Page 28 of The Cradle of Ice
Krysh joined them and pointed down. “Whatever lies below us must be the source of the steam. When we crested over the mountains, the sheer breadth of those mists had been impressive, spreading at least a hundred leagues to the north and south. And there’s no telling how wide it might be. If this is indeed some rift in the ice, it must be colossal.”
“Then what do we do?” Jace asked.
“We continue down,” Graylin said. “Like Brayl said. There must be a bottom to it.”
Jace shrugged. “If so, I guess it’ll at least be warm.”
Nyx ignored the ice cliff. Her gaze remained high, her thoughts easy to read, as was her fear.
Graylin placed a hand on her shoulder, reassuring her again. It was all he could do. “He’ll find us.”
Nyx simply repeated her earlier words. “But where are we going?”
He gazed down into the steamy depths of the chasm.
I wish I knew.
FOUR
THE FORBIDDEN EYE
Littel beyond rumour is known about the Abyssal Codex, the shadowi librarie of the Dresh’ri. It is sayd that those who have seen it are blind’d. Those that spayk of it have their tungues cut out. Those that trespass be gutt’d most foully. Only one truth is beyond questioun: the dred wisdom to be found there is as much a wepen as any sword.
—From Travails of the Southern Klashe by Heraa hy Rost, who, seven years later, would suffer all the tragedies mentioned above— his ravaged body recovered from a salt well in the city of Qazen
15
AS THE SECOND bell of Eventoll rang through the palace, Kanthe sank gratefully into the steaming stone bath. Soothing salts and other alchymical compounds had been ladled into the waters, along with redolent perfumes. He didn’t know if any of it was efficacious in healing his wounds, only that the salt burned all the scrapes and cuts that he had sustained from the ambush.
Still, he lowered himself with a grimace until only his face remained above water. He stared up at the dozens of oil lanterns hanging overhead, all aglow, casting flickering beams through starlike perforations in the tin. He closed his eyes, trying to center himself.
After the events of the day, he and Rami had been interviewed by the emperor’s counselors—a trio of stern-faced elders—to the point of exhaustion and irritation. The three had drawn out every detail about the attack from the two young men without offering any information in return. Likewise, each soldier, archer, and guardsman was equally interrogated, but with much less civility. Several were rewarded with silver wreaths for their bravery; others were scolded and led off at swordpoint. No doubt the head of the guard would have been executed for allowing the royal party to be ambushed, but the man had died in the explosion, which was probably a godsend. His death out in the city had surely been less painful than what he would’ve found down in the emperor’s dungeons.
Notably absent from the proceedings had been Aalia herself. Once their war wagon had reached the palace citadel, she had been rushed away, along with her surviving Chaaen. Even in the bath now, Kanthe could not shake the fury in her face, directed at him, as if he were to blame for everything.
The slam of a door echoed across the tiled bath chamber. Kanthe sat straighter with a groan. Pratik entered, accompanied by Frell hy Mhlaghifor, the alchymist from Kanthe’s former school. Both men’s eyes fell upon him. From their expressions, the day’s inquiries were not yet finished.
Frell stopped at the edge of the wide bath, hands on his hips. He towered over Kanthe. He wore his usual alchymical garb of a belted black robe. The only addition was a silver circlet crowning his dark ruddy hair, which had been braided into a tail that reached his shoulders. From the shining circlet hung a thin veil—gauzier than the typical byor-ga of the baseborn castes. It marked Frell as one of the Unfettered, a foreigner to these lands. The veil was presently drawn aside, revealing a stern scowl, his typical expression when looking down upon Kanthe, his former student.
“Seems trouble is drawn to you as surely as flies to shite,” Frell commented.
Kanthe grunted tiredly. “But in this comparison, am I the fly or the shite?”
“Neither, in fact,” Pratik interceded. “I suspect the morning’s ambush had nothing to do with you, Prince Kanthe. They were clearly after the princess.”
“It was a bold strike,” Frell admitted. “As the only daughter of the emperor, she would be a prize above all.”
“That is, if the attackers succeeded,” Pratik added. “It cost them eighteen men in the failed attempt to grab her.”
“But who were they?” Kanthe asked.
Pratik frowned. “From the attacker’s white-masked eyes, they are no doubt members of the Shayn’ra, meaning the Fist of God, a faction of heretical fighters that have plagued the Southern Klashe for over a century—though clearly, they’ve grown bolder of late.”
Kanthe pictured the leader standing in the street, undaunted by the failure of his ambush. “But what do they want?”
“To sow chaos and discord. With the ultimate goal of ending the rule of Klashean god-emperors and returning the land’s riches to its people.”
Frell snorted. “Or more likely to simply usurp Haeshan and take his place. History is rife with such fighters who espouse freedom, but in the end, prove to be as despotic as those they take down.”
