Page 231 of The Cradle of Ice

The head of the Dresh’ri remained an unknown variable to their plans in the Eternal City. Zeng had not attended the gathering in X’or—though he was a member of the king’s council.

Over the course of the day, Pratik had made discreet inquiries, but with little result. Shortly after the incineration of the Abyssal Codex, Zeng had faded away. Many believed he had fled due to his fear that eventually the emperor’s mercurial wrath would turn his direction. But now with a new empress on the horizon, Zeng must know his position was even more precarious.

Pratik feared what that might portend. So, he went hunting through the palace and all the usual haunts of the Dresh’ri. Llyra had mapped out the many entrances she knew—both into the Codex itself and into the more extensive lair of the Dresh’ri’s subterranean quarters. Blind searches through that labyrinth would take years. And Zeng might not even be down there. Still, the possibility that he fled the city was too much to hope for.

You’re around here somewhere.

Pratik finally abandoned his inquiries after noting the occasional Dresh’ri poking a head aboveground. If Zeng wanted to know more about what was happening in the palace, he would send only someone he trusted, one of his own, one of his inner cabal. Knowing that, Pratik had begun his hunt, tracking whom he could.

But as midnight beckoned, he might have to abandon the search. A battle was about to be waged to the north and would likely sweep to the walls of Kysalimri. He would need to return to the Blood’d Tower by then. In preparation for the worst, the entire sprawling edifice would be locked down, especially the war-tower. He dared not risk being trapped outside.

As the last bell of the night rang out, he followed the pale shape of the Dresh’ri through the darkest shadows cast by the tall garden walls. His quarry strolled with a casual determination, flanked by a pair of byor-ga servants, who carried books and other boxes. This Dresh’ri seemed no different from the other four Pratik had followed. The man was likely returning to his subterranean quarters after gathering books to read, which were certainly in short supply below.

Pratik was ready to give up his futile search. Then one of the servants stumbled over a loose stone and toppled crookedly to the ground, catching himself from a bad fall on an arm. The servant’s headgear was jarred askew by the impact, but it was quickly reseated.

Shocked, Pratik tripped, too, but collected himself before anyone noticed.

Across the way, in that stumbled moment, a single ear of the servant had been revealed. The sharp point of it was unmistakable.

A Venin …

Pratik pictured the mutilated bridle-singers, with their flailed noses and eyes sewn shut. Though blind, the Venin had shown an ability to cast their gift around, allowing them to navigate. But a loose rock was missed and betrayed the creature’s footing.

Pratik followed through the garden, continuing his disguise of being a servant.

I’m not the only one.

He eyed the second byor-ga servant following behind the white-cloaked Dresh’ri. Pratik knew who must be hidden under the second robe, a figure who moved with far more dexterity.

It was not another Venin.

Zeng …

The Dresh’ri leader must have taken a lesson from their group’s prior attack, choosing to hide in plain sight. Such a course made sense. Zeng wouldn’t trust another’s eyes to canvass the palace and assess the situation. Zeng would only trust himself.

But where are you going now?

Despite time running short, Pratik continued his pursuit, paralleling his quarry through the shadowy gardens. The trio ended up at the ruins of the main entrance to the Codex. A haze of smoke still seeped from below, rising through the collapsed walls and jumble of stone that had once marked the librarie’s water-powered lift.

The three met with a cloaked figure hiding in the smoke-fogged rubble. Zeng shifted forward, casting aside his submissive role. He exchanged words with the other. The cloaked man nodded and took hold of Zeng’s upper arm in a congratulatory manner.

Zeng slipped back. As he did, more robed and hooded figures parted out of the rubble, gathering to Zeng’s side. Pale faces shone in the darkness like macabre lanterns.

The remaining Venin.

The other cloaked figure stepped to the side and lifted a flash of silver to his lips. A whistle blew in three sharp notes. Before the last note faded, it was picked up by another whistle, then a horn, then more horns.

From archways on the far side, armored figures rushed into the garden, sweeping across it at a dead run. On the other side, Paladins posted at the palace doors fell forward, their throats slashed. New Paladins took their places—or at least men wearing such armor.

Pratik retreated out of the way, dropping to his knees in passive submission.

Legs swept past him. Boots crushed gravel. Swords slid from sheaths.

He kept his head bowed until the wave passed and flooded into the palace.

He lifted his face and spotted forges firing across the sky. Ships had vacated the blockade around the palace walls and drove toward the main edifice—all seeming to aim for the Blood’d Tower.

A flash of silver drew his gaze back to the garden.