Flamecaster (Shattered Realms, #1)(37)

“Well. It’s mostly sand and rock,” Destin said. “Though it’s pretty far north, the ocean currents keep it warm. It’s nearly impossible to grow anything, so people are desperately poor. That is why so many have turned to piracy.”

Destin was ambushed by memories of the cottage by the sea that he’d shared with his mother, the village where he’d run barefoot through dusty streets. Those had been some of the happiest times of his life.

“Yet, I understand that they have very powerful magic there,” Gerard said. “They say that’s where the mages came from originally.”

“That’s true in a way, Your Majesty,” Destin said. “Mages originated in the Northern Islands, which as you know were once one of the original Seven Realms. After the Breaking, the islands joined with Carthis. They . . . ah . . . they are still loosely connected, I believe.”

“Have you been to the islands?”

“No, my lord.”

“Do you speak the language?”

Destin shook his head. “I used to. I don’t really remember it now.”

Abruptly, the king changed the subject. “So. Another marching season over, and we are still no closer to our goal,” Montaigne said. “I had such high hopes that this would be our breakthrough summer.”

Destin didn’t risk a reply.

“And yet, we have gained no ground,” Montaigne said. “I am losing patience. I’m wondering if we need a new strategy.”

Does he expect me to defend my father? Actually, my life would be immeasurably improved if he were dead.

But Destin knew better than to fall into that trap. “I wouldn’t hazard an opinion on that, Your Majesty. I am no expert on military strategy. I have no doubt that we will prevail in the end, given our superior military and your creative leadership.”

“I will do whatever it takes to win this war,” the king said, his voice low and vicious. “I will break their spirit and I will break their hearts until the witch in the north kneels to me and begs for mercy. She’ll beg, but will receive none.”

“Yes, Your Majesty.”

“I need you to find a girl for me.”

This time, Destin managed to navigate the conversational curve. “I’ll find a dozen for you, Your Majesty,” he replied. “What’s your pleasure?”

Montaigne laughed. “Do you take me for a fool? If I send a young man like yourself out hunting, you’ll keep the best for yourself.”

“Your Majesty, I know better than that,” Destin said. “I would be poor competition for a man like yourself.” That, at least, was true.

Montaigne snorted, shaking his head. “No, there’s a particular girl I need you to find, if indeed she exists. If she does, she may be in Delphi.”

“Delphi!” Destin struggled to hide his dismay. He’d been to Delphi, too, and his memories of that time were horrifying. He had no desire to go back. “You want me to go to Delphi?”

“That stands to reason, Lieutenant, if I want you to find this girl, and she is there.”

“I see,” Destin said. “I wonder if there might be . . .” He trailed off, remembering his father’s advice. Whatever he asks of you, the answer is yes. He swallowed down his protests and said, “Thank you for your confidence in me, Your Majesty. I am eager to serve.”

The king smiled a thin-lipped smile that said he wasn’t fooled. “She would be about sixteen years old, and she bears a rune, like so, on the back of her neck.” Montaigne handed Destin a piece of paper with a symbol sketched on it, a spiderweb of lines framing an arrangement of triangles, like a faceted gem.

Destin stared at it, ambushed for a second time. His heart began to thud, and he felt strangled, as if he couldn’t get his breath. He brushed it with his forefinger, as if he could read it by touch. The symbol was familiar, and yet—unfamiliar.

He swiveled away from the king, staring across the bog to where the meticulously clipped hedgerows ran into the trees. He was glad that it was nearly dark, so that the king could not read his face. “Your Majesty,” he said hoarsely. “If I may ask . . . who is this girl, and why is she important?”

“She’s important to somebody,” Montaigne replied. “A potential ally from the Northern Islands.”

“The Northern Islands,” Destin repeated, the truth slamming home like a punch to the gut. He turned back toward the king. “But . . . is that wise, Your Majesty? To engage with sorcerers, idolators, and the like in a place that has spawned so much evil?”

Annoyance flickered across the king’s face, and Destin knew he’d made a mistake. “Where do you suggest that I draw the line, mage?” The king’s voice crackled with menace. “You wouldn’t want to find yourself on the wrong side of it.”

“No, Your Majesty, I would not,” Destin said hastily. “Every day I thank the great saint for your gracious tolerance.”

And every day I curse this king’s ability to dance on both sides of that line, taking whatever position suits his agenda at the moment.

“The fact of the matter is that the thanes are restive and holding tighter to their purses and their bannermen than in the past. I am tired of crawling to them, begging them to meet their obligations. I need to find a powerful ally—someone who will enable me to field an army that can bring us a decisive win. Finding this girl just might be the key to ending the war in our favor.”