Page 8 of The Cradle of Ice
Graylin scowled over at them.
Darant explained, “We’re crewed with thirteen men and five women. The traitor could be any one of them. Or even more than one. To ferret out the culprit or culprits would be next to impossible.”
“What do we do, then?”
Darant shrugged. “We trust in the saboteur’s love of his own life—as demonstrated so far. I’ll keep my daughters guarding the forges, but I suspect they’re safe for now. If the traitor acts again, it’ll likely be in a manner that doesn’t end up getting the bastard killed, too. We’ll have to be ready for that. To keep a wary watch on those around us.”
A loud knock drew their attention to the door.
“We’re nearing the mountains!” Fenn called through to them. “Another bell and we’ll be at the edge of the storms. What’s your orders, sir?”
All eyes fell upon Darant. The pirate waited until he got nods from everyone, making sure he had unanimous consent—or maybe he wanted to be able to spread the blame if the decision proved disastrous.
Darant shouted to Fenn, “Warn the ship! We need every loose feather of the Hawk pinned down before we get to those mountains.”
The pirate faced the group again, pressing the back of his thumb to his lips in a Klashean bid for luck. “Saboteur be damned, we will make it over those mountains.”
Rhaif looked dubious. “Even if we make it, what’ll we find? Remember that lad’s warning from earlier. Of daungrous peple and gret monsters.”
Krysh slowly nodded. “If those legends prove true, a traitor amongst us will be the least of our problems.”
TWO
A PRINCE IN EXILE
Kysalimri—the Eternal Citi of the Southern Klashe—is the oldest settlement in all the Crown. Under its deepest roots lies stone & iren that herken to the Forsaken Ages, dread’d seeds of a time lost to historie. But from those seeds, a gret city grew, spreadyng from the Bay of the Bless’d to the foot’d hills of the Hyrg Scarp, crossyng hundreds of leuges in everi direction. It is less a mark on a map than a kingdom alle its own, divid’d by ancient walls, but unit’d by blood & purpose. It is sayd: if Kysalimri æfrer falls, so will the world.
—From the eighty-volume treatise, . Lyrrasta’s Geographica Comprehendinge
4
THE SECOND-BORN PRINCE of Hálendii struggled with his chains as he crossed toward the rail of the pleasure barge. The silver links ran from Kanthe ry Massif’s ankles up to the collars of the two chaaen-bound escorts who trailed behind him. Even after spending a full season in Kysalimri, the Eternal City of the Southern Klashe, he had not acquired the skill necessary to fluidly match his stride to those bound to him.
His left leg tried to reach out, only to be brought up short by his chained ankle. He flailed his arms in an entirely unprincely manner, attempting to catch his balance, but recognized it was a lost cause. He fell headlong toward the deck—then a firm hand gripped his shoulder and caught him. His rescuer chuckled as he drew Kanthe upright and helped him over to the rail.
“Thanks, Rami,” Kanthe said. “You just saved me from breaking this handsome nose of mine.”
“We certainly cannot have that, my friend, especially with your nuptials only a moon’s turn away.” Rami nodded toward a raised dais in the center of the wide boat. “Of course, my sister, Aalia, would not tolerate her beloved to be so marred on her most perfect of days.”
Kanthe glanced across the deck to the velvet divan. Sheltered under the barge’s sails, Aalia im Haeshan rested atop a nest of pillows, seated on one hip. She was a shadowed rose, adorned in silk robes woven with golden threads. Her oiled braids, as dark as polished ebony, draped her shoulders. An embroidered bonnet bedecked in rubies and sapphires crowned her head. Her black eyes stared askance, coldly, not even once glancing toward her betrothed.
Kanthe studied her. It was only the fourth time he had laid eyes upon her since arriving on these shores. My future bride, he lamented silently. While only a year older than Kanthe’s seventeen winters, she looked far more mature, certainly more than a prince who had fled to these shores, a prince considered to be a traitor to his own people.
Contrarily, Aalia was held in the highest esteem. It was evident by those who kept her company. Twelve chaaen-bound knelt around her, six to a side. The dozen, like Kanthe’s two escorts, were cloaked under robes, their heads capped in leather, their faces hidden behind veils tucked into their neck collars. Such Klashean byor-ga garb was required of the baseborn when outside their homes. Only those of the single ruling class, known as the imri, which meant godly in their tongue, were allowed to show their faces. The hundreds of other castes had to remain covered from crown to toe, apparently deemed too unworthy for the Father Above to gaze upon them. This applied also to the Chaaen, who were schooled at the Bad’i Chaa, the House of Wisdom, the sole school of the city, an establishment notorious both for its rigorousness and cruelty. The higher you were among the imri, the more Chaaen were bound to you, serving as aides, advisers, counselors, teachers, and sometimes objects of pleasure.
Resigned to his fate, Kanthe turned to stare across the Bay of the Blessed.
Rami kept to Kanthe’s side. Aalia’s brother was accompanied by six Chaaen of his own, three to a side, chained one after the other. Rami im Haeshan was the fourth son of the Imri-Ka, the god-emperor of the Klashe. He was considered of lesser rank among his siblings—unlike his younger sister, Aalia, the emperor’s sole daughter, who was held forth as the empire’s greatest treasure.
And I’m to marry her on the night of the winter’s solstice.
He wiped sweat from his forehead with the edge of his gilded sleeve. Unlike the Chaaen, who were required to wear the byor-ga garb, he had been decked in a gerygoud habiliment, which consisted of tight breeches shoved into snakeskin boots and a sleeveless tunic, all covered in a white robe with long-splayed sleeves that reached his knees. A cap of gold finished the outfit. It was the clothing of royalty. The Imri-Ka had granted Kanthe honorary imri status shortly after he had arrived here.
A better welcome than being thrown naked into a dank cell, I suppose.
Though with each passing day, he wondered if such a fate might not have been better. He heard the shuffle of Aalia’s entourage as the emperor’s daughter rose from her divan. She crossed toward the ship’s opposite rail, plainly avoiding him.
The royal assemblage had spent the sweltering morning gliding across the Bay of the Blessed, winding among the Stone Gods, the thirty-three isles and outcroppings that had been carved into representations of the Klashean pantheon, all thirty-three of them. Rami had tried to instruct Kanthe on the deities’ names and their respective domains within the holy hierarchy, but they all blurred together.
