Page 160 of The Cradle of Ice

She remembered a moment with the Dreamers—when she had grabbed Daal’s shoulder. She pictured his fire flowing into her, drawn into a bottomless black maelstrom at the core of her being.

She shuddered even now.

Graylin shifted toward the Sparrowhawk’s portside window, staring across the sea to the west. “If we should head to the Fangs,” he said, “how do you propose to get there? Ularia has rallied the Reef Farer’s warriors to guard us close. They’re posted all over the beach. Any move and she’ll learn of your plan. I suspect she wouldn’t approve of this scheme any more than I do. If we do reach the Mouth, we risk stirring up the raash’ke into another attack on the Crèche. For that reason alone, she and the Reef Farer would prohibit us from going.”

“True. That’s why they must never know we left.”

Graylin frowned. “How are we accomplishing that?”

Nyx noted that Graylin had stopped fighting against her going and now struggled with the groundwork to make it happen.

Luckily, she and Daal had already discussed this hurdle, too.

64

THROUGH THE SMALL windows of the sailraft, Graylin watched the deck of the Sparrowhawk fall away under him.

Despite his trepidation, it was not a bad plan.

Next to him, Brayl sat behind the wheel, her feet manipulating the pedals, firing the small forge sparingly. She guided them away from the neighboring cliff of ice and out to sea. She barely seemed to pay attention, concentrating more on a pipe the size of his thumb.

“This dried weed that the Pantheans smoke is shite compared to Klashean tabak,” she commented. “Though it does make your tongue pleasantly tingle.”

“Mind the skies,” Graylin rumbled.

She cast him a sidelong glance and spooled a dismissive curl of smoke his way. “Do you know how many times I’ve made this trek?” She glanced to a small hashing of marks on a paper pinned next to the wheel. “Twenty-three times. Nope, missed one. Twenty-four times if you tally this one, which might not count as we’re straying from my usual route.”

Graylin knew she flew regularly to the Fyredragon, to aid in ferrying heavier supplies from Noor’s old ship to the Sparrowhawk.

It’s that routine that we’re all counting on.

The small group accompanying Nyx had snuck aboard the raft after it landed briefly on the Hawk’s deck. To stay out of sight, they kept the bulk of the ship between them and the guards on the beach below. The plan was to make off into the mists overhead, pretending to be on another supply run to the Fyredragon—then, once lost in the mists, they’d set off for the western Fangs.

Graylin looked over his shoulder and studied their small group.

Jace sat on a thin bench, balancing his Guld’guhlian ax across his knees. He had insisted on coming along, maybe to make up for his failed attempt to sway Nyx from this course, but more likely simply because he feared for her safety. His white-knuckled grip on the ax was testament to that determination, and maybe some measure of fear.

Besides Nyx, two others were aboard.

Quartermaster Vikas would be continuing her duty as Nyx’s guardian. The woman was so tall, she had to keep her head ducked from the raft’s low roof, even while seated. She massed twice Graylin’s weight, all of it muscle encased in leather. Graylin planned on leaning on every stone of that bulk and every fiber of that strength to keep Nyx safe.

The last member of their group, Shiya, stood at the back, anchoring all that bronze to keep the raft’s flight even. She would not only act as a defender during this trek, using her speed and considerable power, but she would also work in tandem with Nyx to bolster her bridle-song.

Still, Graylin wished their numbers were far greater.

Nyx must have read this desire as he sized up each member of the party. “We must trust we’re enough,” she said. “We dared not take any more with us, or Ularia might note we’re missing. It’s risky enough with the five of us leaving. Plus, once we get to the Fangs, Daal’s skiff can only hold a few people. Especially with Shiya aboard. And we’ll still need room for Bashaliia when we sail back.”

Graylin frowned at her optimism. For him, their best hope was to reach the Mouth, for Nyx to recognize the futility of a rescue, then quickly duck back into the icy labyrinth of the Fangs before the raash’ke were any the wiser. Still, he had to begrudgingly concede that a smaller, less conspicuous party offered the best chance for that outcome.

Brayl also supported their fewer numbers, but for a more practical reason. “Nyx is right. I’m not sure this sailraft could handle any more weight. We’re low on flashburn as it is. My father hasn’t gotten around to tinkering with my raft’s little forge. He’s been focusing on the Sparrowhawk’s big engines, retooling them to handle that Panthean flitch. I heard the forges are already provin’ more powerful. Can’t wait to try ’em out.”

Graylin noted her spark of envious excitement.

“I also heard they’ll be testing the new balloon in a bit,” she added. “Seeing if hot air alone will lift the Hawk. I hope I’m back in time to watch.”

Graylin doubted it. Once Brayl dropped them off, she would sail straight to the Fyredragon before returning to the beached swyftship. She had to maintain their story that this was just another supply run.

Everyone back at the beach would also cover for the missing members: diverting any inquiries, muddying and misdirecting, anything to keep their disappearance from Ularia and the Reef Farer.