Page 5

5

N YX KNOCKED ON Fenn’s door. Jace shadowed her.

The ship’s navigator had a cabin to himself, one level below the wheelhouse. Back aboard the Sparrowhawk, the quarters had been tight, requiring the crew to double or triple up in a room. The salvaged Fyredragon was far larger, with a cavernous hold vast enough to house the five raash’ke and Bashaliia, while also leaving plenty of room for gear and dry goods, which were stocked to the rafters for the coming voyage into the Barrens.

Sadly, the loss of so many crewmen during the battle at the Crèche also contributed to the plentiful accommodations. Even Darant’s other daughter, Brayl, had died after a betrayal that had stung them all.

Still, a score of Pantheans had agreed to join them, refilling their depleted crew. Those newcomers were quartered a deck below, where they kept to themselves. While the language barrier had mostly broken down—due to Daal’s tutelage—the two crews continued to maintain their distance, sticking to their own traditions and customs.

Nyx knew this must not continue. The crew needed to be united if they hoped to face the challenges ahead. But the divisions persisted. Even she and Daal had fallen away from one another.

That must change—for all our sakes.

Nyx stared at her toes, picturing those Pantheans. A few were pure-blooded, with silvery green hair and emerald eyes, along with a green cast to their smooth skin. More striking were their pointed ears and webbed fingers. They looked born from the steaming green waters of their inland sea. Others, like Daal, shared blood with the descendants of the original Noorish explorers who crashed the Fyredragon into the Crèche. That mixed heritage darkened their hair and blunted those points. Several had eyes of blue.

Daal’s eyes were especially striking.

She swallowed, remembering how their color would change with his moods. Icy when he was angry. Watery when he thought of home. A deep indigo when passion fired through him. Regret and guilt panged through her.

Jace drew her back, reminding her of the task at hand. “Why isn’t Fenn answering?”

Nyx collected herself and faced the door. “He must truly be exhausted. Like Hyck said.”

“Tired or not, we need him.”

“We do.”

Nyx knocked again, harder this time.

Finally, a tired croak called through the door, “Hold on already.”

A shuffling of feet, a clatter of wood, and a muttered curse followed. The door swung open. Fenn leaned on the frame. He still wore the same breeches and loose shirt as before. The only ease to his dress were a few undone buttons and a lack of boots.

It appeared whatever sleep he had managed had been fitful. His white-blond hair, normally oiled and smooth, had been mussed into peaks. His moss-green eyes were bloodshot, the lids heavy and shadowed. He was the youngest of Darant’s crew, only seven years older than Nyx, but at the moment, he looked aged and weathered.

His homecoming to the Eastern Crown had clearly taken its toll.

Still, he managed to notice Jace’s presence. “Ah, you’re back. How did you and Krysh fare out there?”

“Well enough,” Jace admitted. “We could’ve accomplished more if you had joined us.”

“I would’ve been more hindrance than help. Trust me on that.”

“They did secure a crude map of the Barrens,” Nyx said.

“Truly?” Fenn’s eyes glinted with a measure of his usual avid interest. “What is the provenance of this chart? Do you have it on any authority that it’s more than just some fanciful creation, one with no bearing on what’s really out there?”

“Krysh gained the confidence of a hieromonk over at the school in Toltok, a man whose studies concentrated on the histories of the Barrens.”

“What was his name?”

Jace scrunched up his nose, as if trying to sniff out that answer. “Randa hy… I can’t remember exact—”

“Randa hy Lenk?”

Jace straightened with his brows riding high. “That’s right. He was an old man, but in his youth, he had spent a decade scouring the necropolises that border the Barrens. He uncovered a cache of texts in an old crypt, sealed in a copper chest. Even the scrolls were sheets of copper.”

Fenn’s look went pensive. “Lenk was always a good scholar.”

Nyx frowned. “You knew him?”

Fenn shrugged. “In another life.”

Nyx wanted to press him. She knew that as skilled as Fenn was, he must have studied navigation.

Had he been a student at that school?

“Let’s get upstairs and take a look at your map,” Fenn said.

Before leaving, Fenn returned to his room and grabbed his boots. In his haste, he simply carried them. Nyx suspected this renewed vigor was less from Fenn’s academic interest in the map and more about the possibility that it would send them sailing from these lands.

Fenn hurried out into the passageway and led the way toward the stairs to the wheelhouse. “Do you have the original copper scroll?”

“We were only allowed to make a copy,” Jace admitted. “Which we did. Not just of the map, but also of several other copper scrolls. Those that pertained to the map.”

“Very good. We should also—”

Fenn stopped, so abruptly that Nyx bumped into him. Fenn lifted an arm and pushed her farther behind.

“What’s wrong?” Jace asked.

“Stay back.”

Nyx stared past Fenn’s shoulder. She struggled to understand what had alarmed him. The long hallway appeared empty, mostly in shadow, lit by a few draft-iron wall sconces. Their oiled wicks flickered the view.

Nyx squinted. “I don’t see what—”

Then she did, though its true nature was difficult to discern. Something flowed across the shadows at shoulder height. When it hovered, its shape would vanish, fading into the woodwork, camouflaging into invisibility. Only in motion could its shape be seen—and even then, it appeared more phantom than substance.

The creature’s body was thin and snakelike, striped in black to blend into shadows. It carried its length—easily as long as Nyx’s arm—on translucent wings. Its tongue flickered from scaled lips, tasting the air.

“A kezmek, ” Fenn whispered, speaking its name like a curse. “A Bhestyan assassin-wing.”

Fenn did not sound surprised. Instead, his timbre was resigned, maybe a touch relieved—as if he had been expecting such an arrival.

“A single drop of its poison could kill a score of men,” he warned.

As if to prove this threat, the kezmek hissed softly, baring fangs that unfolded into view.

“It’s bridle-bound to its master,” Fenn explained, warding Nyx back. “Don’t dare hum a single note to try to wrest control of it. A kezmek is lightning fast, trained to strike any threat to its master’s hold. Whether that be by song or knife. It will kill anything that approaches it until it reaches its target.”

Jace drew Nyx farther away. “Why’s it here?”

“It’s a scent hunter, insidious and inescapable, fixed to a target’s blood.” Fenn never turned his eyes from the threat, his voice certain. “My blood.”

Nyx fought her pounding heart out of her throat. “Who… Who sent it?”

“My uncle,” Fenn said. “He must know I’m back.”