Stormcaster (Shattered Realms #3)(80)
Three tall ships were moored in the harbor, sails rolled and bound to the masts. Warehouses newly built of raw wood squatted in concentric circles around the quay. Surrounding those was what appeared to be a newborn city, devoted to military and marine purposes—barracks and stables and paddocks, a sprinkling of small stone houses in a uniform gray color.
Beyond the warehouses and stretching up the slope were the ruins of a once-great city, built of timber and stone. Now the roofs had rotted through, the walls had caved in, and stone pillars—monuments to the old gods—had toppled and broken.
And, there, overlooking the harbor, extending higher than anything else on the shore, was a marble palace, apparently still under construction. It seemed to glow in the moonlight, as if the walls couldn’t contain the light within. The center part looked finished, frosted with elaborate carvings of dragons and sea serpents and sirens. Two wings were like broken-off teeth, still ragged at the top, swarming with workers who resembled insects at that distance. Working through the night.
Breon had an affinity for the music of harbor towns—for the discordant clamor of the flotsam and jetsam that accumulate wherever seafarers come ashore to do business and forget their troubles. They were places where ugly rubbed shoulders with uglier, where utility outranked beauty, where new elbowed forward, embarrassed by the old. It was a place for living and dying and making bad decisions of all kinds.
This looked like no harbor town Breon had ever seen. It was as if it had no soul, no memory, no history, no music at its heart. It told no stories. Breon didn’t like it one bit.
On the other hand, Her Highness looked cheerier than she had in days. She was probably encouraged by the prospect of stepping onto solid ground again. She stood, chin up, shoulders back, drinking in the view, as if storing it away for future use.
The helmsman shouted orders to the rowers as the Siren made a graceful turn, coming up alongside the largest of the docks, which was emblazoned with the siren emblem Breon had come to associate with the empress.
The empress descended from the quarterdeck and strode toward them, smiling. “Welcome to Celesgarde,” she said. “You’ll be housed in the palace as my honored guests.” Her purple eyes flicked over them. “I am not surprised that you have an affinity for the sea,” she said to Breon. “You have . . . so many gifts.” Impulsively, she drew him into her arms, so that his face was pressed into her leathers while her other hand toyed with his hair, raising gooseflesh across his back and shoulders. “I have waited so long for this day,” she murmured. “We will be so great together, I promise you.”
What did she mean by that? Was she speaking of some sort of . . . relationship?
Breon’s heart slammed around in his chest, as if it might break through skin and bone. Fear and revulsion shuddered through him by turns, and his magemark seethed and burned. He steeled himself, focused, reaching out, listening for any whisper of song.
When it came, it was hauntingly familiar, as if it was already embedded in his bones. He couldn’t help thinking, Is it really her song, or my own?
This is where it all begins.
This is where it all ends.
The shattering,
The rejoining.
Forged in the bleeding earth,
As it has been, it shall be again.
At midsummer,
When the sun pauses in the sky.
It echoed between them, reverberating into a clamor of notes until he pressed his hands over his ears—but there was no way to shut it out.
Finally, blessedly, Celestine released him and turned to Her Highness. “I trust that you are more capable on land than you are on the water.” It sounded like some sort of threat or warning.
“I am more capable on land,” the princess said, with a flash of her usual spirit. The color had returned to her cheeks. She stood, hands on hips, studying the harbor, the ships, the new-built town, the palace—no doubt looking for any vulnerability or advantage in an impossible fight.
Good luck, Your Highness, Breon thought.
This thought was interrupted by shouts from the others on the quay. They were pointing at the sky, some crouching and covering their heads with their hands. Breon looked up in time to see a dark shape flap across the face of the moon. It circled once, glittering, then beat it toward the mountains, its flight disjointed, erratic, as if it was injured.
They all watched it until it was out of sight. Lyss turned to the empress. “What was that?”
“Sun dragon,” the empress said. “The mountains in Carthis are infested with them, but we don’t see many of them this far north. Most can’t make it through the Boil, but it’s good hunting for those who do.”
33
THE BLACK WIDOW
In the days following his visit with the Matelon brothers, Destin wished he could warn Evan that their gambit had failed. But he had no idea where he was. When they’d parted, Evan had mentioned sailing north, which was why, for one heart-stopping moment, Destin had thought that Evan was the prisoner Matelon described, the target of Celestine’s attack on Chalk Cliffs. Especially when Matelon said that he was from Tarvos.
But no. This red-haired busker did not match Evan’s description. So, who was it? Was it another magemarked target that had brought the empress here?
Be careful, Pirate, he thought. Be smart. Keep moving. In the meantime, he resolved to do whatever he could to keep Celestine from expanding her foothold in the wetlands. He needed a plan.