Page 221 of The Cradle of Ice
His father patted his neck. “I knew you would.”
The king dismissed Mikaen so he could board. He did so quickly, pounding up the ramp with his Silvergard in tow. He entered the hold and climbed the dozen levels to the top of the forecastle. He no longer had any interest in paying homage to the Madyss Hammer in the hold. Instead, he headed to a door marked with a golden sun and crown, sigil of the Massif clan, the cabin of the ship’s captain.
He stopped before it, trembling, humiliated.
Thoryn drew closer but knew better than to touch him.
“Hide your fury and bide your time, my prince,” the Silvergard warned. “Do not let them know your pain. Become as hard as the mask you wear, that we’ve marked upon our faces to match. All will come in due time. This, I swear to you.”
Mikaen nodded. He made sure no one was in the hall and spit a heavy gobbet onto that symbol. He watched it dribble off the gold and down the planks. Only then did he turn away and head off toward the open deck. He would glory in their departure and, as Thoryn wisely recommended—
I’ll bide my time.
For now.
He hurried through the forecastle and shoved out onto the open deck. Winds cooled the heat from his face. The massive gasbags shadowed his angry countenance. He crossed to the starboard rail, passing between the tiers of giant ballistas.
As the knights guarded his back, he stared across the fields to the distant rise of Highmount. The castle walls towered over the city of Azantiia, forming the six-pointed sun of the Massif clan. His family had ruled the kingdom for centuries, eighteen generations had claimed its throne.
I will be the nineteenth.
Mikaen pictured the faces of his son and daughter. He gripped the rail harder, determined and assured of one certainty, a destiny that would not be denied.
My son, Othan, will be the twentieth.
A stirring drew his attention away. A black-cloaked figure passed through the wall of silver. The man dropped to a knee before him.
“My prince,” he said, “we’ve confirmed the location of your brother.”
Mikaen stepped forward. “Keep your voice low. The very winds up here have ears.”
The man bowed his head. “Prince Kanthe remains in the Southern Klashe as all have suspected. But he does not reside in Kysalimri.”
“Then where?” Mikaen asked sharply, defying his own dictate from a moment ago.
“He abides in X’or.”
Mikaen glanced to Thoryn. The Vyrllian knight’s crimson-tattooed face remained stony, leaving this decision to him.
As it should be.
Mikaen faced the spy. “Alert your brothers. They know what must be done.”
The man bowed again and swiftly departed to carry out Mikaen’s order.
Mikaen gazed out across the deck as it bustled in preparation for the inaugural launch of the Hyperium and the glorious mission ahead. No longer in command, he cared nothing about the success or failure of this venture.
Before this day is over, I will have my own victory.
* * *
WRYTH SUFFERED THROUGH a defeat that stung all the way down to the bowels of the Shrivenkeep. He had tried to persuade passage onto the Hyperium. Not only to keep close to Prince Mikaen in what would likely prove to be another vain attempt to warm the bond between the two, but as the first voyage of the kingdom’s flagship, Wryth should be there.
The lack of an Iflelen—or any Shrive—damaged their order’s standing. His absence would be noted by many, and the slight taken as a falling from royal grace—which it was. Wryth had not even bothered approaching Mikaen or his crimson-faced lapdogs. But both King Toranth and Liege General Reddak had asked him to step aside. After failing to rein in Mikaen during his last outing, Wryth was being punished.
Angry and perturbed, he shoved into the Iflelen’s inner sanctum, needing a moment to firm his composure. He was already calculating ways to polish this affront with face-saving measures. As he stepped inside, a loud shout made him trip a step, indicating how out of sorts he was.
“Phenic finally found you!” Keres yelled to him.
