Page 182 of The Cradle of Ice
Jubayr stared down at the curled messages in his hands. The skrycrows atop the tower continued to scream and caw, as if mocking his indecision. The crows had been arriving all night, building the story of what had happened in Qazen. The council had heard it all. Of the safe recovery of Aalia and Rami and the capture of the traitor Prince Kanthe. Of the attack by rebels and baseborn. Aalia’s note reported a gaseous bomb had struck near Emperor Makar, killing his Paladin guards. While their father had survived, the exposure had left lasting damage.
In the end, nothing of the past days was as it seemed. Aalia’s note described an entirely different stream of events. With the aid of Prince Kanthe, Rami and Aalia had uncovered a plot against the empire, one based in Qazen. Initially, they didn’t know whom to trust, so they fled south under the cover of night to investigate. They could tell no one, fearing members of the emperor’s inner circle were aligned with the enemy. In truth, there had never been any kidnapping. Even the immolation of the Dresh’ri librarie was part of this same nefarious plot in some way.
And in the end, Aalia and Rami were proven right about a threat in Qazen, but not in time to stem the attack. She and the others had barely escaped Qazen with the emperor. They had fled hastily, avoiding even the remaining imperial guard, fearing who among them might be part of this plot. The Augury and his healers had attended to their father, pulling him back from the edge of oblivion. The esteemed oracle traveled with them. His presence alone added much weight and validity to this story, along with accounts of guardsmen back at the mooring fields who attested to the addled state of Emperor Makar.
But it was what Aalia wrote at the end of her message that had shocked everyone in this chamber. Though for Jubayr, he could not discount a measure of relief. It had sounded true to his ear and heart.
Before succumbing to the worst of the poison, knowing he might die or be debilitated for years, Emperor Makar had passed his circlet to Aalia, declaring her empress of the imperium in his stead. She had refused, denying a request that could be their father’s last. But Makar had explained his reasoning, telling her that Jubayr was a wonderful son, gifted in many ways. But he was more fit as a temporary leader, not for the long term. In this time of war and strife, the Southern Klashe needed someone of brilliance, grace, and wisdom to lead them forward—that figurehead could only be the Illuminated Rose, a personage that all of the Klashe adored and revered.
Still, his sister had refused their father.
Until the Augury further bolstered Makar’s words, declaring the gods had shown him the next century of the Klashe—with Aalia crowned and leading it to greater glory.
Only then had she reluctantly accepted the circlet, but she had refused to don it. Not until she sought out the wisdom of the imperial counsel. If they deemed her unworthy or decided to castigate her as a usurper, she would gladly accept any punishment. She truly did not want the crown and would gladly pass it to another.
Jubayr understood that last sentiment all too well.
And maybe that humbleness makes her worthier than any of us.
Wing Draer pressed for an answer. “What do you propose we do? How do we respond?”
Jubayr stood, drawing up the imperial cloak with him. As he did, the clasp choked his neck, but he kept it in place, asserting the authority given to him by his father before he left. He intended to wield it for the betterment of the empire.
“My sister has proffered to meet as many of the counsel as would like to attend her in the coastal town of X’or. It is there—among the sanctuary’s healing baths—that the Augury believes my father has the best chance of recovery. Aalia also comes with no army, leaving herself defenseless to our will and decision. I say we take up the mantle she had laid at our feet. To go meet with her, to see firsthand how the emperor fares. Then decide the future of the imperium.”
His judgement was not met with any resounding agreement, only murmurs and whispers. His face heated, wondering if he had made the wrong decision.
Still, Chaaen Hrash drew closer and gave him a small nod. Jubayr gratefully accepted this small amount of praise.
Across the table, Mareesh kept his own thoughts guarded. His eyes remained fiery, but they had tamped down to embers—for now.
His younger brother had always been hot-tempered. His grief at the loss of Paktan had only stoked that volatility. The two had been closer than brothers, both warriors in the clouds. It was a bond that Jubayr had always envied.
Mareesh also placed great stock in routine and order. He always had. Even as a child, Mareesh had kept his room meticulously neat. Everything had to be in its proper place. He would cry if it wasn’t. Perhaps such fastidiousness was why he excelled within the regimentation of the imperial forces.
So, this sudden upending of the hierarchy did not sit well with Mareesh.
Whereas Jubayr—confined mostly to the citadel alongside his father—had seen Aalia blossom into the Rose she was now. Mareesh had not witnessed her transformation from child to a brilliant woman. Instead, he had flown off into the clouds with Paktan, leaving his other two brothers grounded here.
Jubayr kept his focus on Mareesh. “We will leave at midday. And judge all for ourselves. Is that understood?”
The murmurs of agreement strengthened around the room, growing stronger as they spread. Jubayr waited for one other.
After a long breath, Mareesh slowly nodded—though it looked as if it broke his neck to do so.
Jubayr straightened his spine, the clasp of the heavy cloak choking him harder.
“It is decided,” he declared. “We head to X’or.”
73
KANTHE WATCHED THE last of the misty forest of the Myre Drysh vanish under the arrowsprite. He remembered longing to vanish under its dark canopy, to set aside his responsibilities and live the simple life of a tracker. It was not to be. Those woodlands and hopes faded behind him.
As the ship sped onward, a vast patchwork of green fields, pastures, farms, vineyards, and orchards spread before him. The open lands ran to all the horizons, looking endless. Canals crisscrossed and sectioned off vast tracts. Their waters reflected the low light of dawn, turning them into runs of silver.
“The M’venlands,” Rami said. He was seated across from Kanthe, sharing the window. His voice was sullen. “Its bounty fills the troughs of the Eternal City’s boundless hunger.”
Kanthe’s somber mood matched the prince’s. “This is not exactly how you wished to show me these lands.”
