Page 169 of The Queens and the Kings
Henrik slunk along the shadows, irritated by how little he found. The roaring ocean was an escort, the quiet stars his observer, as he skirted around an overturned stall and avoided the shattered glass of several wine bottles, their syrup sticky on the stones.
A vague glow illuminated the streets. Kaleidoscopic arcane bolted across the stone, seeking destruction. It sprouted in thick lines, then hairy tendrils similar to burned spiderwebs on top of the cobblestone. A dance existed in the pattern. Arcane shot in a line, then strands unfurled into fine hairs, seeking to destroy. Whatever it touched would be consumed into rubble. Like branching trees, it sprouted through the city.
His Glory would destroy all of Stenberg on his descent into hell.
Or was that the point?
Henrik kept a wary eye on the ground and called quietly under his breath. “Anyone here? There are boats to take you to safety in the harbor. They’re hidden near the north shore.”
His words, repeated quietly as he moved closer to the Compendium, generated no survivors. He passed piles of ash, ash, ash until he paused along the interior of the old marketplace, behind a fallen stall, and listened. These victims, forever silent. Never identified.
Only the sea sang to him. The arcane made no noise unless whatever it consumed toppled like sand castles and surf.
Henrik turned a corner and halted mid-step. His breath caught. At the very top of the sealstone Temple was a burnished light, like a giant star hovering in the air. An iridescent waterfall shone from the middle tower, brightening and darkening in pulses. The rainbow light dropped down the Temple, flowing in arteries that spread left, right, ahead. All directions except up.
The source of the destructive arcane. It chugged out of the Temple in flows like a heartbeat, pulsing. Nothing moved in theTemple behind it. No sign of His Glory or protective soldats or sailors on watch.
Clenching his teeth, Henrik carefully picked his way around scattered possessions until he stood in front of the Archives, not far from the whipping post where Britt’s blood once painted the ground. The thought heightened his rising irritation as he approached Einar, who stared at the Temple with his arms at his side and his jaw clenched.
“That bastid is planning to kill everyone.”
Henrik nodded, though he still couldn’t fathom why. What did His Glory stand to gain from slaying the entire island of Stenberg? That evacuations had been in progress for days was his only relief.
“We’re going to stop it,” Einar said.
“How do you stop arcane?”
“I don’t know, but Pedr said that arcane is single focused.”
“What does that mean?”
Einar sucked on his teeth. “I’m not sure yet. I’m thinking. Give me a minute. Did you find anyone alive?”
“Not really.”
“Me either.”
Henrik pivoted to glance behind him. “Whatever it is, it seems to have a short life. When it touches something, it stops spreading. The finer stuff, anyway. It originates from the Temple. Maybe we can stop it there.”
“True.”
“Can we block it with physical barriers?”
Einar shook his head. “Not sure. There’s not enough time for physical labor, and it seems to have an endless source.”
Einar hadn’t torn his gaze off the Temple, which lay in shadows. The cascading lines plunged through already established routes. Henrik kicked over a water bucket as a reaching arcane arm approached. The stuff flared a bright prismof color, spread like a fan, and followed the water. A discarded chair stood in its path, and arcane destroyed it to cinders in ten seconds.
“Doesn’t mind water,” Einar muttered.
“Unfortunate. Think the sea will stop it?”
“Maybe. Pedr is the Arcanist of the Sea. So . . . let’s hope?”
“Shite. Any chance you can call for Pedr?”
“Not that I’m aware of. Let’s hope the ocean already has.”
Shuffling steps approached from the right. Arvid, striding up the road, didn’t bother to hide as he sidestepped amongst arcane, ash, fallen wagons.
