Page 177 of The Cradle of Ice

He crossed toward the tall, iron-strapped doors of the war room. The two guards who flanked it opened the way ahead of him. He swept across the threshold and down the three steps.

The war room had been excavated out of the bedrock beneath the castle’s foundations. It was a stark and austere place, where battles were plotted and the fates of armies decided. No comfort was to be found here. The surrounding stone was heavy with iron, creating an impregnable chamber, one capable of surviving the devastating blast of a Hadyss Cauldron—not that anyone had tested that theory.

At least, not yet.

Wryth still didn’t know why he had been called to the war room versus the council chamber. Something must have changed beyond their borders. His heart pounded harder at this thought. After the attack on the Shield Islands, he had believed there would be a short reprieve from the fighting, long enough for him to confirm the acquisition of the bronze artifact, a device that could turn the tides of war, especially if Wryth could fathom how to replicate such a wonder.

And what other knowledge might I obtain from it?

Desire burned through him with an avaricious fire.

I must have it.

While Wryth held no love for king or kingdom, Hálendii’s stability and resources offered him the best chance to achieve his goal of piercing the veils of the past to uncover the lost knowledge of the ancients.

Knowledge likely preserved in bronze.

All he needed was for the kingdom’s constancy to be sustained. The ravages of war threatened all that Wryth had built, especially with the king’s heir proving to be so rash and reckless, unpredictable in his tantrums.

As he entered, he spotted Prince Mikaen standing to the side of the room’s stone table. The captain of his Silvergard listened with his head bent as the prince whispered in his ear. Thoryn slowly nodded.

Mikaen noted his arrival, turning his cold mask and colder gaze his way. For the thousandth time, Wryth wished he had wrested control over the young prince, but events this past summer—the maiming, the humiliation by his brother—had ruined all of that. Mikaen had found succor, instead, among harder men whose lust for glory and battle spoke best to the prince’s vengeful heart.

Wryth turned away.

King Toranth had yet to come, but around the edges of the room, lieutenants and captains from the kingdom’s legions gathered in clusters. The only ones standing at the table were members of the king’s council: Treasurer Hesst, Provost Balyn, and Mayor Torusk. Nobody would take a seat until the king entered.

Wryth stepped to the opposite side of the table. Its stone surface had been carved into a map of Hálendii and its outer territories of Guld’guhl and Aglerolarpok.

As he crossed down the table’s left side, he ran a hand along the western edge of their territories, riding his fingertips over the sharp range of mountains that marked the border between the Crown and the Frozen Wastes. A razor edge of a peak sliced through his skin, welling blood that dribbled down the mountain’s slope. He ignored the cut and tucked his hand into the sleeve of his robe. He pictured the glowing sphere buried under the Shrivenkeep and the glow of the treasure far out across the Wastes’ Ice Shield.

I must have it. If I could—

A burst of a horn cut off this reverie, drawing his attention to the far side of the room. Doors swept open. The king entered with a brush of a dark blue cloak that draped from shoulder to ankle. His face was flushed, but it was hard to say if the heat came from anger or eagerness.

Behind him, Liege General Reddak followed, flanked by the heads of the kingdom’s ground and wind forces. Bows and salutes greeted Toranth. The king barely noted them. He quickly took his seat at the end of the table and waved everyone to sit or gather closer.

“A flurry of skrycrows arrived in the last bell,” Toranth announced, staring hard down the table. “From the Southern Klashe. We’ve learned Emperor Makar had fled to Qazen to consult with his oracle.”

Wryth had heard stories of the Augury of Qazen, the illustrious seer who clutched hard to the emperor’s ear. Wryth felt a flicker of envy. While he had the king’s attention, plying and manipulating him with hints of prophecies and hidden knowledge, Wryth did not have as firm a hold on Toranth.

“What counsel did the emperor gain from the Augury?” Hesst asked.

“From what we’ve been able to gather—” Toranth’s eyes shone brightly. “Makar was informed of the location of Kanthe and his abducted children. Some cavern system in Malgard, I understand.”

Wryth frowned. What was Kanthe doing there?

Toranth continued. “Imperial forces secured them. Took them to Qazen.”

Mikaen stirred. “So the traitor is in Qazen?”

“No,” Toranth corrected. “The latest message spoke of an attempt on the emperor’s life. By a rabble of lowborn and rebels. The uprising was crushed, but Makar was injured. Though the nature of his wounds remains unclear. He was last reported to have boarded an imperial arrowsprite headed north. Accompanied by his son and daughter, along with the Augury himself. They have Prince Kanthe with them—not as prisoner, but ally.”

Mikaen stood, leaning a fist atop the table. “Then it is as I warned you all. He has been plotting with the imperium all along.”

Toranth frowned Mikaen back into his seat. “We know little more than what I told you. For now, it seems Kysalimri remains equally confused.”

Wryth stared at those gathered around the table. If they had all been summoned to the war room, the king must intend to take advantage of this moment of perplexity and disorder in the Klashe.