Palace if it meant wedding Tulle and keeping the peace. Perhaps he’d meant to make up for starting a potential war in the first place. But Tarik suspects his new and improved mood has everything to do with Tulle. They’d requested to marry immediately—which had been a good idea, since Sethos could barely keep his hands off her—and they’d moved into Sethos’s old childhood chambers within the palace. It is a cozy set of rooms for the two of them, Tarik is sure. He is sure, and he is jealous of what his brother has.
He tries not to stare at Sepora while she draws, but he can’t help but wonder what it would be like to wed her. To climb into bed with her every night, to wake up to her in the morning, to confide in her all his secrets and hopes and wishes.
But can he confide in her, truly? He isn’t sure, even now. For still, she hides something from him. When he asks her about her visits with the citizens of the Baseborn Quarters, she glosses over the truth, opting instead for evasive answers. What she might be up to, he couldn’t say. He even asked her directly once, and she changed the subjec
t altogether. It can be unnerving, to always be engaged in a battle of wits with her.
Unnerving, and a pleasure at the same time.
A knock at the door draws him from his thoughts. Commander Morg lets himself in. He bows before them. Tarik can already tell from his face that he will not like whatever Morg has to say.
“Highness, I have urgent news for you.”
“Yes, I gathered that, Morg. Speak your peace.”
“Ships have been spotted in the Dismals, Your Majesty. Many ships, of great size. They move toward Anyar.”
“Ships?” Sepora repeats, sitting straight in her chair. “Ships meant for the ocean?”
Morg nods. “Indeed, Princess. There are dozens of them.”
She gives Tarik a grim look. “Pelusia,” she says, but he is already thinking it. He’d been waiting for Hanlyn to make her move and preparing accordingly. Of course, he’d thought by now that he’d be warring with her on dry land. But the woman has brought ships with her instead. How could she have prepared for such weather?
Tarik has no ships of his own. He has no shipbuilders. Of course, he has faith in his engineers, but they’ve no experience in the matter. And now, they have no time.
“What are your thoughts, Commander Morg?”
“It would be foolish to meet them in the Dismals with smaller vessels, Highness. I say we wait it out and fight them here.”
“That’s a greater chance for damage to our buildings and structures,” Rashidi calls from the door. He makes his way to them, his staff clinking against the floor as he walks. “We cannot protect our citizens if they are in the fray.”
“I was hoping we could evacuate most of the citizens to the Lyceum,” Morg says. “And inside the palace.”
The Lyceum is the only building in all of Anyar that remains unflooded, simply because it was built upon a high foundation meant to symbolize higher learning. Its steps are mostly underwater, but the living quarters remain intact and dry. A kingdom-wide invitation had been sent for families to fill it as needed, but many chose to remain at their homes and build from the ground upward. Tarik understood the choice of his people; it is the Theorian way to persevere. But this time, he needs them to obey. Tarik nods. “Send the women and children to the Lyceum, and keep Majai there to watch over them. Bring the men to the palace—and start arming them.”
Tarik paces the room, his mind reeling. “Set up a Slinger on every rooftop.” The Slingers can be used to tear down sails, rendering the ships dead in the water. Morg has fine-tuned the aim of these mechanisms so that they can separate a man’s head from his body with a simple arrow. “Send for Queen Emula and tell her to prepare her warriors and Scaldlings. And fetch Sethos. I need him to cooperate.” Because he’s going to ask for Tulle’s assistance. She is a weapon all on her own. And Sethos will not like putting her into the battle. “How long do you think we have before their arrival?”
Morg scowls. “They move impossibly fast. Their sails are open, even though there is no wind to push them.”
Curious. But Tarik has no time to ponder over it. “Prepare our citizens for war, Morg. Send a messenger for Olna and ask for every Forger she has.” They’d been milking venom from the Scaldlings for weeks. With that and the fresh spectorium, their supply of cratorium will be virtually endless.
Sepora settles her gaze on him. “How can I help?”
“By staying put and out of harm’s way.”
And he’ll not argue on the subject.
37
SEPORA
“Blast Tarik and his commands,” I mutter, as another cannonball strikes the outside of the palace walls, shaking the room where I, along with the older and infirm men of Theoria, wait for our fate. I hear the shriek of a Scaldling nearby and wonder if it’s been injured. And if a Scaldling is injured, how many people have suffered and died already?
“I need to go out there.” I pace back and forth, hugging myself in indecision.
“You would add another worry to the king’s list?” Rashidi calls from the stairs where he sits.
I growl under my breath. “Tulle is out there,” I argue.
“Sethos is watching over her, and Tulle is more than capable of defending herself.”
“Are you implying that I’m not?”
Rashidi shrugs. I thought by now I would come to like the old adviser. I’d been mistaken. “Whether you can or can’t is not my concern. You’ve been ordered by the Falcon King to stay inside.”
Ordered. Tarik wants to keep me safe, and I want the same for him. Who is he to tell me what to do? I’m a guest in his palace, not his servant. I’m a person in this war. A person who cannot stand idly by and watch the outcome unfold and do nothing to sway it one way or the other.
And so, I take the stairs two at a time, passing Rashidi in a rush even as he reaches out to grasp my ankle. There is a window on the landing before more steps lead to the third floor, and it’s just big enough for me to crawl through. The rain and wind hit me as I step out onto the ledge of the window.
Dead bodies—mostly Theorians—float in the water beneath me. Scaldlings pepper the sky and spit flames at the huge vessels, but everything is too drenched to catch fire. Majai jump from rooftops onto the ships while Serubelan and Pelusian men from the ships jump onto rooftops. We are outnumbered by half. The clamor of swords meeting, the screams of death, the shouting of orders to two separate armies.
In the distance, I see Tulle on a ship throwing her flames, Sethos fending off the men who would strike her down. She’s not able to catch anything afire, either, but she singes the men coming toward them, her blazes reaching out the length of a Serpen. It’s amazing to watch.
Amazing, and horrifying.
Above me, I catch the attention of a pair of Wachuk women circling the sky on the back of a Scaldling. I motion as best I can that I need a ride. They swoop down to my level, the one with the bow and arrow reaching her hand out to me.
I will have to make a jump for it.
I hear Rashidi behind me, calling my name. A glance back reveals he’s finally made it to the top of the steps.
It’s now or never.
I jump just as Rashidi grabs my ankle. I topple forward, unable to catch my balance. The Wachuk warrior latches on to my hand as I dangle in the air and as Rashidi dangles from me. What have I done?
“Hang on, Rashidi!” I scream. But Rashidi’s old hands have not been strong for some time, and the weather has made the joints in them painful. His grip slides from my ankle to my toes, and terror bulges in his eyes. “Do not let go!” I command, even as he looks down. When he raises his gaze back to mine, I see a decision has been made. “No!”
“Take care of him,” he says. “He loves you yet.” He lets go then, falling into the water below.
And he never comes back to the surface.
38
TARIK
There is something strange about the foreigners on these ships, Tarik decides.
There are not many of them, perhaps two per ship. They are not Pelusian or Serubelan. Their skin is darker, but their hair is white in stark contrast. They wear intricately styled beards and silken lavender robes, which, when soaked through with rain, cling to muscular bodies. Bodies that would be more than able to fight, yet they are guarded, protected at all times by at least three men—and all they do is stand there and raise their hands to the sky.
The sky? Are they priests summoning whatever gods they worship to help them through this battle? Pelusia and Serubel are not the kind of kingdoms to give in to such nonsense worship of gods. Too, Queen Hanlyn is much too practical and resourceful to send priests—especially priests that need so many of her capable men to protect.
No, these foreigners have a purpose, and Tarik aims to find out what that is.
He fights his way up, climbing upon rooftops to get a better view. There is a ship nearby, close enough for him to study for a bit without too much of a threat against his person. Still, his bow and arrow hit their mark on several men,
leaving them alive but incapacitated, before he reaches a good vantage point.
He watches one of the foreigners for a few minutes, releasing arrows when necessary to fend off charging attackers. Each time the man thrusts his palms in the air, lightning strikes around them. A bolt seizes a Scaldling midair, and it falls immediately into the water below, carrying its Wachuk riders with it.
That’s not possible.
Could these foreigners be controlling the weather? He searches out Tulle and Sethos, whom he finds a few rooftops away. Tulle aims her flames toward the three men protecting another foreigner, but the foreigner thrusts his hands against the flames, sending them back in her direction. She falls to the ground, barely escaping her own fire, while Sethos fights a Pelusian combatant several arm lengths behind her.
Once the foreigner has deflected Tulle, he turns his attention to the other side of the ship, propelling his hands toward a Majai trying to board. The Majai is caught midair as if hit by an invisible wall and thrown backward into the water below.
Lightning, and now wind. It explains how the ships moved so quickly upon Anyar, their sails opened wide even though there was not enough wind in the city to blow about the flaps of a tent. If these men are weather summoners, then one of them must be controlling the rain. And that one must be stopped.
Queen Hanlyn is behind the flooding. Of course she is. She must have sent one of her foreign allies here, disguised as a Theorian to open up the skies and bring down the rains. She has proven to be a more cunning adversary than Eron could have ever hoped to be.
Tarik must get to Commander Morg, to tell him to concentrate on the summoners. But Commander Morg is nowhere in sight. A Scaldling swoops overhead then, the draft from its flapping wings whipping the rain before him.
And to his horror, Sepora is on it, preparing to dismount onto this rooftop.