Page 293 of The Cradle of Ice
Together.
Horns blew loudly, breaking the bittersweet spell between them. They turned to the seas but still held tight to one another.
A murmur spread through the crowd, then settled to an expectant silence.
Horns blared again, louder now, closer.
People stood, staring off into the fog ahead. The glow of firepots appeared first, accompanied by more horns. Drums began to pound on the shoreline, welcoming and guiding the ship home.
Through the mists, a prow pushed into view, lit from behind. The crowd cheered as the draft-iron sculpture of a dragon reared into view, reflecting the flames of the village, its wings spread wide.
Another round of horns drove the colossal ship into view, forges flaming from its sides and stern. It was Rega sy Noor’s ancient ship, reborn again to forge the skies.
Upon returning to the Crèche, the Sparrowhawk had been deemed to be too damaged, and another ship lay waiting for them, preserved in ice. Parts of their former ship had been salvaged to patch this older one, including installing the Hawk’s maesterwheel at the helm, where it belonged, ready to guide them forward again.
Nyx found the Noorish ship’s name to be especially fitting for this next leg of their journey, a trek into the scorched and sunblasted Barrens.
The Fyredragon.
100
WRYTH STOOD ONCE again in the shadows of the castle’s tourney yard, as yet another celebration was underway for Prince Mikaen. Only, on this night of the winter solstice, the prince carried a new title: Highking Mikaen ry Massif, the Crown’d Lord of Hálendii, rightful ruler of all the kingdom and its territories.
Mikaen had been coronated earlier in the day, but the night’s festivities had drawn him to the royal balcony overlooking the bonfires, the waving banners, the milling celebrants. He was expected to give a speech, his first as the crowned ruler.
Finally, a trumpet sounded, and Mikaen crossed to the balcony rail. He waited for the cheering and horns to fall silent. He was dressed resplendently in velvet and fur. The jewels of his crown sparked in the firelight—as did his silver mask, now adorned with a single tear inscribed there in honor of his murdered father.
When Mikaen reached the balcony rail, he shrugged back his velvet cape to reveal his children, one under each arm. He smiled broadly and for once sincerely. The love he had for his son and daughter was as authentic as that silver tear was false. He hiked the two babes higher to renewed cheers. His name was chanted for a quarter-bell.
Mikaen waited for it to end, then spoke in a booming voice. “See my shining daughter and bright son! They were born on the morning after my father died! As if the Father Above knew Hálendii had been unjustly aggrieved and blessed our lands with new life.”
Wryth scowled, but he still appreciated the sham drama of it all.
He suspected it was Mikaen’s love for his children that had ultimately spurred the murder of his father. After the Hyperium had returned, Toranth had raged at those in charge, but his animus had fallen heavily upon his son, especially upon learning what had befallen Prince Kanthe. In a fit of rage, the king had blustered that he might yet seek a new queen to bear him a new son, one more deserving of the throne. Those last words, spoken out of anger, likely drove that sword down his throat.
Up on the balcony, Mikaen passed his daughter back to Myella, the new queen consort. He faced the crowd and lifted his son high. The babe squalled loudly. Mikaen gazed up with fatherly pride.
“Hear his cry, my legions! Hear him herald the dawn to come. With the light of the new day, a new era will be born as surely as my son.” His voice boomed louder. “It will be a New Dawn! And I will be the New Sun, to bring Hálendii to greater glory!”
The crowd roared again.
Wryth could stand it no longer and turned into the shadows. He knew the coming daybreak wouldn’t herald a New Dawn—but a Dark Age.
And it was already starting.
Before leaving, Wryth had spied the captain of the Silvergard sharing the royal balcony, ever at Mikaen’s side. Only now Thoryn wore the laurels of a liege general on his breastplate. His predecessor, Reddak, currently hung outside the Legionary, unidentifiable now, ravaged by crows and flies.
Many others had met similar ends as Mikaen systematically cleared the palace. Toranth’s chamberlain, Mallock, was found drowned in his own chamber pot. Provost Balyn had been trampled by horses. The mayor of Azantiia had been skewered from arse to mouth and found floating in a sewage bilge. Treasurer Hesst had been spared the purge, likely because the man knew where all the gold was hidden. And in times of war, such men were worth their weight in the same coinage.
Wryth had also survived, strangely enough due to Prince Kanthe. Wryth had heard what had happened aboard the Hyperium. Mikaen was convinced his brother had somehow bewitched one of his crimson-faced Silvergard into aiding his escape. It sounded outlandish, but Wryth knew better than to discourage this belief. As with Treasurer Hesst, Wryth only lived because Mikaen believed he and his fellow Iflelen could be useful, especially when it came to thwarting daemonic witchery.
Still, Wryth remained intrigued by what had happened aboard the Hyperium, wondering what had truly transpired. But it had been a long night, and such mysteries could wait until the morning.
As he headed down into the Shrivenkeep, he pondered ways to turn this to his advantage. Distracted by such thoughts—and still dwelling on the catastrophe from a month ago—Wryth found himself standing before the sanctum of the Iflelen. He touched the sigil inscribed on its ebonwood door: the horn’d snaken of Lord Ðreyk. He could not shake the sense of defeat, both above his head and down here.
As he stood there, he heard a mumbling voice from inside, sounding worried and frustrated.
Now what?
