Page 119 of The Cradle of Ice

Paktan lifted his chin and turned to Mikaen. “Prince Kanthe is gone.”

Mikaen bit off each word as he clutched hard to his stolen sword. “Then you are of no use to us.”

Wryth stepped forward, knowing what was going to happen.

No, no, no …

Mikaen swung the royal scimitar with all the force of his fury and frustration. The blade cleaved under Paktan’s raised chin and through his throat. Steel rang off bone—then swept high, trailing an arc of blood.

The prince’s head flew even farther.

Wryth stumbled back into the stunned gasps of those around him.

He had to turn away, covering his eyes, not at the horror and brutality, but in despair. With that one act, he knew Mikaen was lost to him forever.

He dropped his hand and accepted this truth. He stared beyond the ship’s rail, casting his gaze south, toward another prince whose actions continued to dismay him.

Kanthe, what have you done?

47

KANTHE STOOD BEFORE the wingketch’s large windows and gazed beyond the last of the Scarp’s foothills. Ahead, a steamy landscape stretched to the glimmer of a distant sea. Yesterday, after their ship had reached the lower mountains, it had taken them another day to slowly sweep over the jagged range to reach the far side.

As he kept his post by the tall window, the final bell of Eventoll chimed throughout the ship. By now, the never-setting sun had fallen behind the peaks of the Hyrg Scarp. Shadows shrouded the lands of Malgard ahead. The expanse of rolling plains glowed with hot pools and boiling lakes, whose clay shores shone with acidic swirls of yellows, crimsons, and bright blues. Geysers spat in an unending spectacle of scalding water. Ponds exploded with great blasts of steamy air, before settling again.

“These lands are the home of Malkanian,” Rami mumbled at Kanthe’s shoulder. “The Klashean god of the fiery underworld, He who burns betrayers and traitors in eternal torment.”

Rami looked over at Kanthe, making it clear whom this lesson was for.

Kanthe turned away. He stared toward the other window across the wheelhouse. Aalia stood between Frell and Pratik. After the two imri had helped with the translation of the stolen prophetic pages, they had all come to a temporary truce, which allowed Rami and his sister more freedom. Still, both were escorted by hard-faced members of Llyra’s army.

Though, the risk of the two imri escaping was minimal.

And not just because we’re in the air.

Saekl—the Rhysian captain of the ketch—stood behind the ship’s maesterwheel, guiding their descent out of the mountains. Four of her sisterhood, all draped in bell-adorned braids, manned the curved helms on either side, working smaller maneuvering wheels and levers.

Little escaped the attention of these assassins.

Even now.

The youngest Rhysian, Cassta, met his gaze from the neighboring station. Her eyes shone with amusement. She had clearly overheard Rami’s brusque lecture on Klashean gods.

Kanthe grimaced and returned his attention to Malgard. The Quisl had dropped over the foothills, enough to see the scorching terrain was dotted by dense forests of skeletal trees, covered in thorns and gray-blue needles. Their branches twisted and writhed, as if the trees were trying to claw themselves free of this hostile land.

“What could possibly live down there?” Kanthe mumbled.

“Do not be fooled.” Rami’s arms were firmly crossed. “It is not just the terrain that is dangerous. Malgard teems with life.”

“Then why do any of your people make Malgard their home?”

Rami sighed and unlocked his arms and stepped closer. He pointed to the southeast, toward that distant glimmer of a blue sea. “The city of Qazen sits on the coast, where the land of Malgard fades into the Salted Wastes. A peninsula of alkali marshes and sunbaked flats. So blinding in their brilliance, it’s said they reflect the wisdom of the gods. It’s why Qazen is considered kissed by the heavens, blessed with seers and prophets.”

“And home to the emperor’s Augury,” Kanthe added.

Rami nodded with a huff. “He heads the city, ensconced in a grand villa at the sea’s edge. The Augury is but the latest in a long lineage of oracles, going back to the founding of the Klashe. Under each full moon, the Augury leads the other seers in a gilded caravan, traveling into Malgard to imbue and bathe themselves in its fumes. There, they drift into a fugue, allowing them to commune with the gods and return with great wisdom.”

A snort of derision rose behind them. “Charlatans,” Llyra stated firmly, puffing on a pipe. “The feckless lot of them. They’re far more swindlers and filchers than any thief.”