Page 6 of The Cradle of Ice
Fenn’s eyes twinkled, showing a gleam of his usual amusement. “Aye, but as I understand it, he never returned from that second trek.”
“True,” Jace admitted dourly.
Nyx nudged him. “You should tell them what you told me outside on the middeck.”
Graylin stiffened with shock. “The middeck? Nyx, what were you doing outside?”
She ignored him. “Tell them, Jace.”
Her friend nodded and faced the others. “I’ve had plenty of time to read through most of the historicals that relate to the Wastes, recorded by those rare few who dared travel into the ice. One claims that there are clans of people who live beyond the Dragoncryst.”
Darant grunted sourly. “Who? Who could live out here?”
Jace’s brows pinched with concern. “According to The Annals of Skree, a book secured from the Gjoan Arkives, they’re a chary tribe of daungrous peple who abide amidst dedly beasts and gret monsters.”
“They sound delightful,” Fenn mumbled.
Jace turned toward the storm-riven horizon. “It is said Rega read the same tome and set off to search for those tribes during his second expedition.”
“From which he never returned,” Fenn reminded them again.
Before anyone could respond, a clatter of boots and raised voices erupted from the other side of the wheelhouse. The door to the main passageway burst open, and a flurry of figures rushed inside. They were led by the bronze figure of Shiya. Though sculpted of hard metal, she moved with grace. The shining glass of her eyes took in those gathered in the wheelhouse. From the dark stains marring her modest shift, she had accompanied the others to survey the ruins of the flashburn forge. They had likely leaned upon her considerable strength to help search the wreckage. As she entered, the lamplight reflected off the contours of her face, but her expression remained unreadable.
Those who came with her were far less stoic. The stocky form of Rhaif hy Albar—the Guld’guhlian thief who had rescued the bronze woman from the depths of the mines of Chalk—came around Shiya’s left side. A litany of curses flowed from his lips.
“What’s wrong?” Darant asked, stepping closer.
Rhaif stemmed his tide of profanities and waved to Shiya’s other side. “Best your daughter tell you.”
Glace crossed around the bronze woman to meet her father. Her almond complexion was flushed darker. She shoved a braided blond tail behind her shoulder with one hand and held forth her other palm.
“We found this buried amidst the ruins of the forge’s fuel assembly.”
They all gathered closer. A knot of dark iron lay twisted in Glace’s white-knuckled grip. It looked like a black egg that had burst open. A bitter smell of burnt alchymicals accompanied it.
“What is it?” Nyx asked.
Graylin scowled. “A stykler.”
Nyx gave a small shake of her head.
Jace explained. “A shell packed full of iron filings and glass that turns molten.”
Glace kept her eyes upon her father. “Brayl and Krysh are already examining the other two forges, to make sure there are no more bombs hidden there, too.”
Nyx stared down at the blasted object. “A bomb?”
“Not just a bomb,” Darant growled, and glared around the room. “It’s sabotage.”
3
GRAYLIN GRIPPED THE hilt of his sword. He sought to center himself with its strength and familiarity. Heartsthorn had been in his family for eighteen generations. The blade was as much a part of him as his own arm. Still, his clasp was so hard that the silver thorns of the sculpted pommel stung his palm.
“We have a traitor amongst us,” Graylin growled to the trio of men gathered around a scarred ironwood table.
He had already sent Nyx below with Kalder, to bed the beast down in the quiet of the hold. The earlier commotion and anger surrounding the revelation of a saboteur aboard the ship had riled up the vargr, setting him to growling and snapping at everything. Only Nyx could control that wild heart. Jace had gone, too, accompanied by Shiya to guard over them.
Afterward, Graylin had retired with the three men to a small chart room off the wheelhouse, intent on continuing their deliberations in private. A single lamp hung from a chain overhead, illuminating the cramped space. The walls were covered in hundreds of round cubbies crammed with curled scrolls of countless maps. Atop the table, a drawing of the Frozen Wastes had been nailed to its surface. A sextant rested atop it, along with a sheaf of papers with scrawled calculations in charcoal, marking the labors of the navigator.
