Page 144 of The Cradle of Ice

—Kastal au Tellilas, the Blasphemer of Kaant

57

I AM DOOMED never to sleep.

Like two days ago—which felt like a lifetime ago—Wryth was pulled from his bed far too early. Exhausted and defeated after yesterday’s battle in the Breath, he found himself again standing within the heart of the Iflelen’s great instrument, facing down the bronze bust while he waited for Shrive Keres to decipher another message from Skerren.

His heart pounded, and his hands were clamped into fists at his waist.

Skerren’s last message, sent via code from his battle barge, had his forces approaching a storm over the mountains of the Dragoncryst. Skerren had picked up a weak signal from the bronze artifact. With their target located, his barge and its three swyftships had headed off into the storm.

And since then, nothing had been heard from Skerren.

Until two bells ago.

The message had come in slowly, in blinks and long glows, taking a chunk of the morning just to be transmitted. Now came an even longer wait as the lengthy code was laboriously deciphered. It was nearing midday, and Wryth was losing patience.

Wryth glanced over to the crystal sphere of their listening device. The yellow blip marked the location of the bronze artifact. It still hadn’t moved, as if lodged in place. The red glow of Skerren’s fleet had closed upon it, was almost on top of it.

Then his ships had stopped, hovering so tantalizingly close to the target.

What is happening out there?

Keres finally straightened from his crouch over a stained and scribbled parchment. His brow sweated from his concentrated effort to work through Skerren’s new message. His eyes remained squinted, as if he were still struggling with the code.

“Strange…” Keres muttered.

Wryth exhaled hard. “In Ðreyk’s blasted name, what does it say?”

Keres cringed from the sharp curse.

“Out with it,” Wryth demanded.

Keres nodded. “Skerren reports that he’s reached the western slopes of the Dragoncryst. While crossing over, he lost one of his swyftships in the ice storm. He’s still not entirely sure what had happened to it.”

Wryth waved away this loss. “It doesn’t matter. What else?”

“During his passage across the mountains, Skerren kept getting flickers from his detecting device. He followed it cautiously as the signal came and went. But when he reached the far side of the Dragoncryst, the location became clearer—but also made no sense.”

“What do you mean?”

Keres licked his lips. “The signal seemed to be coming from deep under the Ice Shield.”

“Under it?” Wryth stiffened, picturing his bronze treasure buried beyond their reach.

Keres explained. “After losing one of his ships, Skerren held back his barge and his remaining two ships. He feared triggering whatever disaster took down the enemy. Especially when they were so close. To investigate further, he dispatched a bevy of small slipfoils—ten of them—to furtively skim down the mountainside and hug the ice.”

Wryth nodded. He pictured the stealthy one-man crafts. The slipfoils were little more than shells with wings, mounted by sleek balloons and a single flashburn maneuvering forge. They were perfect for covert scouting.

“What did Skerren learn?”

“Unfortunately, only a trio of foils came back. The rest were lost. The returning pilots claimed to have discovered a massive, heated rift in the ice. When they descended into its steamy depths … they found another world.”

“What are you talking about?”

“They discovered a great hot sea. Under the ice. While exploring, the slipfoils kept to the mists under its glowing roof. Spying from on high, they spotted a village, with people—people of the Ice Shield—and boats. But most importantly…” Keres’s eyes had gotten huge by now. “They identified the wreckage of a Hálendiian swyftship on its shore.”

Wryth had a thousand more questions, but he focused on the most important.