PART ONE
Reign of Queen Cerúlia
THE FIRST DAYS
1
Alpetar
Smithy woke early with a feeling of deep unease. While General Sumroth had gone on with thousands of his troops to the shipbuilding center, Pexted, pursuing his plan of vengeance against Weirandale, Smithy had stayed in Alpetar with the refugees in Camp Ruby, situated where the Alpetar Mountains slid down into fertile plains.
Camp Ruby, the first of four camps established along the Trade Corridor, lay closest to the Land.
He strode out of his tent into the dawn air, gazing northward in the direction of his homeland, as he always did. He saw fingers of smoke far away and read these as a sign that FireThorn yawned and stretched.
Around him the camp stirred as the other exiles from Oromondo woke and began their days.
Pozhar’s Agent stoked his nearby fire, adding coal and blowing up the flames with a hand bellows. He had no real forge here and he missed the high, cleansing heat. But he had his hand tools and he used this outdoor fire to soften metal and shape it as best he could whenever one of the Spirit’s children approached him with a commission.
As if conjured by his thoughts, a girl of about twelve summers appeared, a little slyly, thrusting out at him a tin kettle with a broken handle. Smithy examined it closely.
“Aye,” he told the girl-woman. “Come back tonight.”
But instead of leaving immediately she lingered by his fire, mesmerized by the flames. And the fire reflected in her eyes, making them glow red.
“You like my fire?”
She nodded. “It makes me warm all over.”
“Good. Make sure you come back for the kettle yourself. I will have a small treat for you.”
Smithy realized he had found another; this girl made three Oromondo children who harbored a spark of Pozhar in their souls. He would tend these flames cautiously, to see if any of the children would grow into new Magi. The death of those Eight more than a year ago counted only as a setback, not as the end of the reign of the Magi.
Smithy walked to the camp’s communal kitchen area and asked a baker for a bowl of bread dough, which she gave without question. When he returned to his tent, he reached under his flimsy bed for the canister he kept hidden. He used his thick fingers to add large pinches of volcanic ash to the glutinous material. After mixing in the additive, he set the bowl to rise in the warmth of the stones ringing his fire. Later in the day he would bake biscuits—it didn’t matter if they looked misshapen or got singed—which he would offer to the three prospects. The ash did not contain as much Magic as cooled lava, but it would serve. These children would gain the Power, abilities that demonstrated their devotion to Pozhar and illustrated the Spirit’s might and majesty.
That fool Sumroth believes that because the Eight past Magi perished, he will rule Oromondo. But he would rule as all dictators rule: for himself. Only Magi will keep the Land of the Fire Mountains for Pozhar. I will aid General Sumroth in enacting retribution against Weirandale, and then the Spirit will deal with his pride and blasphemy.
The fire he sat by rose higher than the fuel he had given it should burn. In the crackle of the flames, Smithy heard the voice of his master.
The witch’s spawn has returned to Weirandale.
Smithy pounded one fist into the opposite palm.
What can I do, Mighty Pozhar, to stop this?
You can do nothing, Smithy. But I have other servants. Tend your flames and keep watch over my children.
2
Cascada
Ciellō and the dog, Whaki, set out from the Sea Hawk inn in the pearly dawn light. Both felt too restless to stay inside the lodging house environs a single moment longer. Despite his remonstrance, the dog had been whining and scratching at the fence gate throughout Ciellō’s morning exercise routine. He could hardly get Whaki to wait while he scrubbed and dressed.
Together, man and dog surveyed the empty streets of the capital city. Last night these same streets had been crammed with townsfolk celebrating some wedding amongst the gentry by feasting at squares where soldiers roasted pig—carving off generous slices—and poured hard cider into whatever vessels the citizens proffered. Street musicians played while people danced and cavorted, happy with the free victuals. When night fell, fireworks set off over the harbor bedecked the sky in patterns of blue and white.
Ciellō had partaken of the pork and Whaki had scarfed down dropped tidbits until the fireworks started; these sent the dog into paroxysms of terror. So the Zellish bodyguard had taken him back to the Sea Hawk and coaxed him into a nearly closed wardrobe to muffle the noise of the explosions. By the time the men with whom he shared the room returned, dead drunk, in the wee hours, the fireworks show had concluded, and Whaki—exhausted from his fright—snored loudly under Ciellō’s bed.
This morning the thoroughfares stretched deserted except for the loads of rubbish strewn about and a few unconscious drunks curled up on their sides.
In Zellia, after a fete, the mayor would hire the poorest of the poor to sweep up the refuse. Ciellō wondered if that was the custom here. Certainly, street sweepers needed to clean these streets; their disarray offended his sense of order.
Ciellō allowed the dog to lead the way. This morning Whaki didn’t detour to sniff or eat the meat scattered on the ground. His nose stuck high in the air and he loped onward without wavering. Whatever was bothering Whaki this morn, Ciellō knew it had to do with the woman he guarded. Whaki rushed up the streets so urgently that Ciellō, supremely fit as he was, had to struggle to keep up.
The white towers of the Nargis Palace, perched on the top of the hill, flashed in the morning sun, and grew larger as they approached.
* * *
Regent Matwyck had tossed and turned the whole night through, disturbed by the rich fare of his son’s wedding feast, and—more than he would care to admit—by the image of his intended, Duchette Lolethia, lying murdered in Burgn’s chambers.
The hole in her throat had gaped with an almost lewd intimacy, and her blood had soaked the floor black. A small quantity of this blood had stained his shoes and the side of his doublet, both of which he tore off with disgust and ordered his valet to burn, even though they were new and quite costly. Even after washing his hands three times he still felt the touch of her clammy palm in his own.
Although the Regent knew he had no cause to feel guilty—he had not killed the girl, nor ordered it done—an unease lingered, perchance because of how angry he had been when she failed to appear for the wedding and the banquet. Lolethia’s murder—while it explained her absence—did not really douse his fury. Even if she had not, after all, purposely missed the grand wedding, he could conjure no innocent explanation as to why she had gone to Burgn’s chamber.
Giving up on sleep, Matwyck pushed aside his bed-curtains and rang for his valet. His head pounded so that he poured himself a glass of wine while he waited for the man to appear.
“No word yet from the Marauders who went after Burgn?” he barked when the valet entered, carrying his fastbreak tray.
The man shook his head.
Matwyck was not surprised. It really was too soon for them to have caught up with the muckwit and returned. He would have to think of the proper way to punish the man once he had him in his possession.