Page 111 of The Cradle of Ice

But it was not any orkso.

The memory darkened his sight even now. He rubbed his eyes, realizing the dimming light had not been conjured by his recollection of that day.

Eventide had fallen.

Overhead, the panoply of hues across the ice had faded to dim swaths of blue. He blinked to readjust his sight. As he did, the distant dark fog brightened over the waters, flickering with flames.

It was the returning flotilla.

Daal took a breath, casting aside the shadows of that terrifying day. At last, his vigil had ended. The waiting was over.

Now comes the hard part.

* * *

TWO BELLS AFTER arriving at Kefta, Nyx still sat at an open-air stone table. She ignored the long platter at its center, piled high with steamed knots of some starchy tuber, fried fish, boiled eels, and oil-blanched weed.

She had no appetite, anxiety souring her stomach.

Instead, she took in her surroundings. The tribute grounds proved to be an interconnecting warren of wide streets, small squares, and more intimate courtyards. Walls, terraces, and balconies were all strung with the same white-blossoming strands of a sea plant that had adorned the barge’s rail. Hundreds of firepots and lanterns held back the gloom of eventide—if not the misery of those around her.

That was better assuaged with the free flow of sweet wine. Casks of ale formed pyramids at every corner. As throats loosened, tales were shared of those who had passed. Music echoed confoundedly throughout the labyrinth, rising from different stands of minstrels and wandering bards. They competed against one another in a discordant din.

Nyx’s head throbbed from the clamor and tumult.

Across the table, Daal looked no better. His face remained drained of color. He sipped at a cup of wine, but it was doubtful any passed his lips. It was the same cup his father had forced into his hands at the start of the feast.

Meryk stood across the small square, leaning on Vikas’s shoulder, talking into her ear. The quartermaster’s assignment was to draw off Daal’s father, get him well soused, to keep him distracted enough not to realize they had left. From the way he weaved when he straightened, Vikas had succeeded admirably. From here, she would stay behind with Meryk, making sure he grew none the wiser.

A hand gripped Nyx’s shoulder, making her flinch.

“It’s time,” Graylin said, nodding over to Daal.

She stood and glanced around. “The Reef Farer and his consort?”

Graylin had gone off to spy on them in a neighboring plaza, where dignitaries from each village had gathered. “They are well occupied and deep into their cups. At least, Berent is. Ularia is practically holding him upright in his chair.”

Daal came around the table, pulling up the hood of his oilskin slicker. He had supplied the same to all of them. Even Shiya stood in the shadows, decked from head to toe, her cloak masking her features. The bronze woman had donned it by the docks shortly after stepping off the barge, allowing their group to disappear within the throngs crowding the grounds.

“Let’s go,” Daal said, and led them off.

They hurried down dark alleys and side streets, avoiding the growing exuberance where—at least for this one night—grief was being drowned away. The four of them reached the plaza that fronted the bay. It was mostly empty. A few drunken stragglers wandered the edges, arms around each other’s shoulders. Someone heaved in a corner, while two mates laughed bawdily nearby.

“My skiff this way,” Daal said, and hurried toward one of the stone piers.

He only got a few steps before figures appeared ahead, shedding from the shadows. Three men blocked their way, another two appeared behind Nyx and the others. The group came armed with cudgels and knives.

Across the plaza, the stragglers noted the confrontation and hurried off. They were apparently sober enough to sense the bloodshed to come and wanted no part of it. Even the sick man had been dragged off by his friends.

With no eyes upon them, the stockiest of the group pushed forward to confront Daal. He slapped a hooked gaff into his calloused palm. He spat as much as spoke, reeking of sour ale. “Rel’n dar nare Noor?” He waved his gaff to encompass all of them. “Nee Noor wrench ka!”

Daal held up his palms, trying to placate the angry group. “Bakna, nee wrench pa’kan.”

Clearly, Daal had recognized the Panthean. The group must be fellow villagers from Iskar who had come to seek vengeance, or at least make their group suffer as much as the Crèche had.

Daal spoke rapidly, seeking any means to talk them free.

Before he got far, the hard ring of a bell sounded behind Nyx. She turned to see one of the assailants stumble away from Shiya. Her hood had been knocked askew. A wooden cudgel fell from the man’s stunned grip. Shiya lunged out and snatched the assailant’s neck. Bronze fingers closed around his throat and lifted him off his feet. He flailed in her grip.