Page 65 of The Cradle of Ice

It was what gave Wryth hope. The prince doted on his boy and girl, all but glowing in their presence, effervescent and happy. Wryth hoped the two babes might be the antidote to the corrupting poison. With their birth, Mikaen had a future to protect.

Wryth prayed it led to a steadier temperament.

One I can resume molding.

Wryth contemplated his options and waited until Mikaen left, escorted by his Silvergard. Once they were gone, he turned his back on the festivities and vanished into the darkness.

I still have one last concern to address.

* * *

DEEP IN THE labyrinthine bowels below the Shrivenkeep, Wryth stopped before a set of ebonwood doors. Still agitated, he needed a moment to center himself before entering the sacred chamber, the very heart of the Iflelen order, a secret buried underground for seven centuries.

He closed his eyes and gripped his priceless Shriven cryst, a leather bandolier that hung across his chest. It was studded in iron and lined by sealed pouches. It was awarded to those holy men who achieved mastery in both alchymy and religious studies.

The pockets of most Shriven crysts held nothing but charms and sentimental detritus, each pouch intended to memorialize one’s long path to the holy status of a Shrive.

Not so his own cryst.

His fingertips read the symbols burned into the leather. Each of his bless’d pockets hid dark talismans and tokens of black alchymies. Some hid the powdered bones of ancient beasts. Others held phials of powerful elixirs or ampoules of poisons. But the most treasured of all were the scraps of ancient texts scrolled into the tiny pouches, their faded ink indecipherable but hinting at the lost alchymies of the ancients.

Wryth cared little for the here and now. He sensed this world was but a shadow of an older one, a place of immeasurable power. He intended to gain their secrets. No knowledge would be forbidden to him. No brutality too harsh to acquire it.

Especially now.

The Crown was at a pivotal moment, with portents rife and war threatening. In his bones, he knew he was as close as ever to piercing the veil to that ancient font of power. It was why he needed this kingdom—and a prince he could bend to his will.

Otherwise, he held no fealty to Hálendii itself. It was but another realm that would be ground to dust. He had traveled most of the Crown. Born as a slave in the Dominion of Gjoa, hunted across kingdoms and empires, finally schooled on the Island of Tau. His youth was marked by cruelty, abuse, and humiliation.

Even now, after achieving so much, he could still awaken that old pain, to a time when he was at the mercy of so many others. It stoked the cold fire inside him, to never again be under another’s thumb. To ensure that, he intended to let nothing and no one stop him from becoming a formidable force, one more potent than any king.

With that goal in mind, he cast a prayer to the Iflelen’s dark god—Lord Ðreyk—for the providence to succeed. Sixty-three years ago, Wryth had bent a knee and joined this order, one that many considered blasphemous and heretical, but such an uncompromising cabal offered him his best chance to realize his ambitions.

And now I lead them.

He opened his eyes and reverently touched the sigil inscribed on the ebonwood door. It was a curled asp crowned by thorns. The horn’d snaken of Lord Ðreyk.

More resolute, Wryth pushed open the doors. Before he could cross the threshold, a sharp scream greeted him.

Inside, a gangly-limbed young acolyte—Phenic—struggled with the thin form of a boy enmeshed in a nest of copper tubes and glassine piping. The child was naked, writhing in agony, his chest cleaved open into a window that showed a beating heart and billowing lungs.

The gruff voice of Shrive Keres called out from the center of the chamber. “Wryth! Can you see to that commotion?”

Wryth hurried into the sanctum, a domed chamber carved out of black obsidian.

Ahead, Phenic fought to hold the child in place and looked panicked. “I … I don’t know what went awry. The boy woke and yanked the tubing from his lips.”

Upon reaching them, Wryth slipped a dagger from his belt and slit the child’s throat, stopping the plaintive cries.

Once done, Wryth took a step back and scowled at Phenic. “Do you have another bloodbaerne to replace this one?”

“Y … Yes.” The acolyte waved at the door. “A girl of nine.”

Wryth gripped Phenic’s shoulder. “Take a breath. Set about preparing the girl, and I’ll call for someone to remove the boy. It takes practice to properly seat a bloodbaerne. You’ll learn.”

Phenic bowed, balanced between relief and terror. “Yes, Shrive Wryth. Thank you.”

As the acolyte fled, Wryth crossed to the boy and used his palm to gently close those glassy eyes, offering a silent apology for wasting his life. Another three bloodbaernes continued in the boy’s stead, positioned at the other cardinal points of the chamber. The three young children, asleep and nested within their conduits and tubes, lay with their chests squared open. Bellows rhythmically inflated their small lungs. Their tiny hearts pumped life into the great machine in the center of the obsidian cavern.