Page 149 of The Cradle of Ice

“True,” the other agreed, touching three fingers to his forehead in gratitude to the heavens.

Kanthe sighed.

The escape of the wingketch had been the only fair tidings of this disastrous morning. While flying to Qazen earlier, Kanthe had eavesdropped on the chatter among their captors and learned what had happened. Saekl must have spotted the approach of the imperial ships and blasted skyward with the renowned speed of the ketches. Still, she took two precautions. She swept low over the neighboring Naphtha pine forest, setting it ablaze, then took advantage of the smoke to cover her escape. She also left behind a treasure that would attract the imperial forces away from their escape.

The Illuminated Rose of the Imri-Ka.

Aalia had been abandoned outside. The furious fires of the ketch’s forges, followed by the torching of the forest, had driven away the clouds of lycheens.

The move forced the imperial soldiers to rescue Aalia, allowing the others time to vanish into the steamy landscape.

“At least we know that Llyra didn’t betray us,” Kanthe said, gasping in the heat.

“That’s not necessarily true,” Frell whispered. “She still could’ve given up our plans, but not informed the ketch’s captain.”

“Or there could be another spy, as you suggested,” Pratik added, his face streaming with sweat.

Kanthe pushed higher on his toes. “Either way, we’re stuck here.”

While perched in place, he clung to a sliver of hope. He prayed for Rami to be successful in his attempt to explain the events of that harrowing night: the burning of the librarie, the escape to the skies, the misguided taking of a hostage. Still, the prospects of success were as slim as the curve of shadows under his feet.

Especially after the guards’ next exchange.

“I heard Emperor Makar is in a frenzy at the Augury’s villa,” the Lizard said with a bit too much glee at the emperor’s distress. “All but pulling his hair out with grief.”

“I don’t blame him. If my son had his head cleaved off by that Hálendiian prince, they’d have to weigh me down in irons to keep me from getting revenge.”

Frell glanced at Kanthe, both brows raised.

Pratik called to the guards, “What happened to one of Emperor Makar’s sons?”

Snake Eyes spat into the cell, his spittle sizzling on the hot glass. “As if you don’t know!”

The Lizard glared at them. “Prince Paktan did not deserve such an ignoble death. Beheaded in chains.” He pointed his curved sword through the bars at Kanthe. “By your fekkin’ brother.”

Stunned, Kanthe slid down the wall. His toes breached the shadows and burned in the sunlight. He hardly felt it.

What did Mikaen do?

Snake Eyes pressed his face to the bars. “No doubt, your head will fall next. Sent to your father before the day’s last bell.”

Kanthe touched his neck.

A commotion sounded down the hall. The pounding of many boots approached with a scatter of shouts. Snake Eyes stepped away to meet them. Kanthe overheard an order for the prisoners to be hauled to the Augury’s villa.

The Lizard lingered at the door and leered in at them. “Seems it might not take until the last bell before that gift is prepared for your king.”

* * *

FROM A HIGH window in Qazen, Tazar watched an imperial procession of guards ride into town on horses and wagons. They entered via the sea road, coming from the distant prison grounds. In the midst of them, a caged cart held five chained captives.

A short time ago, when the second midday bells had chimed, one of Tazar’s men had rushed off the streets with a report that the Hálendiian prince and his cohorts were being transferred to the Augury’s palacio.

Tazar had climbed up to the second story of a small villa to confirm the same. He stared off toward the Augury’s palacio, a grand estate that sat atop a bluff overlooking the ocean. Like most of the town, its walls were salt-encrusted bricks, the crystals reflecting the sunlight into the sparkle of diamonds. The many roofs of the sprawling estate were covered in white slate to keep the worst of the sun’s heat away. The shadowed grounds danced with fountains and sheltered flowering gardens, all dotted with blue pools and tall stands of green palms.

Most dramatic of all, set amidst the gardens, stood the ancient Giants of Qazen. The seven priceless sculptures were made of black glass, forged by lost alchymies. The figures stood taller than the villa’s walls. They depicted stylized giants, adorned with matching seamless helms. Their features were crude and sharp-edged, with eyes depicted by concentric circles. The warriors struck threatening poses: a fist raised, a spear lofted, a bow poised. Age had damaged most. A swordsman carried a broken shield. A boxer only had a stump for an arm. An archer stood posed with half his head gone.

Still, the Giants loomed tall, undisputably intimidating, as if forever guarding this coastline—not that these statues had come from these shores. The collection was said to have been dug up during the excavations of a necropolis far out into the blasted wastelands, beyond the Crown’s edge, where the sun beat down in an endless, merciless fire.