Page 32 of The Cradle of Ice

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AS ANOTHER BELL chimed away, Frell struggled to keep his eyes open, thwarting his best intentions to read all night. The lines of text blurred; his chin bobbed toward his chest. Seated in a chair by the window, he finally closed the book in his lap.

Enough … I’m learning nothing new.

With a groan, he stood. His legs wobbled with his first steps toward his desk. He was only thirty-seven, but he suddenly felt like an old man. As he caught his balance, a whiff of a familiar scent struck him. He stopped and inhaled deeper.

What is that?

It smelled of summer-parched hay and the warm musk of a mare ready to breed. He lifted the edge of his robe and sniffed at it, believing it rose from his own skin, his Aglerolarpok past rising up again—but all he smelled was his own sweat and wool that needed freshening.

He straightened and searched his sanctum.

What strangeness is this?

The aroma drew him toward the room’s closed door. With each step, the odor grew stronger. He spied wisps of smoke trailing under the door and into his chamber. Fearing Kanthe might have left coals burning in a hearth and started a fire, he hurried to the door and opened it.

Smoke wafted over him, carrying that same scent. The room beyond was fogged into obscurity. He stepped forward but halted at the threshold, fear icing through him. Despite his hesitation, he drew a deeper breath, unable to stop himself. The scent of home was too alluring, calling to the boy who ran the fields and fought off ponies with a stick, pretending it was a sword.

The world swam around him, weakening his legs.

Past and present blurred.

He slumped toward the stone floor. As he did, shadowy figures rushed through the smoke, coming toward him. They were robed in white, with cowls embroidered in gold.

The Dresh’ri.

He fell to his back, his limbs gone leaden. He tried to lift his head, but it was too heavy. He lay flat, only his chest moving up and down, drawing more of the alchymy into his body. Though the view spun, he remained awake. He could still smell his past suffused in the rolling pall, taste it on his tongue. Only his muscles refused his commands.

Hands grabbed his arms, his legs.

Unable to fight them, he was lifted from the floor and carried out of his sanctum.

Where are they taking me?

A face appeared before him, leaning close. The man’s embroidered cowl had fallen askew, revealing a familiar forked beard, hawkish nose, and dark eyes. It was the Dresh’ri emissary who had questioned Frell.

Zeng ri Perrin spoke quickly. “Frell hy Mhlaghifor, you’ve been judged worthy to enter the Abyssal Codex. It is an honor beyond words. Especially for one exiled to our lands. Take comfort in this invitation.”

Relief and hope swelled through Frell, but it was dashed by the Dresh’ri’s next words.

“But know this—once you enter, you will never leave.”

17

KANTHE LOWERED THE long-stemmed pipe from his lips and stifled a cough. “Oof, this leaf is strong,” he said. “My heart is pounding in my throat. What’s in it?”

Rami smiled, showing the full whiteness of his teeth. “Tabakroot, snakeweed, and a pinch of ramblefoot.”

Kanthe rested the pipe on his knee, careful to keep any ash from his polished boots. In fresh trousers and an untied shirt, he felt overheated and overdressed on the private balcony.

Rami wore only a loosely belted robe, showing the swatch of hair across his chest that climbed his throat and formed a close-cropped beard that looked as if it had been painted in place. The Klashean prince had also sought a bath after the trying day and remained barefooted. The curls of his hair had dried disheveled, adding a certain rakish charm to the young man.

Kanthe found it hard not to keep Pratik’s earlier suggestion out of his head, about bedding Rami. Especially when the Klashean prince spent considerable time lounging in his cushioned chair, with one leg up, revealing far too much of what lay under his robe. Still, even with the lack of attire, Rami showed no attempt to seduce Kanthe.

Instead, after Kanthe had arrived here, the two had shared a small meal of braised duck and spiced beans and a bottle of Aailish wine each. Afterward, they had retired to the balcony overlooking the city to smoke and perhaps finally broach the subject for Kanthe’s visit.

Rami had refused to talk about the wedding while eating, deeming it inappropriate conversation. Klashean custom frowned upon discussing anything beyond the trivial while breaking bread. Instead, they had talked animatedly about hunting—an affinity they both shared. They even shared stories of their childhood, finding much in common. Both were sons who had no hope of ever sitting on the throne, whose only expectations were to bolster their more illustrious counterparts. In Rami’s case, that was his eldest brother by a decade, Prince Jubayr.