Page 53 of The Cradle of Ice

Seated in a casual fashion, the Reef Farer nodded at each obeisance. Berent was clearly Panthean. His smooth complexion made it hard to guess his age, but his hair had gone a silvery gray, speckled with green, contained within a circlet of white stone adorned with emeralds, rubies, and sapphires. The jewels, aglow in the firelight, matched the hues of the daytime skies.

As his eyes settled on Graylin, they slightly narrowed, shining with a reserved interest. Berent then turned to Meryk and waved for him to speak, to explain this intrusion and the presence of this stranger.

Meryk sat straighter and spoke quickly.

While this discourse continued, interrupted by occasional questions, the woman seated next to the Reef Farer kept her focus on the newcomer to the village. Graylin had been informed by Meryk that she was Berent’s consort, a woman named Ularia. She was a carved figure of white marble, and from the dark emerald sheen of her short locks, she was far younger than her consort. She wore a long shift, as pale as her, but laced with opalescent pearls. Her gaze shone with cunning intelligence.

It took much to intimidate Graylin, but he still broke that gaze first.

He turned to the plaza. The celebrants below ignored the events transpiring atop the stage. Wine flowed freely. Music chased dancers across the plaza in complicated patterns that involved much twirling and sudden stops that ended in claps. They all appeared young, finely dressed, with sweat shining off their faces, both from the exertion and excitement. More dancers waited at the edges for their go. Meryk had explained this was a suitors’ dance, where mates were sought, allowing blood to be stirred across the many villages.

Floraan touched Graylin’s arm, drawing his attention back. “Reef Farer Berent would like to speak to you.”

Graylin turned to the throne and gave a respectful bow of his head. The leader of these people rose from his seat and crossed forward. His lips had thinned. Doubt shone in his eyes. He appraised Graylin, perhaps trying to determine what manner of ruse this was. He reached and ran a finger along the fur edge of Graylin’s vest.

Berent cocked his head to the side. “Weh sin’k fay nah?”

Floraan translated. “He wants to know what manner of beast this came from.”

Graylin glanced down. “Fox. The ruff of a fox.”

Floraan swallowed, then whispered, “We have no word for such a creature.” Still, she turned to the Reef Farer and tried her best. “Gree fay fox,” she offered, stressing the foreign word.

He nodded, looking little convinced. Graylin suspected the man believed this was some elaborate costume, some festival joke to amuse the gathering. In fact, Graylin had battled enough opponents to know the Reef Farer was losing patience, tipping into irritation, even anger.

Before matters worsened, Graylin offered one way to convince him that they were not from these lands, that his clothing was not a fabricated ruse. He held up his palms and eyed both guards who flanked them, then ever so slowly slipped his sword from its sheath.

One of the guardsmen stepped defensively forward, but Berent waved him off. The Panthean’s eyes narrowed with curiosity, maybe avarice, as the full length of the blade was revealed.

Heartsthorn glowed in the firelight. Its silvery length was inscribed with twining vines heavy with grapes. The decoration celebrated Graylin’s corner of the Brauðlands, a roll of hills cooled by the shadow of Landfall’s cliffs, where his family’s vast vineyards spread.

Berent stepped closer again. The tip of his tongue licked the edge of his upper lip. Graylin read the desire and turned the blade and balanced it across his palms. He lifted it high, then lowered the treasure into the Reef Farer’s hands, so the man could inspect its authenticity.

Graylin glanced over to Meryk, remembering how the Panthean had mentioned the rarity of fine-wrought steel here. No one would forge such a treasure just to play a trick on the Reef Farer.

Even his consort, Ularia, rose from her chair and came closer. She had finally found something of interest greater than Graylin for the moment.

When the Reef Farer looked up again, there was no doubt in those eyes, only amazement. He asked a question, which Floraan shared.

“He wants to know where your great ship lies. He would like to see it.”

Graylin hesitated for multiple reasons. First, the small sailraft would surely disappoint. And second, he still wanted to keep its location secret, in case things turned sour and their group needed a fast escape.

Berent spoke quizzically again, sounding like he was repeating the same inquiry, only his timbre had hardened.

Graylin knew he had to be careful. His group’s presence risked upsetting a delicate balance that had stretched back centuries—to Skyfall, as they called it. Since that time, he imagined little had changed in the Crèche. The Pantheans were likely unaccustomed to surprises or sudden changes in circumstance.

Meryk pressed Graylin, reinforcing his leader’s interest. “I would like to see this ship, too.”

As if summoned by this request, a roaring echoed off the sea, like thunder rolling in from a storm. It grew louder with every thud of his heart. All eyes turned to the skies as the mists turned to fire. Music went discordant, then fell silent.

Oh, no …

Graylin knew what was coming.

Lit by a rush of flames, a massive shape plummeted out of the steamy mists, swirling fog in its wake. Above, the shreds of a balloon whipped and tore at the skies, as if clawing for purchase. A portion of the gasbag remained intact, doing its best to hold the ship aloft. Flashburn forges cast out a maelstrom of fire below the keel.

But it was not enough to stop the plunge.