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K ANTHE LEANED OVER the rail of the Gryffin and emptied his belly into the Bay of Promise. It seemed his second homecoming to the shores of Hálendii was proving no more illustrious than the first.

He wiped bile from his lips and pushed straighter, staring past the bow. While tension certainly contributed to his stomach’s distress, he knew his queasiness was due far more to the storm-swept sea. Waves climbed all around the small two-masted ship. The vessel heaved up one frothing face, then down the other. The sails thrummed from the rainy gusts, and ropes snapped like whips.

Shouts rose behind him, but he ignored the handful of crew who fought the storm, led by a burly captain at the wheel who bellowed orders from atop the raised stern deck.

Kanthe kept his gaze fixed forward. Salt from the constant spray stung his windburned skin and coated his lips and tongue, which only added to his misery. Still, he clung tight to hold his position at the bow.

A chain of lightning shattered across the black clouds, followed immediately by a boom of thunder that shook the planks underfoot and rattled through him.

The jagged bolts flashed a brighter picture of the approaching docks of Azantiia—but it did not help much. Rain slashed from the sky, veiling the view. Dark clouds had lowered to nearly the height of their masts and smothered the city and sun.

Beyond the docks, the lower Nethers lay drowned in gloom. A few lights glowed there, looking forlorn and lost. Especially in the shadow of the Stormwall. The rampart rose as a dark cliff, lit on top by hundreds of bonfires that fought the downpour and fierce gusts. Past its parapets, sitting atop Azantiia’s highest hill, the castle of Highmount blazed in the storm like a torch. Firepots and flames turned its stone to a ruddy gold.

Kanthe turned his attention to the castle walls that enclosed and protected Highmount. They cut in and out in jagged thrusts, forming a six-pointed sun, the sigil of the Massif royal family. Atop those walls, square towers rose higher, six at each outer point and six in the tucked corners of the sun.

Twelve in all…

As the Gryffin dropped into the gully between two waves, Kanthe clutched hard to the rail—with a hand of flesh and one of bronze. Then the ship shot back up and crested high, offering a view to both sides.

Kanthe tried to spot the other vessels in their tiny fleet. A flash of cooperative lightning helped. Six white sails bulged against the black water. The ships sped across the waves, riding up and down like a pod of panicked porpoises.

Six, and counting the Gryffin, seven in all…

The others matched Kanthe’s ship in beam and keel. All bore two masts, the taller of which flapped with the Delftan flag, again using the disguise of a Hálendiian ally rushing to port with a supply of iron. Even their shape mimicked the squat, wide-bottomed barges of that land, perfect for hauling heavy cargo.

Unfortunately, such a cumbersome design was poorly suited for rough seas, especially carrying a particular sailor with a weak stomach. Another heave and rise of the Gryffin pushed Kanthe back over the rail. His stomach clenched hard, casting out a thin stream of bile, all that was left in his belly.

Once done, Kanthe rested his forehead against the rail.

“If you’re weighing whether or not to throw yourself overboard, best decide quickly as we’ll soon be at the docks.”

Still staying bent before the rail, Kanthe glanced back past his shoulder, too miserable to speak, fearing all that would come out was more bile.

Rami frowned at him. The Klashean prince stood by an open hatch, fighting to hold its door from slamming in the wind. Behind him, the barge’s deck stretched flat to the stern, which was raised only a few steps, where the captain manned the wheel. Another four of his crew scurried about, preparing for their approach to the port.

Rami waved to Kanthe. “Tykhan wants you below, to get ready for the fight to come.”

The Klashean prince had already obeyed that command. He had donned underleathers, covered by light armor. He carried a sword sheathed at his hip and wore a sleeve of throwing knives at his wrists and ankles. Many times in the past, Rami had demonstrated his skill with those smaller blades.

Kanthe groaned and pushed off the rail. He wove drunkenly over to Rami across the rolling deck. His legs fared no better than his stomach in this raging sea.

Once Kanthe was close enough, Rami grabbed his arm to hold him steady. “My brother, maybe it’s best you waited until this last moment to don your armor. One misstep and you’d be sinking to the bottom of the bay.”

“I had another reason to hold off. A returning prince of Hálendii shouldn’t make his debut with his armor splattered in bile.” Kanthe shifted to the ladder with one hand on his stomach. “Though I can’t promise that won’t still happen. Especially since belowdecks is far worse than up here.”

It was why he had escaped to the deck. He had hoped the fresh air would help, but the rising and falling of the waves only spun his head more.

Still, that was not the only reason he had hauled himself up here. Distant thunder and flashes rose to the south. He took one final look in that direction. Rami did, too, having noted his attention.

“The battle across the coast still rages,” Rami noted. “It appears our forces are slowly making headway north. Or maybe my hope is only making it seem so.”

“Best hope those losses are worth the distraction they afford,” Kanthe said.

A shout from the captain and his pointed arm turned both men’s eyes to the east. Flames burned along the low clouds, revealing a pair of long keels carving their way south. The bulk of the two warships was buried in the clouds, a risky endeavor with a bulging balloon full of volatile lift-gasses.

Kanthe scowled at their passage. “If the Klashean forces are making any headway, my brother intends to stop it.”

Rami shrugged. “The more ships he sends, the better for us.”

Three days ago, Kanthe’s tiny fleet had left Kysalimri, setting off half a day before the main Klashean forces, racing with full sails, outrunning the others. Kanthe’s barges had needed to reach the Bay of Promise well ahead of the Klashean main force, to let the ensuing battle draw all eyes. Unfortunately, the storm and rough seas had slowed Kanthe’s ships. They had been leagues to the south of the bay when Hálendii’s outposts had reported the Klashean forces sweeping toward them, buried in the storm.

After that, Kanthe had watched large contingents of Hálendiian ships flowing south, both through the storm and across the sea, to confront the incursion. Over the past four bells, those war fleets had surged south, filling the sky with flaming forges and feathering the stormy seas with billowing sails.

Luckily, little attention had been paid to the seven tiny barges flying the Delftan flag—until they had entered the bay.

Mikaen had set up a cordon of ships, including two massive warcraft that rocked like shining castles out of the black sea. A pair of their barges had been stopped, boarded, and inspected before being waved through. It had been a tense moment, but between the storm, the battering waves, and the heavy iron in their hold, no one had bothered to hunt for the secret doors that hid a score of men and weaponry. The only crew in view—like those on the deck now—wore Delftan insignia.

As Kanthe’s barge approached the port, it swept by an anchored galley with its oars stored and its sails wrapped tight. A lone sailor atop the deck huddled under a lantern, looking as miserable as Kanthe felt.

“We’re coming to the docks,” Rami noted. “We must get ready.”

Kanthe mounted the ladder. Past the bow, hundreds of ships had already hurried to port, crowding every berth and anchorage. They had all come seeking a safe harbor, fleeing both storm and battle.

The captain bellowed, “Reef the jib! Back the main sail!”

The crew hurried to obey, to slow their approach amidst the crowded waters. The other six ships followed suit, as expertly helmed as the Gryffin.

Kanthe headed below, too unnerved to watch their fleet maneuver through such tight quarters. Rami followed and slammed the hatch, muffling the storm.

“While you were feeding the fishes,” Rami said as he jumped off the last rung, “several skrycrows were exchanged with Llyra. She has her numbers gathered not far from Highmount, waiting on us.”

“Did she say how many? What sort of army has she roused out of her hard rabble?”

“She didn’t give exact numbers. Only that she ran into an excited mob swarming out of Highmount, flowing from the tourney grounds.”

“From Mikaen’s grand fête.”

They crossed down a narrow passageway lit by a single lantern. They had to walk single file with their heads bowed. The rocking ship knocked them both into the walls. As they went, Kanthe ran a hand along one side, not to keep upright but to feel for the concealed latch in the dim corridor.

“Llyra planted spies inside the castle’s yard,” Rami continued behind him. “They described a fiery god bursting like a new sun, in service to Mikaen.”

Kanthe grimaced. “Eligor.”

“No doubt.”

“Then we’re already too late.”

“That was four bells ago. If your brother’s drama changed any rebellious sentiment, it’s not likely to have spread far, especially with the world dampened by this storm.”

“I’m less worried about changing sentiment and more concerned about that bursting of a new sun. ”

Kanthe’s fingers snagged into a hidden handle and pulled. A section of the planked wall swung open.

A voice called from inside, “That may serve us.”

Tykhan stood only steps away, blocking the way inside. The ta’wyn had clearly overheard the last of their conversation and had likely been dwelling on that message from Llyra.

“How does that serve us?” Kanthe asked.

“From Llyra’s description, Eligor expended considerable power. It will surely tax the smaller schysm he stole from me. Unfortunately, we can’t tell how far along he’s come at magnifying his strength. With enough time, he will use my schysm as a seed to regrow to full power. The question remains: How far has he gotten already? Still, any expenditure will leave him weaker, but by how much I cannot say.”

Past Tykhan’s shoulder, Kanthe eyed the sand dribbling through a glass fixed to a table inside. It marked how much time they had to act. The sand was set to run out when the last bell of Eventoll chimed across the city, marking when one day tipped into the next.

But Kanthe fretted about another passage of time. “How long will it take Eligor to restore what he expended at that fête?”

“Not long.” Tykhan frowned. “So, we must act quickly if we hope to take advantage of his momentary weakness.”

Rami pushed past Tykhan. “Then let’s get our young Hálendiian prince into his armor. I’ve pulled everything out of hiding and stacked it inside.”

Kanthe again felt a queasy turn of his stomach. This time it had nothing to do with the rolling of the ship. The Gryffin held a contingent of twenty Klashean knights. As did the other six ships. Even with Llyra’s rabble of an army, it was an impossible task ahead of them.

Kanthe paused at the threshold of the secret door, glancing back to the bulk of the barge. “I wish we hadn’t had to rush off. With more time and more men—”

“There’s never enough of either—not in war, not in my bed. I had to leave those two Qaarens you foisted on me, the son and daughter of the land’s envoy, under my bedcovers, neither of them satisfied, least of all me. So quit complaining.”

Rami grabbed Kanthe’s wrist and tugged him into the hidden chamber that filled the bow of the ship at its lowermost level. As he stumbled inside, Kanthe kept his gaze down, away from the view ahead, lest he truly get sick. Instead, he eyed the stack of underleathers and silver armor, a match to what Rami wore, only with a helm resting on top.

“At least you remembered to bring my crossbow,” Kanthe said.

He noted the sheathed sword among the gear, too, a match to Rami’s weapon. But Kanthe had little skill at swordplay. Deemed a second-born son, he had been forbidden to wield a blade, but those same dictates hadn’t restricted him from hunting. Trained for years by a Cloudreach tracker, Kanthe had grown adept with all manner of bows, as skilled as Rami was with his knives.

Tykhan crossed past them and headed forward. He nodded to the flowing sand. “You must hurry, Prince Kanthe. We will have a short time to act once the last Eventoll bell rings out. And with what we know now about Eligor, we must move even more swiftly. What I built will have the best chance to work if he remains weak—that’s if it works at all.”

Tykhan glanced to a door that closed off a small workroom. From under the door’s bottom, a blue light slowly dimmed and brightened.

Kanthe gritted his teeth, remembering when last he had seen that unusual glow. He again smelled the sulfurous stench of Malgard, flashing to the floating bells of that land’s foul burning denizens, the lycheens. He pictured what had been discovered underground there: the wreckage of an eyran, the copper egg in which Tykhan had slept for millennia on end, until a Revn-kree had attacked him, tried to destroy him. Tykhan had survived, but he had left the eyran ’s beacon burning, blinking for another eternity. He had done so to hide the fact that he had survived, pretending he still slumbered there. The same beacon had lured Kanthe and his allies to that spot, only to find the copper egg empty and a trap. Before leaving, Kanthe had ripped out the device—a crystal box, cornered in copper and pulsing with a blue glow—and had taken it with him.

And lucky I did.

Tykhan had found a new use for it.

“Does the prince need a valet to help him dress?” Rami pressed Kanthe. “Or must I strip you down myself.”

“I’ll manage on my own.”

Kanthe quickly shed his cloak, breeches, and shirt. As he stood bare-chested, stripped down to his smalls, the door swung open behind him. Frell entered with Cassta.

Bent over the pile of gear, Kanthe momentarily froze, feeling unduly exposed, especially with Cassta smiling at him in amusement. His face heated as he snatched the set of underleathers and began dressing.

“It is always good graces to knock,” he muttered. “Even on a secret door.”

“Sometimes you get the best surprises when you don’t,” Cassta said. “Maybe not for the receiver. I’ve killed four—no, five —men using that method.”

Kanthe set about hooking together his underleathers.

Rami clapped him on the shoulder. “That’s one way of catching her eye.”

“Or her quisl. Like those four—no, five —men of hers.”

He hurriedly finished donning the rest of his gear.

As he did, Frell reported to Tykhan. “Our contingent is readied in the other hold. I’ve told them what to expect, what we’ll be facing.”

“They’ll need to off-load quickly.”

“I warned them of the same.”

“Is everyone off the upper deck?”

“They had better be.”

Kanthe pulled a white surcoat over his light armor. The Hálendiian sun-and-crown had been stitched into it. While he had the full right to wear this as a prince of the Massif family, its true purpose was meant as a disguise. Everyone in the raiding party wore the same, to add to the confusion, to hopefully help mask their actions.

Still, speed offered the best cover.

He pulled his crossbow over his shoulder and surveyed the small group. The five of them had attempted to reach Eligor months ago—and failed miserably.

He watched the sand trickling through the glass.

Maybe we’ll have better luck this time.