Page 88 of The Cradle of Ice

As a dispute ramped up, Frell turned away. He concentrated on the image of Eligor, gilded in gold. He picked up Pratik’s lens to examine the figure’s features in finer detail. He squinted at the artistry, at the brushwork.

The warrior on the page wore no helm. His hair formed a golden corona around his head. His square chin and hard cheeks were bearded in amber curls. His eyes, tiny dots of blue paint, seemed to stare out of the page, out of the ancient past.

Under the lens, the god’s expression was stern, unforgiving. His face was painted in darker shades of gold and shone with a severe majesty.

Frell whispered to him, “Who are you truly?”

38

WRYTH STOOD WITHIN the heart of the Iflelen’s great instrument and studied the mystery before him, an ancient enigma, untold millennia in age.

The bronze bust glowed with cascades of rippling energy. The golden twine of its hair wafted gently in that breeze, as did the curls of its beard, especially around its lips, as if it were whispering in its sleep. Though its eyes remained closed, he knew the violet-blue glow humming behind those lids.

“What are you?” he whispered for the thousandth time.

The mystery remained silent.

But nothing else in the chamber was quiet.

Around him, the instrument’s convoluted web of pipes and tanks burbled and steamed, hummed and pinged. The noise, normally a comfort, stoked his impatience. He started to pace within the tight confines of the cramped space.

As he did, the rhythmical bellows of the bloodbaernes—four once again—matched his steps. He glanced over to the latest addition, a young girl whose tiny heart fluttered like a panicked sparrow within her opened chest, adding her life to their efforts.

A nearby mumbling drew Wryth’s attention around. His fellow Iflelen—Shrive Keres—scribbled on a crisp parchment next to the crystal sphere of the listening device.

Exasperated, Wryth snapped at him, “What’s taking so long?”

Keres ran a palm over his flaking scalp. “I’m working as swiftly as I can.”

A bell ago, Keres had dispatched a messenger to wake Wryth from a troubled slumber. It seemed the signal from the bronze artifact out on the Ice Shield had subtly shifted, while also flaring brighter for a spell.

Days ago, Wryth had instructed Keres to alert him if there were any changes.

So, I can hardly complain about being woken.

Though, by the time Wryth got here, circumstances had changed yet again.

As Keres worked, Wryth squinted at the crystal sphere. The yellow glow from the stolen artifact had subsided again to a weak glimmer. Luckily, it continued to remain relatively stationary out on the Shield. Unfortunately, the same was true of the red blip that marked Skerren’s pursuit fleet. It had closed the distance considerably, but then it had slowed to a stop, too.

What is happening out there?

It was that quandary that Keres was struggling to answer. Just as Wryth had arrived at the sanctum, the red glow had begun to blink out a code, a message from Skerren. It went on for some time. Once it had finished, Keres had set about deciphering it.

Wryth feared there might be some debilitating mishap with the fleet, or perhaps Skerren had decided to forsake the hunt. Wryth could almost understand such a decision. Skerren had flown blind into the unknown. While Wryth had the crystal listening device—powered by the glowing cube and fueled by the chamber’s machine—Skerren only had a fist-sized sphere of lodestones, each sliver attuned to the bronze artifact’s emanations. Regrettably, it could only pick up those discharges once Skerren was close enough to its source.

Under seventy leagues.

Until then, the fleet had no way of tracking the others.

Back when Skerren had first detected the signal, he and Wryth had tracked the enemy’s progress across the Ice Shield, while waiting for the Hálendiian pursuit fleet to be prepared. During that stretch of time, the signal had stuck to the same trajectory, a vector that Skerren now followed. They had no choice but to trust that the enemy would remain on that same course, sticking to the same river of winds.

It was a gamble, but if successful, the reward was worth the risk.

The plan was for Skerren to close the distance until his smaller tool could pick up the enemy’s signal, then sweep down upon them. The fleet’s considerable arsenal should dispatch the enemy with little trouble. Still, Wryth intended to take no chances. He had dispatched another weapon with those ships, one he had personally devised.

“I have the message,” Keres said, drawing back his attention.

Wryth faced the other. “Tell me.”