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  “She’s seaworthy,” Strangward said. “I built her.”

  Ash and Talbot looked at each other, exchanging silent messages of concern.

  “Who’ll crew for you?”

  Strangward nodded at Ash and Talbot. “The wetlanders are well on their way to being sailors.”

  “No, my lord,” Maslin protested. “You should not be taking such a long voyage in such a small vessel, with . . . such an inexperienced crew.”

  Maslin has a point, Ash thought, but Strangward was unmoved.

  “She suits my purpose this time. As do they.”

  When Maslin opened her mouth, he raised his hand to stop further protests. “Don’t worry,” he said. “We’ll have time to talk before I leave again. Right now, I’m going to escort my guests to Cliff House and get them settled. Tell the shiplords to meet me on the seaward terrace an hour before sunset. I’ll dine with my guests immediately after.”

  Now that we’re on dry land, Ash thought, maybe we’ll get some answers.

  14

  NO REST FOR PIRATES

  It was a long hike uphill to Cliff House, but Evan liked to use the climb to gain his land legs and focus his mind. The heat hit like a club after the cool weather in the wetlands and the moderation of their week at sea. The sun seemed to reverberate off sand and rock. Even in the gardens that covered the long slope to the ocean, there was not a shadow to be found anywhere.

  Evan could learn to live in any climate, not necessarily liking it, but this moving back and forth between was killing. Soon he was sweating freely, the moisture evaporating in the dry air almost as soon as it appeared. Still, he resisted the temptation to tease up a little onshore breeze. He couldn’t afford to squander power just to make himself more comfortable. He never knew when he’d need every bit just to stay alive.

  As usual, the handsome healer said nothing and revealed nothing, but Talbot scowled and sweated the entire way. Evan couldn’t help liking the brusque corporal, and wished he could win her over. So far, that wasn’t happening.

  Having cleared the gardens, they toiled up the steep stone staircase to the house itself. It resembled a part of the landscape, built of buff-colored sandstone, with the same red tile roof as the harborside buildings, holding off the relentless sun. He nodded to the guards at the top of the staircase and headed around to the right, avoiding the main entrance. He spoke the charm that allowed him to access the hidden entrance to his apartments. That way they could enter without being seen.

  Inside, out of the sun, it was remarkably cooler, leaving Evan dizzy with relief. He took a moment to allow his eyes to adjust to the change in light. Then he led his guests through the back hallways and into a small reception area. It was attended by Helesa, a slender woman in a long, divided skirt, a shirt emblazoned with a dragon, and simple sandals, and Kel, a man in linen trousers and shirt whose muscular build had softened somewhat with age. Among Evan’s paid associates, Helesa and Kel were the closest to bodyguards. They’d been assassins in the service of the empress. Now they served him.

  “Good morning, Helesa, Kelsang,” he said, as if it had not been several cycles of the moon and a thousand miles since they had last met.

  “Lord Strangward!” Kelsang said, flinging himself facedown on the tiles. “Forgive me. They said you had arrived, but I did not expect you to come straight here, else I would have greeted you properly.”

  Helesa was marginally less demonstrative. She bowed deeply, fluidly, spreading her arms wide.

  Evan shifted from foot to foot. As always, this kind of display made him uneasy, especially with the wetlanders looking on. He’d lived most of his life aboard ships, where there was a minimum of ceremony and protocol. And he’d seen nothing like this in the queendom of the Fells.

  Besides, this was the kind of fealty Celestine demanded. She was his personal benchmark for what not to do. He’d tried unsuccessfully to change the habits of the bloodsworn-turned-stormborn, but had pretty much given up. He still had hopes for Helesa and Kel, who were free of the blood binding.

  At least he’d persuaded them not to call him “emperor of the wind and wave” or other such title.

  Between them, Helesa and Kel could kill a person twenty-five different ways. They had no business kneeling to an eighteen-year-old orphan with a price on his head.

  “Please. Kel. Get up,” he said, grimacing. He turned to his reluctant allies. “I have things to do. Kel will see to your immediate needs. You’ll have time to rest and bathe before dinner. After dinner, we’ll—”

  “No,” Prince Adrian said, folding his arms and planting his feet like he was growing roots.

  “No?” Evan stared at him, nonplussed. “Are you against the resting or the bathing part? Or is it the waiting for dinner that—?”

  “We’ve been two weeks on the water,” the healer said. “A week sailing north, and another week sailing south. Meanwhile, the empress is landing her armies in my homeland and my sister is being held captive.”

  “I’m not the one who insisted on sailing north, into the arms of the empress,” Evan said. “If we’d stuck to the original plan, we’d be halfway to Celesgarde by now, with a skilled crew.” Kel and Helesa shifted their weight, their eyes fixed on Evan for direction. He gave them a firm head shake and waved them away. They retreated to the far end of the room and stood, bodies canted forward, waiting for the wetlanders to make a move.

  “So now we want some answers,” Talbot said.

  “We’ve been packed together in a small boat for a week,” he said. “If you had questions, why didn’t you ask them before?”

  “I didn’t think we’d need answers because I wasn’t sure we’d make it to dry land,” Talbot said.

  “Thank you for your confidence,” Evan said, with a sigh. When they said nothing, he gestured toward a sitting area by the cold hearth. “Would you like to sit down?”

  The prince shook his head. “This shouldn’t take long.”

  Can’t anything be easy? Evan thought. He’d never realized that allies were such a pain in the ass.

  “Ask your questions standing up, then. I promise that I’ll be honest, though I won’t guarantee you’ll like my answers.”

  “I heard what the harbormaster said, down at the docks, about only sailing with a bloodsworn crew,” Talbot said, thrusting her chin out. “I’ll tell you right now, I am not signing on as one of your blood slaves.”

  Evan folded his arms. “Noted,” he said. “Would it help if I told you that I had no intention of enslaving you?” Seeing the suspicious expression on Talbot’s face, he added, “I suppose not. Frankly, I have more blood captives than I can manage already. You saw what happened down at the harbor. Everybody wants a piece of me.” Literally. Different pieces.

  “Do you think this is some kind of a joke?” Talbot growled.

  “No, it’s not a joke,” Evan said. “In fact, if I were a betting man, I’d say we’re unlikely to survive the next two months. I neither want nor need slavish devotion from you. If we can’t be friends, I would appreciate a little gratitude, at least. I’m not the one who betrayed you, after all.”

  Talbot and Prince Adrian exchanged furtive glances. They know, Evan thought, seeing their expressions. Or at least they suspect something.

  “What do you mean?” the healer said.

  “It was your friend, the fanatical mage. Finn.”

  “Finn?” Prince Adrian said.

  “I was focusing on managing the winds, on driving the two ships apart without being too obvious. You two were in the stern, charming Samara. Captain DeVilliers had gone down to the gundeck, to move things along. When I looked up to judge our position relative to Hydra, I realized that the shields were down.”

  The healer was looking at Talbot as if to say, I told you so.

  “Are you sure? You can see them?” Talbot said.

  “I’m a mage, and I’ve seen them before. I’m sure. I looked for Finn, to see if he’d been hit, or he’d run out of flash, or had gone to the h
ead or what. He was just standing there, staring at Hydra, as if waiting for the slaughter to begin. It didn’t, though, because just then we opened fire. I slammed Hydra with a wall of water and then put everything I had into our sails. When Finn saw that we were getting out of range, he took matters into his own hands and blasted half of the stern away.”

  “You’re saying he tried to blow up the boat he was sailing on?” Talbot said.

  “I think he was aiming at the two of you.”

  “Finn was aiming at us,” Adrian said, slowly, deliberately, looking at Talbot as if this was the evidence needed to convict.

  “But why would he do that?” Talbot said.

  “You would know better than me,” Evan said. “Sometimes friends grow apart. Perhaps the empress offered to build him a hospital. When I saw that the two of you were in the water, I dove in after you. The rest you know.”

  The wetlanders just stared at him, and the confusion on their faces told him that they were going back over past events, looking for evidence, some way to predict this. Evan almost felt sorry for them.

  “Why didn’t you say anything?” Talbot muttered.

  Why didn’t you say anything to me? Evan thought, exasperated. “I thought you knew,” he snapped. “I thought it might be rude to, you know, rub it in that the person you’d thrown into the brig saved your asses after the friend you trusted tried to kill you.”

  “Oh,” Talbot said, in a small voice.

  “Expect betrayal,” Evan said, “and you’re less likely to be disappointed. Plus, you might live longer. Now. Please go get settled in. Plan on having dinner with me after I meet with the sharks that are already circling.”

  “Sharks?” Talbot said.

  “My allies,” Evan said. “The ones who are no doubt conspiring to betray me.”

  15

  BRAWL AT THE DROVERS’ INN

  Strangward’s bodyguard Kel led Ash and Talbot to adjoining rooms overlooking the bay. They were furnished simply, but offered beautiful views of the sun gilding the Guardians as it descended toward the Indio.

  “I will return in two hours and take you to the baths,” Kel said, bowing out of the room.

  Could we go now? Ash thought, fingering his filthy, salt-encrusted clothes.

  On the other hand, this was the first hour he’d had to himself since they’d set sail from Wizard Head.

  I could really use some advice, Ash thought.

  That need was beginning to outweigh his concerns about traveling to Aediion. Finn’s betrayal had shaken him. He’d left his mother back in Fellsmarch, guarded by people he trusted implicitly. But if Finn had turned, who else?

  You and your mother and sister have enemies at court, his father had said on the night his mother was poisoned. Don’t give your trust easily.

  Were there four-year-old secrets that Ash needed to know—secrets that only his father could tell him?

  Kinley’s book was long gone. He’d left it in his sea bag, aboard Sea Wolf. He couldn’t study or obsess over the words printed in the chapter about the portal to the dream world. But he had them memorized.

  Tell me where to meet you.

  Drovers’ Inn.

  He had two hours. He had to try.

  He acted quickly, so he wouldn’t have time to second-guess himself. Taking hold of the serpent amulet, he spoke the charm to open the portal, half-convinced that nothing would happen. Instead, he was swept into a swirling black vortex. Gradually, he rebuilt the scene at Drovers’ Inn from memory—the walls smudged with the soot from generations of fires, the battered wood surface of the table pocked with half-moons, where people slammed down their tankards, requesting a refill. Bowls of porridge decorated with precious bits of ham and a hunk of brown bread to sop up the leavings.

  And there, at a corner table, was his father. He’d leaned his sword against the wall, draped his cloak over the back of his chair. As usual, he sat facing the door, a legacy from his days as lord of these same streets.

  For a moment, Ash stood frozen, afraid to speak for fear it would shatter the scene before him.

  “Da!” The cry seemed to clamor in Ash’s head, but it came out as a whisper.

  But his father heard, of course. “Ash,” he said, pushing to his feet. “Thank the Maker. I was close to giving up.”

  The image flickered, changed. Here was the shaggy-haired streetlord, not much older than Ash was now, wearing silver cuffs on his wrists and an attitude. Gradually, he aged, until he was much as Ash remembered him. His clothes changed, too, from nondescript Ragmarket clothing, to student’s robes, to the clan garb he often wore to travel in rough country, to his High Wizard robes, to his funeral coat.

  His father stared at him, eagerly drinking him in, and Ash realized that he must be shifting and changing, too. From court dress to Ardenine healer’s browns, to the student robes at Oden’s Ford, to the stormcoat he’d worn on board Sea Wolf. Putting on and taking off all the roles he’d played since last they’d met.

  “You’ve grown so tall,” his father said, finally. “You’ve traveled”—his voice caught—“a long way since I last saw you. I have missed so much.”

  Ash thought his heart would explode. He took one step forward, then another. “Da—I’m so sorry,” he said.

  His father held up both hands, palms out. “We all have sins enough on our shoulders,” he said, his voice rough with emotion. “So don’t take the fall for somebody else’s crimes. You have nothing to apologize for.”

  “Can—can I touch you?” Ash wasn’t sure what the rules were.

  His father nodded, opening his arms. “Just—a word of warning. Creating yourself in this place involves a stampede of choices. The more senses involved, the more complicated it is. It’s exhausting.”

  They embraced, sensation coming at Ash in fits and starts—the rough feel of the embroidered coat against his skin, the scent of dust and faraway places, the brilliant blue eyes, now on a level with his own. The scar from a long-ago knife fight.

  When they stepped apart, Ash all but toppled over. He felt like he often did at the end of a strenuous healing—wrung out.

  His father smiled, as if he understood. “It takes some getting used to.” He gestured to the other seat at the table. “Please. Sit down. Let’s make the most of the time we have.”

  Ash sat, feeling his way, keeping his eyes fastened on his father.

  His father shifted self-consciously under the scrutiny. “Don’t worry. I won’t disappear if you blink. Close your eyes if it makes it easier.”

  Ash kept his eyes open. He did not want to miss a minute.

  “How is your mother?” his father said.

  “She seemed to be recovering when I left,” Ash said.

  “When you left?” His father’s head came up, his fingers pressing against the table until the knuckles whitened. “Who’s with her now?”

  “Magret Gray, Captain Byrne, and Ty Gryphon. I had to leave. Lyss . . .” Ash swallowed, then went on to bring his father up to date on what had happened to Lyss, and the betrayal by Finn sul’Mander.

  “Sul’Mander? Bayar’s nephew?” His father’s jaw tightened. “I might’ve known.”

  “The thing is, Finn was my friend. He’s been fighting for the queendom every summer while I’ve been in the south. He was badly wounded in the borderlands—”

  “People are complicated,” his father said with a bleak smile.

  “—and he couldn’t have been responsible for Hana’s death—he would have been twelve years old. There’s got to be somebody else.”

  “I agree,” his father said. “Finn may be involved, but something and someone connects all of this, and we won’t be able to protect the Gray Wolf line unless we figure out what it is. It began with Hana and Simon, then Cat, then you and me. I’d hoped it had stopped with me, but obviously, it hasn’t.”

  “No,” Ash said. “It hasn’t.”

  For a long moment, they sat in silence, his father toying with the ring on his finger, the match t
o the ring his mother never took off.

  It was odd. Whenever they were deep in conversation, it was as if the rest of the room disappeared, their world reduced to the table they shared. If he looked around, the common room would reappear, as if emerging from the mist.

  Out of mind, out of sight, Ash thought.

  If Ash had hoped his father would shovel answers into his lap, he was disappointed. Instead, he seemed to be coming around to blaming himself.

  “I should have been there,” his father said. “I should have been there to look out for all of you. Instead, I—”

  “If I don’t get to apologize for running off, you don’t get to apologize for getting killed,” Ash said bluntly.

  His father stared at him. And then, unexpectedly, began to laugh. He spit in his hand and offered it. They shook, sealing the deal.

  Then Ash asked the question that had dogged him for four long years. “The day you died, you said you were on your way to meet someone . . . ?”

  His father nodded. “After Hana was killed, I suspected that someone at court had betrayed us. I was supposed to meet a splitter—a source—that morning in Southbridge name of Darian. Said he had a—”

  “Hang on,” Ash said. “Darian?”

  “Aye,” his father said, with a puzzled frown. “Have you heard of him?”

  “There’s a sect in the Church of Malthus that hunts wizards,” Ash said, his heart beating faster. “They call themselves the Darian Brothers. They’re the ones who tried to murder me at Oden’s Ford, and they’ve made at least two more attempts since then. They said their leader, Lord Darian, was working to cleanse the Realms of wizards. They came after me because I’m the get of an unholy union between a powerful mage, Han sul’Alger, and the witch queen in the north.”

  “Well,” his father said, rubbing his chin, “they’ve got you there.”

  “There’s more. When they caught the busker who led Lyss into an ambush, he had Lyss’s locket, the one you gave her. He said he was given the job—and the locket—by someone named Darian.” Ash took a breath, then pushed on. “I think the brothers are being used by someone who’s coming after us, specifically.”