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HOATAN

I t was nearly midnight, and Hoatan stood at the mouth of the tunnel, staring out at the black, heaving sea. The only light came from the sliver of moon above and the flickering torches on the three ships that made their way toward him. The water in this crescent-shaped bay was calm and deep, and a ledge had been carved at the verge of the water, edged with a crenellated balustrade for ships to tie up to. All was made of stone, and from the sea or the air it looked like nothing more than another tiny inlet on the rocky coastline, but it was, in fact, a secret port large enough to accommodate several one-hundred-foot-long ships. The tunnels which branched off from here, a combination of hand-chipped stone and natural cavern, went all the way back to the catacombs under the castle. This place been a haunt of pirates and smugglers since before in the days of Aulucia the White. But of course, when the Torouman discovered it, generations ago now, they took pains to secure it—and to use it for their own purposes.

The elders Hoatan had trained under would almost certainly be sickened by the way the place was being used tonight, he thought. But that was the age-old Torzame, wasn’t it? The first directive was always to keep the crown safe, and the most necessary work took place in shadow. It required compromise and uneasy alliances. And often, it involved blood.

“It is a historic day,” Prelate Kortoi said, stepping up to the parapet next to Hoatan. “And yet you look stern.”

“It is hard to smile with the weight of a kingdom on one’s shoulders,” Hoatan said. “I expect you can relate.”

Kortoi turned to face Hoatan directly, put a hand on his shoulder. Something about the Prelate’s long fingernails always made him think of a spider’s legs. It made Hoatan’s skin crawl, but he would not let himself shy away from the touch.

“I know you are uneasy,” the Prelate said. “But we share the same goals. Protect the Queen. Win the war. Put the nobles back in their proper place.”

Hoatan nodded to himself. It was the last part that had necessitated the alliance with Kortoi: the murmurs of dissatisfaction among the nobility. The war was taking too long. Trade and prosperity were suffering too much. The Queen was doing too little. With Paemalla’s death, the predicament only became worse. In the eyes of many in the court, Paemalla had been the queen’s last viable heir. Essaphine was damaged and doomed to die in the challenge. Laynine had potential, but if someone as removed as a niece tried to claim the throne, it opened the door for other claimants to come forth, too. Lord Natath’s family, in particular, descended from the Queen’s aunt and would certainly grasp for the crown. Other relatives would clamber to assert their claim, as well. The result would be civil war. Such a distraction from the war efforts against URA would result in Admite forces overrunning Maethalia.

The rule of the Skrathan would be ended. Queen Synaeda would be overthrown. The kingdom would fall. That was a result Hoatan could not allow.

Countering that threat necessitated an alliance with the Prelate. And yet, he could not let Maethalia fall into the hands of Kortoi and his demonic knights and dark mages, either.

That was the path of the Torouman: to balance atop a treacherous path with a deadly drop to either side.

A thudding sound from below pulled him from his thoughts. He looked down to find the first ship docking. Sailors shouted, leaping and tossing ropes. A gangplank dropped into place and the crewmen, along with a small army of Kortoi’s gray-robed monks, began unloading the crates. Mule-drawn carts awaited in the caverns below, ready to take the cargo along the Black Road to the castle to be stored until the moment of need was upon them.

Pray to Earth Mother and Star Father that day never comes, Hoatan thought.

And yet a feeling of foreboding sat in his stomach, twisting itself like a slowly coiling snake.

One of Kortoi’s monks hurried up to him bearing an envelope with a wax seal. He bowed and handed it over to Kortoi, who took it with one taloned hand. Hoatan watched as he ripped it open and his eyes scanned the pages. A low laugh rumbled from his lips.

“What?” Hoatan asked.

“It is from one of our contacts across the sea. I asked them for some information about the princess’s esteemed guest.”

“Really?” Hoatan said. “The reporter?”

The Prelate turned to him, holding up a copy of a URA military ID. The image on it was indeed of the foreigner who had been palling around with Essaphine, but the name on the card was not Kitty Rowley.

“First Lieutenant Charles Inman,” Hoatan read. “He’s an ace... I must warn the Queen.”

The Prelate shook his head.

“No, my friend. I think not. I have scried into the void and seen this foreigner’s face. He is a piece we must not take off the board just yet. He has a part to play. And our game is only beginning.”