Page 179 of The Cradle of Ice

She had read of other kingdoms, of other dominions, of other beliefs.

Interest grew into discontent.

Discontent led to rebellion.

Rebellion brought her to the Shayn’ra.

Still, in one day, all she’d known about the world had been upended.

Irritated more than scared, she faced the ship’s long hold. The arrowsprite was designed for swift passage, little more. Certainly not privacy. A small wheelhouse closed off the bow. At the stern, a single cabin was reserved for the emperor. Between the two stretched an open hold. It was divvied into clusters of chairs and couches.

Near the back, Kanthe huddled with Frell and Pratik, surely discussing the mystery in bronze that was Tykhan. Ahead of her, Tazar and Althea whispered quietly, as if still trying to keep their secrets. Between them, the black clutch of Rhysians were playing a game that involved flipping daggers—possibly poisoned—and landing them between the fingers of an opponent. It was unnerving to watch.

The only others aboard were a pair of Guld’guhlian ruffians whom Llyra watched over. The guildmaster stood with her arms crossed, her features tight with anger. The Guld’guhlian who had lost part of his leg drowsed under a heavy draught of poppy’s milk. His stump had been bandaged and attended to earlier. His brother sat next to him, resting a palm on the other’s forehead.

Aalia stifled a flare of guilt at the sight of the wounded man, even though she had not ordered him maimed. She stared past Kanthe to the closed cabin door. Rami was in there with their father, who remained addled by some witchery of Tykhan. Despite her own frustrations with her father and the empire, fury at such a violation burned through her.

Still, there was little any of them could do. After the battle in Qazen, their group—some disguised under byor-ga robes—had fled through town to the mooring fields. They met little resistance, especially with the emperor in tow. Tykhan continued to exert some strange control over their father. He was able to get Makar to blurt out commands or offer reassurances. The emperor’s words, though, came out stuttering, accompanied by odd tics and mannerisms.

The Augury—who had refixed the oils over his face—had told anyone who showed concern that the emperor had been afflicted by enemy forces, likely poisoned, but Makar was mending and under the Augury’s auspicious care.

Eventually, they had reached one of the imperial arrowsprites and commandeered it. They replaced its wheelhouse crew with the leader of the Rhysians and a young cohort. The two managed to expertly guide the sleek ship away from the mooring fields, racing off with the excuse that Emperor Makar needed prompt care.

Before leaving, Tykhan had asked Llyra and Tazar to dispatch messages to their respective forces, to have them abandon Qazen and return to Kysalimri. Those that returned were to rouse as many of the Shayn’ra and Llyra’s low army as possible in the city and to be ready for further instructions.

Still, Aalia was at a loss. About nearly everything. She felt as manipulated as her father was, pulled by the invisible strings wielded by Tykhan. Everything was moving far too swiftly. Even now, she could not decide whether to fully trust the Augury or not. Still, in the haste of events, she had little choice but to be swept along his path.

At least for now.

As if summoned by this reverie, the door to the wheelhouse opened, and Tykhan reappeared. Aalia stiffened at the sight of him, at his startling transformation. Gasps rose from Tazar and Althea, who both retreated away. Tazar drew protectively closer to Aalia. She took the hand he offered, drawing strength from him.

Those behind her showed milder reactions, more curious than shocked.

Then again, the others had all witnessed such a miraculous creature before.

Though still wearing his black robes, Tykhan had washed off the black stain that had hid his true features. The hard planes of his face now swirled in mesmerizing hues of bronze and copper. Even the curls of his hair shone brightly, forming a sun’s corona around his head. But it was his eyes. They had always been a stunning dark indigo. Only now, his eyes glowed an azure blue, as if lit from within.

Frell drew Kanthe and Pratik closer to Tykhan. “You truly are a Sleeper, a being like Shiya.”

“We are alike,” he admitted. “You call her Shiya, but only because she’s forgotten her true name—along with most of the knowledge she needs as an Axis.”

Kanthe frowned. “What’s an Axis?”

“A long story,” Tykhan said. “And even I don’t know all of it. I’m just a Root, a lower caste of the ta’wyn. Little is shared with us.”

Aalia shifted to face Frell and Pratik. “Ta’wyn? We read that word in those ancient pages. Ta’wyn. The undying gods.” She turned to Tykhan. “That’s you.”

“Ta’wyn actually means defender, but storytellers love to sensationalize and embellish.”

Frell frowned. “In those pages, it also spoke of a great war among the ta’wyn. Was that an embellishment, too?”

“Sadly, no. But as a Root, I was not privy to the full scope of events. Roots serve at a lower level. Construction, mining, and other scut work. All I know is that during or following the cataclysm, the ta’wyn were created to build great machines that would set the world to turning again if it ever became necessary. Once done, we were to bury ourselves deep and wait to be woken.”

“Sleepers,” Pratik said.

“Our creators also engineered living sentinels to monitor from the surface and wake us if any apocalyptic threat arose.”

Kanthe nodded. “Like the Mýr bats.”