Author’s note: The audiobook is nearing completion! Just a few more chapters to go. My wife is looking forward to getting our microphone and sound-proofing mattresses out of our
recording studiocloset :)
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“A pox upon this rain,” Twigly muttered. She struck her flint and steel together again, but the sparks failed to ignite the wet grass she was using for kindling. In the last twenty minutes, each member of the crew had tried and failed to start a fire amid the morning’s intermittent rain. Breakfast needed cooked, and everyone was getting hungry.
From the edge of the camp, a certain stuck-up Calamarvan nobleman sniffed. “I hope your crew is more competent at kidnapping than at lighting a fire,” he said.
“You’re welcome to take a turn trying,” Twigly said, deliberately catching his gaze. Oh, how she loved seeing him bristle when she did that. “If you succeed, maybe we’ll make you the ship’s cook.”
The sound of rustling caused Salidar, Twigly, and the other pirates to look up. The bushes parted as Augerclaw, a swifter that Twigly had posted as sentry, padded into view, his fur glistening with the rain.
“Rendhart is finally returning,” Augerclaw reported in Hakiru, as Twigly translated for the vizier. “But he’s changed.”
“What do you mean, changed?” the Calamarvan said, a hint of alarm in his voice.
“He smells . . . different. Yesterday, he reeked of confusion. Now he smells of resolve.”
It took Twigly a moment to get a good translation across to the nobleman. Changing Hakiru into Lurrian felt somewhat akin to forcing a cat to take a bath. Once she did, though, Salidar’s gaze darkened. “I feared this might happen,” he said.
“What?” Twigly asked.
“Durrin has turned against us. He’s been acting strangely ever since this voyage started. It’s likely one of my opponents found him back in Imperium and offered a substantial price on my head, and he’s finally decided to make good on it.”
“Are you sure?” Twigly asked. “That’s quite a lot of assumptions you’re jumping to.”
Salidar nodded. “Nearly. I’ll confront him in a moment and find out for sure.”
Prancing pumpernickel. Losing Durrin would be a shame. He had become a handy crew member to have around, despite his implacably grim demeanor.
Twigly put a hand to her dirk. “Should I ready the crew for an ambush, then?”
“That won’t be necessary,” Salidar said. “He’d only see it coming. We only need one.” He gestured to his constantly grumpy steward. “Yorid, get in those bushes with your arrows. Keep your scope on Rendhart and fire on my command.”
Yorid’s scowl deepened. “Are you sure I’m enough, Your Excellency? This is Rendhart.”
“Then use a voidstone arrow,” Salidar said. Ah, clever. Weapons tipped with voidstone would rip through any mancery used to deflect or block them.
Salidar’s answer didn’t seem to fully satisfy Yorid, but he stomped off to do as he’d been told.
Twigly watched the steward retrieve his bow and quiver. “What is the command?” she asked.
“There are three,” Salidar said. “If I say, ‘I’d be careful if I were you,’ Yorid will fire a warning shot. If I say, ‘Let me teach you a lesson,’ he’ll aim to injure. And if I say, ‘You have been warned,’ he’ll aim to kill.”
Twigly turned the phrases over in her head. “Useful. Nefarious. I’m borrowing them.”
At that moment, Augerclaw sat up on his hind legs and growled an alarm. Twigly turned to see a red cape slashing through the mist.
“Here he comes,” Twigly said.
* * * * *
After leaving Cymer, Durrin had found a sheltered grotto and caught a couple hours of sleep. The ground had been hard and cold, but for the first time in days, he had slept without nightmares. The rain had awoken him.
Throughout the hike back over the ridge to the Hakiru camp, Durrin had sorted through the rush of emotions still lingering from the night before. The guilt. The despair. The creeping horror. The shock. The regret. The glimmer of hope.
And he had settled on a plan.
As Durrin strode into the pirates’ campsite, he felt a tension that had not been there the night before. No laughter or raucous talk filled the air. The pirates sat around, all absorbed in various tasks. Too absorbed—he’d never seen them so disciplined. His eyes slid over the campsite, counting bodies. He came up short by one.
Between him and the unlit campfire stood Salidar. The nobleman seemed absorbed in throwing darts into a nearby tree trunk. Three darts embedded in the same knothole attested to his impressive accuracy.
Salidar spoke, not bothering to turn from his game. “I was a little concerned that you’d been captured or killed, Durrin,” he said. “You were gone the whole night.”
Durrin drove straight to the point. “I’ve decided that I cannot continue as part of your expedition, Your Excellency.”
Lord Salidar slowly pivoted. “A most curious turn of events,” he said, running a finger along the shaft of the dart in his hand. “I was never informed that anyone back in Imperium had given you a counteroffer. How much are they paying you?”
Did this man think only of money and politics? “It isn’t about the rewards, Your Excellency,” Durrin said. He retrieved his pack from a pile of gear, conscious of the rest of the pirates watching their conversation closely. “I took a leader from Elandria once. I will not do it again.”
Salidar turned back to his game of darts. “Ah, I see now. Don’t worry—I’m sure you’ll get over your cold feet by nightfall.”
Durrin took a step closer, until he had Salidar’s attention. “Did you know this whole time who really signed the Guarantee of Trade?” he growled.
The shock instead of confusion in Salidar’s eyes told him the truth.
“I caused a needless war!” Durrin yelled in the vizier’s face. “If King Everborn were still alive, he and Emperor Stoneclaw would be at peace. Haeber would still be flowing over our borders. My classmates would still be alive!”
Salidar stepped backward, drawing himself up to his full height. “Elandria and Calamar were destined to collide. If we had not pursued war on our terms, it would have come on theirs.”
Durrin shook his head. “Don’t pretend you’re impartial in all this. How many thousands of shekels have flowed from Elandrian treasuries into Aram Family coffers? How many of your minions have you rewarded with a cushy post as an occupying governor? How many triumphal parades have you thrown in your own honor with the spoils of a conquered people?”
Salidar parted his lips to show teeth clenched with fury. “You accuse me of using violence to further my own interests? Perhaps it’s time to look in the mirror.”
“I did,” Durrin said.
Salidar studied him for a few seconds. “So you refuse to finish your role in this expedition. What will you do instead?”
Durrin checked his bag to make sure his gear and rations were still inside. “I’m leaving. I’m never returning to Calamar—or Elandria for that matter.”
Mitria. That was the destination he had settled on that morning. He knew the culture, the language. They would accept him. He could leave behind the corruption of the Guild, renounce the crimes of his past, cut all his ties with Salidar and the war. He could start over. He could build a new life—just as Halorn had.
The vizier tutted, turning back to his game of darts. “Really? You know, it’s a shame to think of Kymar’s scroll sitting in the Guild’s vault, lying unread all these years. So much knowledge never gained. Power never unleashed.”
“You and I both know that their vault never held such a scroll,” Durrin snapped. “And even if it did, I will not sell my integrity again.”
The nobleman turned, his eyes suddenly alight. He stabbed a dart into a stump beside him. “Your integrity? You are one to talk about integrity on the day you abandon a critical mission for your people. Have seven years of confinement stripped you of your sense of honor? Remember that Calamar is your country. Every year this war drags on is another year our countrymen die on the battlefield.”
Durrin shouldered his pack. “Then tell your diplomats to end this war! Have we not conquered enough? Have we not enacted revenge tenfold for any offense Elandria has committed?”
“Elandria is a threat,” Salidar said. “Until we control the haeber routes directly, we will always be at their mercy. This war can only end with their annexation.”
“You know that’s not true,” Durrin countered. “You began this war because you wanted power and glory. Well, now you have it—at the blood price of thousands upon thousands of my countrymen!”
Salidar drew back. “You know not of what you speak, Rendhart,” he hissed. “You did not visit the Northern Provinces five years ago when the famine there grew fierce. You did not see your people cry for food as they perished with hunger. You did not see their children lie starving in the streets!”
“And war is the answer?” Durrin said. “Exchange the misery of our people with the death and bondage of another?”
“If that is what it takes, then yes.”
Durrin stepped back, surprised at how openly Salidar had answered.
The vizier’s voice softened. “Regardless of its cause, Durrin, the war has come. Nothing can change that now. Whatever your feelings toward it, it will run to its foregone conclusion. What you must decide is whether you will prove a hero to your country, or a traitor.”
Once again, the memory of a sword red with a king’s blood flashed through Durrin’s mind.
“By promoting an unjust war, I betray my country enough,” Durrin said.
Salidar’s eyes shifted to shrewd calculation. “If you want this war to end so badly, Rendhart, then see this mission through. A leaderless Elandria would surrender quickly, and then the bloodshed you seem to hate so much would be over.”
“As I said, I cannot continue with your expedition,” Durrin said. “I will not. It is wrong.”
“So instead you will run?” Salidar’s voice turned to a sneer. “As if you could hide from your crimes in a new land? Oh, no, Durrin.” A cold laugh escaped from Salidar’s lips. “You cannot escape your past so easily. You must finish the job you started. You must face, not flee, your fears.”
Durrin listened to that laugh echo inside him. And he realized Salidar was right. The shadow that pursued him could not be escaped in Mitria. It could not be escaped at the very edge of the world. The demons would always be there, waiting for his death. Flight was futile—which left him two choices.
He could carry through with Salidar’s mission, bring about the young queen’s demise, and return to Calamar. He could join the guild masters and continue honing his skills. He could achieve greatness, power, fame, and wealth—everything he had ever wanted, short of Kymar’s scroll . . . all the while ignoring the shadow lurking in the night, ready to claim his soul the moment he crossed death’s door.
Or he could betray his country, find a horse, ride to Saven that very day, and raise the alarm before Salidar could strike.
Durrin wavered on the brink of choice.
Then the memory of the horror in the vault came vividly to his mind, and with perfect clarity he saw that all the fame of the world was but nothing compared to the glory or misery of the hereafter.
He turned his back on Salidar. “I’m leaving.”
“Do you think you can just walk away?” Salidar’s voice came behind him. “You know too much of our plans. If you were captured and interrogated, our cover would be blown.”
Durrin stopped. Those words were not a protest. Out of Salidar’s mouth, they constituted a threat. Something played in the back of his mind . . .
The missing member of the camp! Yorid. Durrin reached out with his pyrosense, searching for the man’s spark. There it was. Yorid was hidden twenty yards to Durrin’s left, where the early morning shadows grew thick under the trees. Durrin could feel the energy building as a yew bow was pulled back. But why hadn’t he noticed the archer before? The spark was subdued, as if . . .
Of course. Voidstone. He’d seen some of Yorid’s arrows tipped with it. The voidstone was disrupting his pyrosense, muting the vibrations from that direction. Stars, that would make this trickier.
“I am a free man,” Durrin called over his shoulder. He began twirling his fingers. “Who is going to stop me?”
“You have been warned,” Lord Salidar said.
Durrin twisted to the side, dropped into a crouch, and launched a bolt of fire to his left. An arrow whizzed by his ear, the same spot where his heart had been a moment before. For an instant, his firebolt illuminated Yorid, hidden in the underbrush. Then it connected with the top of Yorid’s bow in a blast of heat and sparks, singeing the wood and snapping the rawhide bowstring.
Spinning back to face the camp, Durrin lifted a hand, anticipating the next attack. His fingers snapped closed, snatching a dart out of midair moments before it buried its tip into his neck. Salidar, arm still outstretched from his throw, widened his eyes in surprise and anger.
Durrin examined the pure black point, daubed with a green paste. “Voidstone and poison? You have high-end darts.”
“Get him!” Salidar hissed. Twigly barked an order in Hakiru, and the camp exploded as the pirates leapt to their feet, reaching for weapons.
Dropping the dart, Durrin swept his hands in a wide arc, summoning a crackling orb of fire and holding it above his head. “No one move another inch!” he bellowed. “Or His Excellency dies here and now!”
The camp froze. Some things didn’t need to be translated.
Salidar glanced between the pirates and the fireball in Durrin’s hands. “Drop your weapons,” he ordered, eyes brimming with anger as he stared at Durrin. “Rendhart has bested me this time.”
Twigly translated, and the Hakiru reluctantly set down their weapons and took several steps back. Durrin barked an order and Yorid joined them.
Satisfied, Durrin let the fireball in his hands fade, the heat escaping into the sky with a shimmer. He shot Salidar one last look. “I’m leaving. Forever. Don’t try to stop me this time.”
Durrin turned away. As he stepped into the trees, Lord Salidar muttered something behind him. Durrin turned. “What was that?”
Lord Salidar had his arm outstretched. “. . . ai’n enima akura-enojim,” he said, finishing the phrase in the Numinous Tongue. What was he doing? Lord Salidar was no verbomancer. But why else would he be—
Too late, Durrin felt the air around him shimmering with power. Before he could react, the air froze around him, holding him in an invisible casing. He couldn’t move his arms to summon fire. He couldn’t move his head. He couldn’t even wiggle a finger.
Hmm. This was new.
Striding forward, Lord Salidar laughed and spat in Durrin’s face. The spittle impacted the invisible shell around him and dripped onto the ground. “Arrogant pyromancer!” Salidar snarled. His voice came muffled through the solidified air. “Where’s the power in channeling motion when you can’t move?”
Durrin tried to take a breath, but his ribcage only expanded a few fractions of a hair, just enough to deliver a smidgeon of fresh air to his lungs. He tried to speak, but his open mouth wouldn’t move.
“You now know one of my closest secrets: my verbomantic abilities,” Lord Salidar continued. “I’ve secretly been developing my skills for decades—for just an occasion such as this.”
Durrin stopped listening. Instead, he reached out with his mind, testing the chords of energy binding the air around him. Verbomancy was a tricky kind of magic. It took its power from the words of the Numinous Tongue, operating more as an idea than a force. The vibrations from Salidar’s incantation still reverberated in the air, their waves contouring around Durrin’s body, holding the air around him perfectly still, hard as iron.
Durrin would have smirked if he could move his mouth. Iron could be broken.
He reached inside himself to his inner fire. It was already raging, spurred by the condescension in Lord Salidar’s voice. He stoked it, feeling himself grow hot, vibrating with energy.
Now he needed momentum. His arms and legs couldn’t move, but they weren’t his only muscles. He focused on his heart, willing it into a faster rhythm until it pounded inside his chest. The internal energy began to build, momentum and heat together, like a tea kettle under pressure. Finally, he let the energy escape, silently puncturing holes in the verbomantic shell around him. He eagerly let his ribcage expand, taking a much-needed breath,
“. . . which means you have two options,” Lord Salidar was saying. “You can tell me who you’re really serving, or Twigly here will have to choose which crew member will kill you.”
“A tough choice,” Durrin said.
“Indeed,” Lord Salidar agreed. Then his eyes widened as he realized Durrin had moved his mouth.
Durrin let the energy explode outward, cracking the air around him into a million shards and scattering the last vestiges of Salidar’s verbomancy. Lord Salidar stumbled backward, shouting as the hems of his robe caught fire from the residual heat.
The pirates, who had been watching the exchange with wide eyes, rushed forward to retrieve their weapons and come to the vizier’s aid. Before they drew near, however, Durrin swept his hands in a circle and summoned another fireball.
Shouting warnings, the pirates hit the dirt. Salidar cowered on the ground, finishing his incantation—from the feel of things, it was a spell to solidify a shield of air in front of him.
Durrin surveyed his options, then launched the ball of flame high into the air. It arced across the clearing, spinning off tiny licks of flames in all directions, before slamming into the wet tent of firewood in the middle of the campsite, instantly turning it into a raging campfire.
Durrin strode away into the mist. “You’re welcome.”
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