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He started to row.
While he rowed, he considered the central problem of the next thing that had to be dealt with: a foe who seemed so well protected that it would be impossible to defeat them, that even attempting it might destroy him.
Dust didn’t care about that though; he craved that destruction. If it came to him, he would welcome it with open arms.
“No,” he told himself, “not before I have done what I must do.”
As for the prospect of actually doing it, he would find a way. He was Angarthim, with all the training that came with that. Perhaps he was the only one who could do this. He could slip silently onto the island, and…
“That will not work,” Dust said. One glance at the clouds above the island he sought told him that. The signs there were filled with death and the prospect of it. He could be stealthy, but he would fail, and he would die. He needed to find another way.
Dust let the boat drift now, knowing that the currents from the spot he was in would take him to the island he sought. Taking one of the oars and the sharpest of his knives, he started to carve. He could make another if he survived this.
He whittled at the wood with steady hands, shaving curls of it from the oar’s haft until it started to come to a point. Dust refined that point steadily as the current dragged him in toward the island, turning it into something almost as sharp as the steel he carried, producing a javelin that was light, and balanced, and deadly.
Taking a pouch from his belt, Dust mingled the contents with sea water, then dipped the tip of his makeshift spear into the results, the wood hissing as it contacted the potion he had produced. He threw the pouch out into the water, too dangerous to touch now that the powder had been wetted.
He came in close to the shore, and already, Dust could feel the pull from the island, in the heady, sweet scent that seemed to fill every pore, making him want to draw closer.
She stepped from the forest there, and she was the most beautiful woman Dust had ever seen, although a part of his brain also saw past that in the same moment. He saw a woman who was everything he had ever wanted, and at the same time saw the claws.
He flung his javelin. It sailed through the air, and she twisted, fast as a snake, so that his throw barely grazed her. The point did break the skin, and Dust could only hope that the poison on it did its job.
The creature didn’t fall, though. Instead, the scent around Dust intensified, and he knew that he had to throw himself forward, diving into the water and dragging his boat to the beach.
She was waiting there for him, and now he realized that she simply was. She was impossible, because her beauty hurt Dust to look upon. He would have done anything for her in that moment. Anything.
“I am Lethe,” she said, in a voice like molten honey. “What do they call you?”
“Dust,” Dust said.
“And do you love me, Dust?”
“I love you,” Dust agreed.
Lethe stepped toward him, arms open, her beauty complete, perfect, absolute.
“Did you really think that your little spear would kill me?” she asked. Her mouth was open in a smile that was both beautiful and too full of teeth, all at once.
“No,” Dust admitted.
“No?” That seemed to take Lethe by surprise.
“The poison on it does not kill. I had nothing that would kill you. But I have things that can weaken you.”
“Weaken me?” Dust heard the fear there now.
“I love you, but I am Angarthim, and we can kill what we love if the fates require it.”
Dust struck out with a knife, the blade flashing across her throat. Lethe didn’t even have time to cry out as she fell. Dust had made her end as painless as he could, because what more could he do for someone he loved so much?
He knelt there, and he wept in his grief. He wept both because of what he had lost in Lethe, and because he still needed to be the killer he had been made into for a little while longer.
It seemed to take forever before Dust felt strong enough to stand again and make his way around the island. The place felt different now, as dead as the creature that had run it, lifeless and silent as Dust searched.
He found what he was looking for set a little way from a cabin-like home, discarded in a pile together as if they simply didn’t matter. Then, Dust guessed, they hadn’t mattered compared to the love of Lethe. Dust took the crystal sword, unsheathing it only long enough to admire how the blade shone in the moonlight before he put it away again. He wrapped it in the armor, taking both and moving back in the direction of his boat.
It took him another hour to carve a replacement oar, an hour beyond that to gather fruits and fresh water from the forest. Dust piled it into his boat and pushed it out into the water.
He started to row for the mainland, knowing that destiny lay ahead, for him, for Royce, for everyone.
CHAPTER THREE
Genevieve was finding that life in the king’s court was very different from life in the palace of Altfor’s father. For one thing, people actually looked at her as if she were noble, rather than giving her the looks of pity and disdain that had marked her out as a stolen peasant girl before.
For another, there was the constant sense of threat that came from knowing any misstep could get her killed.
“Will Lord Ber’s men be here before the final push against the enemy?” King Carris demanded of an advisor, standing from his throne and pacing the width of the audience chamber where he was discussing plans.
“There is no news yet, my king,” the man said.
“Which means that he doesn’t plan to be here,” King Carris snapped back. “He’s waiting to see who will win. Do our chances look so bad?”
“No, my king,” the man said. “Shall I send more messages to him?”
“Just one,” King Carris said. “Tell him that if he does not have his men with my army in time, I will kill him, and his family, and anyone else who stands with him. This is a fight against people who would take my kingdom from me; if he is not with me in that fight, then he is my enemy.”
“At once,” the man said.
More advisors and messengers came, each one with some fragment of news about the coming conflict. One lord came forward and knelt.
“My king,” he said. “I am Sir Verris of Yall. I have brought three hundred men with me to serve with your army.”
“You have my thanks, Sir Verris,” the king said. “You will be rewarded. Your place will be with the force that strikes from the north.”
Genevieve stood toward the back of the crowd of people, trying to take note of the names and the numbers as men came to swear themselves to the king’s cause. She would have written it all down to be sure that she got it, but someone would see.
Altfor would see. He stood toward the front of the room, where he could be seen by everyone there, as close to the king as possible. Even so, his eyes seemed to be following Genevieve, daring her to make a mistake in the dangerous game she was playing.
“Jani will return soon,” Genevieve said to herself. “I will remember everything until then.”
She had to hope that the spy who worked for her sister had gotten back to Sheila. With the information Genevieve had sent, maybe Royce would be able to win this without all the deaths that the coming battle promised. Genevieve had already sent information about the seaborne assault that would be coming from the north. Now, she hoped to be able to find something that would help them to win outright.
“Tell me about our flotilla,” King Carris said.
A man in what looked like expensive versions of sailors’ clothes stepped forward, jewelry adorning him that looked as though it had been stolen from a dozen different sources.
“We are ready and waiting to carry your forces, my king. Just as soon as we are paid.”
“Money is traveling from my treasury as we speak,” King Carris promised.
Genevieve found herself wondering if there might be some way to sabotage that delivery. If she could get that information to Sheila, then it might be possible to arrange for the money to be stolen, or at least delayed. She was about to find a reason to excuse herself from the hall when she stopped, feeling a wave of something like cold spreading through her.
It wasn’t the kind of cold that had anything to do with the physical world, though. Instead, it felt to Genevieve as though something papery was whispering across her soul, and she found herself turning automatically toward the door. Everyone else in the room did the same, moving as one mass to face the figures who walked in together.
There were a dozen of them, gray-skinned and shaven-headed, although several of them had beards, or golden chains wound around their skulls, or tattoos in the shapes of mystical symbols. They wore deep gray robes, some with the hoods up, and most of them looked around the room with piercing eyes. The one at their head was old enough that he had to walk with the aid of a staff, leaning on it with every step. His eyes caught Genevieve’s for a moment, and Genevieve shuddered involuntarily.
“Who are you?” King Carris demanded. “And why are you here, in my court?”
“We are the priests of the Angarthim,” their leader said. “We see all that must be, and we send the Angarthim to ensure that it happens as it should. I am Justinius, highest of the priests.”
“That still doesn’t tell me why you’re here,” King Carris said. “Or why I shouldn’t have you killed.”
“We are here because your cause is ours, King Carris,” Justinius said. “The boy named Royce can never be allowed to be king.”
“You’ve come across the sea to tell me this?” the king demanded, and for a moment, Genevieve thought he might react with all the anger she’d seen before, when he’d been killing prisoners himself.
“We looked into the futures, and we saw the destruction of our order in the rise of Royce as king,” Justinius said. If he was scared of King Carris, he didn’t show it. “We sent one of our Angarthim to kill him, but somehow, he has failed us.”
“So you’re failures?” King Carris demanded.
The air rippled, and in that moment, it seemed to Genevieve that something was standing beside her; something with claws and teeth and hunger. It took everything Genevieve had not to scream. Many of those there were not so brave. Several drew blades, and one man fell, clutching his chest.
As suddenly as it had come, the sense of creatures there faded, leaving the Angarthim priests standing still and deadly looking.
“We are not without power,” Justinius said. “When the time comes, we will bring that power to your aid.”
He moved to stand beside the king without being asked, while the others formed a line in the first rank of the nobles. No one tried to argue.
Genevieve thought that might be it for the audience, but she saw King Carris collecting himself with an effort.
“What else?” he demanded. “What other news is there? What news is there of my enemies?”
A messenger came forward, visibly shaking. “We have news of Royce, my king,” he said. “He travels the villages, recruiting the common folk to his cause. They are calling him an ancient king returned.”
“Then they are fools,” Lord Carris said. “And what is Royce trying to raise in the villages? An army of farmers?”
The nobles laughed, but not all of them. Some of them obviously understood that numbers would count, and Genevieve, at least, knew how hard people would fight to protect their homes.
“Still, knowing will be useful,” King Carris said. “It will tell me which villages are filled with traitors, which must be destroyed and which can be rewarded for their loyalty.” He looked around. “Have no doubt, this is a fight, not just against a usurper, but for our whole way of life. Years ago, we fought to overthrow Philip, and all his ways. We fought against a world where a man could claim kingship because of some dictate of magic, rather than because of the suitability learned from birth by a true noble. Will any of you go back to that? Will you?”
As the nobles roared their response, Genevieve began to see how King Carris had managed to become a king. He had the charisma to move people, and the ruthlessness to kill those who stood against him. It was a dangerous combination.
“Now, go to your tasks,” King Carris said. “And—”
“My king,” Altfor said. “There is one more thing.”
“What thing, Duke Altfor?” the king asked. Genevieve saw her husband preen at the use of his title. She wondered if he noticed the king’s impatience.
“A gift has come for you, my king,” Altfor said. “From Lord Aversham. I met him at the gate.”
“What gift?”
Altfor gestured to the door. As it opened, Genevieve’s heart leapt into her mouth. This wasn’t some collection of priests, wasn’t the deathly fear that had come with the Angarthim. This was worse.
Moira was there, along with a noble and a collection of knights. They pushed a figure in front of them, bound and bruised by violence, and Genevieve recognized Garet instantly. He stumbled, and one of the knights kicked him, sending him sprawling forward. The man at the lead of the procession offered a courtly bow.
“Your majesty.”
“Lord Aversham, what have you brought me?”
“I have brought to you what Lady Moira has brought to me,” Lord Aversham said. Genevieve’s fingers twitched as he urged Moira forward. A part of her wanted to rush out and strangle her one-time friend for all that she’d done. This… this was worse than the rest of it put together.
“This is Royce’s brother,” Altfor said. “Or at least one of the boys he was raised with. He was seeking to subvert lords to Royce’s cause. Only Moira’s quick thinking brought him to Lord Aversham, who is loyal.”
“As you are loyal, Altfor,” King Carris said. “You have my thanks. And you, Lady Moira. Now, guards… take this boy and put him in chains. I want to know everything he knows.”
“I’ll tell you nothing,” Garet said.
“Oh, you will,” King Carris promised. “Once the hot irons are applied to flesh, people talk quickly enough.”
The guards stepped in, grabbing Garet. They dragged him away, even though he struggled, and Genevieve’s heart broke as she had to watch it. It was even worse watching the way Altfor moved over to Moira, putting an arm around her out in the open as if Genevieve weren’t there. Altfor looked Genevieve’s way, and he smiled cruelly, clearly knowing exactly what effect his actions would be having on her.
Genevieve fought not to show any reaction, in spite of the way her blood boiled. She headed from the hall, but only at the speed of the other nobles doing the same, making sure she didn’t run, didn’t fight to get out into the fresh air beyond the castle.
When she got there, though, she sucked down gasping breaths, trying not to scream out with everything that had just happened. The horrors the priests had inflicted had been bad enough, but seeing Garet there, like that, had been far worse.
Genevieve knew what she was there for now, why she’d stayed in the court of the king when she could have run to be with her sister in Fallsport. She’d hoped that there would be something she could do here that would change it, and now she saw that there was something that went far beyond the information she could overhear.
She could save Garet; she had to. If she could get to him, then she could try to find a way to get him clear of the keep. If she could save Royce’s brother, then maybe, just maybe, that would be enough to make up for everything else that had happened.
And if she could find a way to kill Moira while she was doing it, then that would only serve to make it perfect.
CHAPTER FOUR
“There’s nothing out here, Royce,” Mark insisted, but Royce shook his head. He couldn’t explain all that he’d seen without risking changing it, but he knew that this was the right direction. He put his hand on the bag containing the mirror, feeling the reassurance of its presence.
“We’re going the right way,” Royce assured him.
“Then tell us why,” Mark asked.
Royce hesitated. “I… can’t. Please, you have to trust me.” He looked around at Matilde and Neave. “I know it’s hard, but I know what I’m doing.”
“It would be easier if there were any land in sight,” Matilde said, gesturing to the open expanse of the sea around them. “I don’t want to drift out here until we all starve, Royce.”
Gwylim barked something that might have been agreement.
“We can always eat you if we run out of food,” Neave said. It took Royce a moment to realize that it was her idea of a joke. She looked over to Royce. “If you say that this is the way we need to go… well, you’ve been right before.”
Royce was grateful for that, although he was all too aware that the Picti girl could have pointed out the times when he’d been wrong just as easily. Royce had already led them on one false trail, finding the mirror but not his father. What if this was the same? What if the mirror hadn’t shown him the truth?
That feeling gnawed at him while they continued to sail, because Royce knew how many people had been led astray by seeing too much, viewing possibilities as certainties. Barihash had destroyed a whole city because of it. Royce could just as easily lead his friends to their deaths.
That possibility made him want to turn the boat around. He wanted the others to be safe, wanted to do the right thing for them as well as for the kingdom, yet the things he’d seen kept him pressing forward. They weren’t the wide field of possibilities and nuances that he’d seen in the mirror, but he could still hold to the central strand of it, still remember the steps that he had to take. He looked out through Ember’s eyes, the hawk circling above the boat, and in the distance, he thought he could make out the green speck of an island.
“There,” he said. “There’s an island there!”
The others seemed to take heart from that news, Mark correcting the boat’s course just a touch, Matilde and Neave waiting eagerly as the wind pushed their vessel on. Gwylim moved to the prow of the boat, the wolf-like creature standing there like a figurehead. Soon, it was possible to see the island in the distance even without Ember’s vision.
It was small compared to the Seven Isles they’d left behind, but lush with grass and trees, so that it looked like a green jewel sticking out from the sea. It was fairly flat, the interior of the island disappearing in among the trees so that it was impossible to see much more from the boat. As they got closer, Royce could make out beaches of golden sand, brushing up against the woods like the white around a green eye.
“Let’s just hope there aren’t any magic women or lizard people on this one,” Matilde said.
Neave shrugged. “As I recall, you quite liked Lethe.”
“This isn’t the time for a fight,” Royce said. “But you’re right, there could be dangers.”
He sent Ember up over the beach, using the hawk to scout ahead, wanting to be sure he wasn’t leading his friends into yet another place of danger. He could have looked in the mirror, but that was a far more dangerous option; he needed to see what was, not what might be. Through her eyes, he saw that the trees formed a kind of outer ring around the interior of the island, while there was a broad inner circle of open ground there, covered in grass.
On it, he saw a whole herd of white deer grazing, and it seemed that one stag looked up as Ember passed, antlers majestic as it tracked the flight of the passing bird. Now, Royce knew without a shadow of doubt that he was in the place that the mirror had promised. It also meant that he knew what he had to do next.
“We’re in the right place,” he said. “I need to go ashore alone.”
“Alone?” Mark said, the incredulity in his voice obvious. “After we’ve come all this way with you, you want to go alone?”
“I have to,” Royce said. “I…” Again, he felt the tension of the futures threatening to shift. If he explained, he didn’t know how, but it would change everything that he had seen. “I can’t explain the reasons, but I have to go onto this island without any other people.”
“Do you know how that sounds?” Matilde said.
“It sounds like nonsense, I know,” Royce agreed.
“No, Royce,” she replied. “It sounds as if you don’t trust us.”
“I would trust you with my life,” Royce said, “and when I can, I will explain, but I can’t right now.”
“And so you have to go onto an island alone, with only your obsidian sword to protect you?” Neave asked. It was clear that she disapproved as much as the others.
“I think… I think I can take Gwylim and Ember with me,” Royce said. The shape of the potential future didn’t seem to be affected by the prospect of them being there. “Please, you’ve come this far trusting me. Just a little more.”
“Okay,” Mark said, with a sigh, “but I don’t like it.”
They brought the boat as close to the shore as they could without touching it, then dropped a small anchor to hold it in place. Royce checked that he had his sword and everything else he needed, while Gwylim moved to his side, the bhargir’s presence a sense of power and safety that Royce was grateful for. Ember flew overhead, circling the island and looking for danger. Royce set the mirror in its velvet bag at his side.
“I will be back as soon as I can,” Royce promised.
Royce stepped off the boat, into the water. It was shallow here, only up to his waist, but even so he trod carefully as he made his way in toward the land. There was still the risk of dangerous creatures being in the water, or hidden drops, or sharp coral. Royce heard the splash as Gwylim dove into the water, the bhargir paddling forward until he could walk beside Royce easily.
They made their way up onto the beach, the waves lapping gently at the shore. Looking back, Royce could see his friends still in the boat, waiting but looking worried. He knew that he would have to be quick here; leave it too long, and they would come looking for him simply to make sure he was all right.
He stepped into the cover of the trees with Ember flying above, glancing through her eyes every so often to make sure he was still going in the right direction. The canopy was thin enough that Royce could see himself in between the trees, looking down on himself and using Ember’s vision to guide him. Royce headed deeper into the interior of the island, heading for the spot where it opened out to flat ground.
Within the trees, he could see many plants he recognized: fruits and edible roots that suggested someone could live on this island for as long as they wished without having to leave it. Royce could hear the sound of a nearby spring, and going to it he found water bubbling up from among moss-covered boulders. More than that, he saw the small, crudely made bucket that had been set beside it, obviously designed to catch water for someone. For his father?
Royce dared to hope as he stepped from the trees out into the broad, grassy clearing. The grass was short, obviously kept that way by the efforts of the deer, while there were spots where there was none at all, because great slabs of rock sat there, marked with symbols and signs cut into their surface. Most of the deer there scattered, heading back into their woodland cover. Only one stood there: a stag larger than the others, its antlers magnificent, its white fur shining in the sun. It reared up, giving a snorting bellow, then headed back in the direction of the trees with the others. If Royce hadn’t known that he was in the right place before, he would have known it then.
Now that he was out in the large clearing at the heart of the island, Royce could see the hut that had been built, sheltered in among the trees at one edge. It was simply built, but looked sturdy, constructed from fallen and cut tree trunks by hands that clearly knew what they were doing.
Royce headed for that hut, reasoning that what he had come there to find could only be there. He stepped out over the ground of the clearing, past the stone slabs, and he found himself pausing, tracing the letters there. He found the words of the people who had gone before, and something about those words seemed to resonate deep inside him. Some remnant of the clarity he’d had from the mirror told him that these were stories in the old tongue about his ancestors, kings and queens for whom the stones had sung and whose kingdoms were filled with magic.