CHAPTER

7

Ard peered through his spyglass at the line of Trothians waiting on the sandy islet beach. By now, their unique eyes certainly would have seen their flag, the fabric shredded into more than a dozen long strips that whipped in the wind. At the stern, Quarrah leaned on the rudder, keeping the Double Take’s nose aimed at their destination.

Raek swung down from the yardarm, the sail securely battened. But instead of dropping onto the rowing bench to take them the rest of the way, he began preparing the anchor.

“What are you doing?” Ard asked.

“This is how we have to make the approach,” Raek said. “Macer’s book says that every Lander vessel, regardless of size or crew compliment, must drop anchor no less than a half mile from shore. It’s a safety precaution for the ships as much as anything, since the sand tapering away from the islets tends to shift and change with the movement of the waves.”

Ard thought of the strange bed of the InterIsland Waters. The five big islands of the Greater Chain stood like stone columns, the depth of the sea plunging several miles straight down at their shores. Only the harbors had measurable depth, pocked into the rocky cliff sides.

Apparently the Trothian islets didn’t share the same kind of abrupt drop-off beneath the water. Their clustered skals had foundations like great sandbars that would, if the InterIsland Waters were somehow drained away, act as sandy land bridges between the large Lander islands.

Ever since their discovery of an ancient civilization on the seabed, Ard had tried to picture the world as it had once been—without so much water. When the gods had used their powers to heap up towers for humankind’s escape, it must have been a mighty ring of earth, with the forested peaks of Pekal freestanding at its center. Far below, the ancient Trothians would have been ringed in on all sides, seething for vengeance for hundreds of years before managing to rise to the surface.

Ard leaned overboard to watch as the anchor pulled down its rope. “I suppose Macer expects us to swim the rest of the way?”

“He says the Trothians will send a raft if they agree on a meeting,” said Raek.

“Well, I think we could get a little closer,” Ard remarked. “The Double Take’s not going to run aground.”

“Don’t question Macer,” said Raek. “He literally wrote the book on approaching the Trothian islets. Every good sailor has a well-worn copy.”

“Where was yours when we sank the Floret after the Denfar ruse?” Ard asked.

“It was on my ‘to read’ list,” answered Raek, tying off the slack on the anchor rope. “I finally got around to it. Yesterday. I’ll admit, it had some great tips. Did you know running up a dirty white undershirt on the mast is considered an act of war?”

“That was not in Macer’s book,” Ard argued.

Raek grinned. “How would you know? You haven’t read it.”

“There’s that raft you were talking about,” Quarrah said, squinting through a spyglass as she left her post at the rudder. She was wearing her black thief’s garb, snuggly fit, with slim belts crossing her chest. The wind pulled a few long strands of hair from her ponytail and sent them tickling across her face. Ard smiled as she sputtered at a hair across her lips before tucking it behind her ear.

“I was planning on hiding in the boat while Ard drew the attention away,” Quarrah said. “I didn’t anticipate a swim.”

Raek shrugged. “Guess you should have read the book, too.”

“It’s all right,” Ard soothed her. “You’re good on the fly. You can come ashore with me and slip away when the opportunity presents itself. After all, I’m sure Lyndel would like to see you.”

Quarrah shook her head. “I think my presence will put her on edge. She knows what I’m capable of.”

“You keep talking about Lyndel like she’s our enemy,” Ard said. “Just relax. We’ll talk to her for a moment and then I’ll think of a reason for you to go back to the Double Take. You can slip into the trees, raid the Ucru, and I’ll meet you back at the beach.”

Quarrah checked through her spyglass again. “Except I don’t think there are trees on the Ennoth. Or any kind of vegetation for that matter.”

“What kind of island doesn’t have plants?” Ard balked.

“The kind that floods with salt water every cycle,” Raek reminded him.

“I’m seeing lots of structures, though,” Quarrah said, still inspecting the distant island. “They must have brought in building materials from other islets.”

Ard looked for himself. Sure enough, the only variation on the sandy atoll was a row of houses that looked like they’d been built on stilts. His magnified gaze dropped to the raft, which was drawing steadily closer over the breaking waves. It wasn’t like the flat rafts of the Mooring that sat high on the water. This one looked like a half-sunken catamaran with just a few wooden rails connecting the low-riding pontoons. A pair of strong Trothians were rowing, their bottom halves submerged, while two more swam behind to propel the vessel.

“Last chance to wear your robes,” Raek said, offering Ard the sea-green Islehood outfit.

“By the looks of it, I’d get waterlogged and sink with that on,” Ard said. “Lyndel will have to take my word about being a Holy Isle. Hopefully, she’s already caught rumors of it. Besides, I don’t think wearing that robe will be any more convincing. She knows we’re capable of stealing so much more than a costume. And I don’t want her to think I’m approaching her as an Isle. I’m just an old friend.”

He’d expected the scoff from Raek, as he tossed the robe onto the rowing bench, but Quarrah’s actually stung. Of course she thought meeting with Lyndel was an unnecessary risk. Quarrah Khai would definitely choose to raid the other Ucru, far away from anyone who might recognize her. But what would that leave for Ard to do? His plan had the dual benefit of utilizing his charismatic skills, and potentially repairing a relationship with a powerful Trothian ally.

“Hoy!” called one of the Trothians seated on the raft. They were holding their position, floating some twenty yards out.

“Why do you come to Ra Ennoth?” His voice carried a heavy accent, but he projected well enough that Ard had no trouble hearing him. In moments like these, Ard envied the superior lungs and diaphragm of the Trothians.

“My name is Ardor Benn,” he shouted back. “We are here to meet with your Shoka priestess, Lyndel. She should have received a message to expect us.”

The two Trothians conversed briefly in hushed tones that didn’t reach the Double Take. “We will take you ashore!” the man called back. “Jump into the water and we will retrieve you.”

Ard glanced at Quarrah as he unclasped his Grit belt. The clay pots were mostly waterproof, and wet Grit could still detonate under enough sparks. But the Blast cartridges he used for his guns were rolled in thin paper. Sitting half submerged on that raft would leave them too soggy to load, assuming they didn’t dissolve completely.

Oh, well. It would probably prove his point better to go unarmed anyway. And he wasn’t totally defenseless. Ard had one little Grit pot tucked away for emergencies. He slipped out of his boots and passed them ceremoniously to Raek. If that whole island was covered in sand, then he’d be more comfortable without them.

“What’s this?” Raek asked, awkwardly accepting the boots.

“I want you to have these if I don’t come back,” Ard said in mock seriousness.

“They’re not my size.”

“Then you can wear them on your hands.” Ard eased himself over the edge of the Double Take, dropping the short distance to the water, the cold splash stealing his breath for a moment. He’d been able to keep his head from going under, but Quarrah wasn’t so lucky, plunging in beside him.

In a moment, they were seated on the Trothian raft as the swimmers turned it back toward the Ennoth’s beach. It wasn’t a comfortable vessel, requiring all of Ard’s balance just to keep from falling between the rails and getting left in its wake.

They rode in silence, watching the beach draw steadily closer. The waiting Trothians stood shoulder to shoulder, forming a semicircle, those on the ends standing waste deep in the lapping water.

Quite the welcoming party, Ard thought. He knew Lander visitors were highly uncommon on the islets. The novelty must have drawn close to a hundred from their homes.

It wasn’t long before the little raft touched sand. Ard stepped off the raft, amazed at the way the compact sand squished between his toes. It was strange and dizzying to see the water skimming in and out around his feet. To feel it pull at the sand beneath his soles. There was something rhythmic and soothing—even cathartic—about the steady undulation of the waves on a beach. How many Landers lived and died without ever touching Trothian sand?

He shot a sidelong glance at Quarrah, but she seemed much less interested in the feel of the beach. Her wet dark clothes clung to her tense body and he realized that this crowd might make it more difficult to slip away than they’d anticipated.

“Ardor Benn!” A familiar voice shouted his name, drawing his attention away from the soft sand. He saw Lyndel standing on the beach, the curved line of Trothians like a wall behind her.

The priestess seemed never to change, no matter the passing years. Her black hair was tinged with gray, falling thick and straight. She wore a simple gray tunic, with a necklace and belt of clay beads. Her shoulders were bare, but her arms were wrapped in red cloth from her elbows to her wrists.

“Omligath, Lyndel!” Ard called, beginning his charms with a warm smile. She was not smiling back as she trudged toward him, bare feet churning through the loose sand.

“Thank you for welcoming us,” he continued when she was close enough that Ard didn’t have to shout. “I assume you received my message—”

“Ardor Benn,” she cut him off. “You will answer for your crimes against the Trothian people. You will surrender yourself willingly.”

Ard took a faltering step backward, a high-reaching wave kissing his heels. He wanted to laugh off Lyndel’s comments as a joke, but her vibrating eyes showed no mirth.

“Now, wait a minute.” Ard held out both hands. “I don’t know if you’ve heard, but I received a pardon for my crimes.”

“Your queen cannot pardon crimes against people she does not rule,” answered Lyndel. She reached behind her back, hand reappearing with a long knife, its hilt of polished bone.

Sparks, Lyndel looked like she meant business! Had he really misread this situation so greatly? There’s still time, Ard told himself. Time to talk my way out of this.

“I understand that we didn’t part on the best of terms,” Ard said. “But that’s why I am here. Why don’t you put down the knife and we can talk?”

“You will surrender yourself to the ruling tribunal,” she said. “You will come without a struggle to face the consequences of your actions.”

“Lyndel,” Ard said, his hand straying to his vest as she took an aggressive step closer. “It’s me. Whatever problem you have, we can resolve it together. I’ve come to apologize. Tell her, Quarrah.”

He glanced at his companion, but Quarrah had slowly backed away from him, standing knee deep in the waves, hands balled into ready fists.

“You will come with me now, Ardor,” pressed Lyndel. “Or I will gut you where you stand.” She raised the blade.

Okay. This was quite enough. Ard slipped his hand into his vest, yanking out the single pot of Barrier Grit he’d brought with him. Leaping backward, he hurled it at Lyndel’s feet. It struck the soft sand, landing with a dull thud that wasn’t enough to crack the clay pot.

“Quarrah!” he shouted, scrambling backward toward the raft. She stood frozen for half a second before springing to his side, catching one of the cross rails, and shoving the simple vessel back out to sea.

The nearest Trothian—one of the swimmers who had pushed the raft—moved to intercept Ard. The man swung a hefty fist, but Ard ducked it nimbly, following with an uppercut of his own. The blow landed, Ard grimacing at the jarring crack of the man’s jaw against his knuckles.

He reached the raft, pushing alongside Quarrah while becoming painfully aware that the half circle of spectating Trothians was folding in on them.

“I told you this was a bad idea,” Quarrah shouted.

Oh, really? Did she have to rub it in right now?

They were waist deep in their futile escape when something struck Ard in the back of the head. His hands slipped from the raft rail and he fell face first into the water.

Someone had a hold of him by the back of the shirt, jerking him upward until his head cleared the wave and he sputtered for breath, his vision threatening to go black from the blow.

“You have made a grave error coming here,” Lyndel’s voice sounded in his ear. The cold steel of her blade touched his neck as she held him securely, his face mere inches above the water like a sacrifice to the sea.

“Quarrah,” Ard rasped. It was partly a cry for help, but mostly it was a question for her well-being. He had brought her here against her suggestions. If anything were to happen—

“My conflict is with you alone.” Lyndel yanked him upright. Ard could now see Quarrah clearly, the water lapping at her chest, one hand still idly clinging to the raft. “Quarrah Khai is free to go.”

“What will you do with him?” Quarrah called.

“We will deal with him in our way,” Lyndel answered. “He will answer for the deaths that rest upon his head.”

Ah, flames. This wasn’t going to end well. Ard locked eyes with a startled Quarrah. “Tell Trable,” he called, talking fast. “Tell him that I’m being detained. Spread the word to everyone in Beripent. Cinza and Elbrig. Get them to stir up the people. Tell them—”

Lyndel struck him in the back of the head again, causing the midday sunlight to flicker. His body drooped, but she held him above the water, dragging him up the beach.

At last, Quarrah hoisted herself onto the back of the raft, retrieving one of the long oars and paddling frantically. Lyndel shouted something in Trothian—an order that sent two Trothians swimming out to propel Quarrah toward the Double Take.

At least this isn’t falling on her, Ard thought as a dozen Trothians pressed around him. He tried to put up a fight, but his head was throbbing and his arms felt weak.

Scratchy, fibrous ropes tightened around his wrists. In his dazed state, he considered this a good sign. If they were tying him up, it meant they wanted something. It meant he’d stay alive a little longer.

One of the Trothian women grabbed his face, forcing his mouth open as she shoved something in. Ard couldn’t tell if it was a wad of fabric or a bunch of plants. Whatever it was, it had a distinct salty taste and effectively stopped him from saying another word. He chose to bite down instead of trying to spit it, grateful that he hadn’t lost any teeth when she’d rammed it in.

Pushed from behind, Ard staggered, following Lyndel as she moved toward the houses. They passed into the neighborhood, Ard glimpsing between his Trothian escorts to catch a closer look at the structures.

He had always imagined Trothian dwellings to be run-down and primitive. It was the stereotype most Landers held, perpetuated by the less-than-ideal conditions in which many Trothians found themselves after immigrating to the Greater Chain. But what Ard was seeing wasn’t primitive at all. It was different. Foreign. But there was a marked level of finesse to their construction and a simple elegance to their architecture.

The homes were made primarily of wood, with decorative accents of seashells. Not a roof stood over ten feet high, loosely thatched with what looked like dried aquatic vegetation. Ard supposed that a race whose island flooded once a cycle wasn’t overly concerned with keeping out the rain.

The stilt-like framework of their buildings rose out of the sand, supported by stone at their foundations. But none of the walls actually touched the ground, giving the whole village the subtle appearance of floating in midair.

In the gap between the sand and the bottom of the walls, Ard could see blue feet shuffling—most of them hurrying to a doorless archway to get a glimpse of the passing commotion outside.

In Beripent, Ard had always considered Trothians to be rather reclusive—even secretive. But that was certainly not the case here. There was a perplexing level of openness and a shocking lack of privacy.

There can be no secrets among us, for our eyes can see them.

Unexpectedly, the line from the glass testament spire on the seabed came to his mind. He and Raek had done their best to write down what they could remember from it, and that particular line had definitely stood out to Ardor Benn, who valued his secrets above anything else.

In the context of his surroundings, it seemed completely believable that the Trothians had descended from a race like that. By comparison, Landers seemed stuffy and distrusting.

Ahead, Ard notice a trench full of water that dissected their path. Lyndel led the way and the group trudged into it without slowing. Glancing to the side, Ard saw that the trench ran all the way across the islet, giving him a clear view to the open sea.

This must have been one of the pats that Vorish had mentioned. A series of crisscrossing hand-dug canals that delivered salt water all across the Ennoth. They were deeper and wider than he’d expected.

Instead of passing through the pat, Lyndel turned their course, leading Ard and the others along the canal as though it were a convenient road. In fact, it seemed convenient for everyone except Ardor Benn, who stumbled time after time, the Trothians at his side keeping him from going under.

After a moment, the pat intersected another canal running perpendicular to the first. A pool had formed at the confluence, deep enough that Lyndel began to swim. Ard grunted a cry of help through his gag as his feet left the sandy bottom of the pat, but two of the Trothians quickly linked arms with him, dragging his floundering, wrist-bound figure through the pool until they reached the intersecting waterway.

They continued forward, Trothians lining up along the edge of the pat to witness the processional, as though Ard were some notorious criminal—which he was. But Ard hadn’t expected his fame to have reached the Trothian islets.

He was surprised by the sheer number of people on Ra Ennoth. He’d heard that the islets were cramped and overcrowded—a significant motivator for some Trothians to relocate to the Greater Chain when King Pethredote had finally introduced the Trothian Inclusion Act. The close proximity of their many dwellings was perhaps the only similarity this place had with Beripent, and still it felt so different. Yet somehow, despite the overpopulation, it felt spacious. Like the sky itself was bigger down here.

All at once, the dwellings cleared and Ard saw what must have been the Ucru. It was by far the tallest structure he’d seen on the islet. Maybe twenty feet high and as many across. It formed a perfect dome, like an architectural representation of a Barrier Grit detonation against the sand.

The walls of the Ucru looked to be made of thick leather, draped over a framework hidden underneath. From this distance, Ard couldn’t see a single door or window, but the very top of the dome was flat, indicating a hole.

Water had flooded all around the Ucru like a moat, and Ard realized that it was the confluence of all the pats coming together at the islet’s center. He imagined seeing the Ennoth from a bird’s-eye view, the network of canals laid out like the spokes of a wagon wheel, with the sacred building at its hub.

They were still a good fifty yards from the Ucru when Lyndel abruptly departed from the trench they’d been following, leading the group onto a narrow triangle of dry sand between the spokes of the wheel.

She stopped, finally facing Ard again. Slowly, deliberately, Lyndel wiggled her bare feet until they were completely buried in the loose sand.

She shouted a long sentence in her language, which caused all the Trothians that had escorted him to back away, retreating into the waist-deep water of the pat. Others were also filing into the canals, standing shoulder to shoulder on both sides of Ard’s stretch of dry land.

Lyndel shouted again, only ten paces in front of Ard, but behaving like she was a world away. At her second command, a handful of Trothian women came forward. Ard instantly noticed that their apparel—specifically the red wraps around their forearms—matched Lyndel’s.

Priestesses, Ard thought. Maybe I can appeal to their religious side.

The five women took their places next to Lyndel, digging their feet into the sand in the same ceremonious way. They each said something, and then Lyndel spoke to Ard.

“Do you desire a translator?” she asked flatly. Ard grunted against the gag in his mouth. He wasn’t really trying to say anything, but he wanted to remind her that he couldn’t.

“You may remove it,” Lyndel said impatiently. Ard reached up and pulled the salty wad from his mouth, dropping it to the sand and coughing dramatically.

“Do you desire a translator?” Lyndel asked again.

“I’d say that would be mighty helpful,” said Ard, “since I have no idea what we’re doing.”

Lyndel said something, which resulted in a Trothian man climbing out of the pat and coming to stand at Ard’s side.

“Gorosad will speak for you,” Lyndel said.

“Not you?” Ard asked in surprise.

“I will not defile my Agrodite station by speaking to my people on your behalf,” she spit.

“Look, Lyndel,” Ard said. “I realize you’re upset. That’s why I’m here. I’d like to—”

Lyndel cut him off with a raw, guttural scream. Ard took an involuntary step backward, the rest of his sentence stuck in his throat on a sudden lump of fear.

Lyndel’s scream was answered by the five women next to her. In the pats on both sides, the gathered Trothians began to splash and wail.

“They mourn the victims of your crime,” explained Gorosad.

Ard leaned over, lowering his voice to start building trust with his new translator. “Can you tell me what’s going on? Lyndel’s an old friend. I don’t know why she’s treating me this way.”

“You are Ardor Benn,” stated Gorosad as if it were news to Ard. “We have waited years for Denyk to bring you to our land.”

“Denyk?” Ard repeated. “Am I supposed to know him? Was he one of the guys that pushed our raft?”

“He is the god of payment,” said Gorosad.

“Sparks,” Ard cursed. “Do I owe Lyndel money?”

“You would call it justice,” Gorosad said, “but we have no such word in our language. The priestesses have taken a stand and cannot be moved until payment is made.”

Lyndel held up her hands and the splashing and mourning came to an abrupt end. She began to speak, Gorosad translating over her words.

“Two years have passed since our brothers and sisters, fathers and mothers, bravely followed me into the final conflict that ended the war,” he said with notably less enthusiasm than Lyndel’s delivery. “All who sailed with me in the flying ships knew the risks of our actions.”

She was talking about the capture and defense of the Archkingdom’s Pekal harbors. Weaponizing the Trans-Island Carriages had been highly unorthodox, and Lyndel had acted without permission from her Sovereign States allies.

“When the Moon Passing came, our warriors were forced to sail to the safety of the Redeye line, where a fleet of Archkingdom ships awaited them,” he translated.

Not only the Archkingdom, Ard recalled. The Sovs had been waiting with just as many vessels, intending to apprehend Lyndel and hold her accountable for her radical behavior.

“Many of our people were killed throughout the night,” continued Gorosad, “and the fighting did not relent at break of day. But we were stalwart. We retook the harbors for the new cycle, and the subsequent pressure of being cut off from their precious supply of Grit forced the Archkingdom to yield.”

“That’s not exactly true.” Ard decided to speak up. Gorosad called out his response in Trothian. “The Archkingdom and the Sovereign States reunited when the new Prime Isle selected Queen Abeth to rule as a crusader monarch. She called off the war that very cycle and both armies stood down so their rulers could set terms for lasting peace.”

“This man”—Lyndel thrust her arm in Ard’s direction as Gorosad translated—“would have you believe that our sacrifice was for nothing. That the political squabbling of their Isles and nobles was of greater importance than the deaths of our loved ones.”

“That’s not what I’m saying.” Ard tried to defend himself. But by the time the translation had come through, Lyndel had already moved on.

“I was with Ardor Benn on the night of that Moon Passing. He had come to our harbor on Pekal, seeking my permission and assistance to make a last-minute expedition into the mountains. I was made to be convinced when he told me that the item he intended to extract from Pekal was no other than a missing Lander prince. The boy, he said, was presumed dead, and his sudden appearance would carry enough influence to end the fighting.”

“And it did!” cried Ard, but the only person who seemed to be listening to him was his translator.

“Once we had retrieved the prince, we were forced to spend the night on a small raft, struggling against the waves to reach the battle ahead.”

Well, that part surely isn’t true, Ard thought. Obviously, Lyndel had not told her people about their trip to the bottom of the InterIsland Waters. But why? She had uncovered mind-boggling truths about her race’s origins. Didn’t she want to share that?

“By morning, our raft was spent,” Gorosad continued with the translation. “We detonated Barrier Grit and were able to house ourselves in its bubble until one of our Trothian crews retrieved us.”

Again, not quite true. But Ard understood why Lyndel wouldn’t tell her people about movable Containment Grit. She had no idea how to manufacture liquid Grit, and the last thing she needed was to terrify the Trothian nation with the thought that Landers had new capabilities. It was already difficult enough for Trothians to get access to the Grit they knew about and understood.

“I agreed to let Ardor Benn search for his prince because he assured me that I could present the boy to the Sovereign fleet and regain their support,” Lyndel went on. “This would have helped us vanquish the Archkingdom ships and the magnitude of the accomplishment could have exonerated me from the Lander laws of treason against our allies.” She held up a finger. “But Ardor Benn did not follow through with his promise. Even delivering the prince to the Archkingdom fleet could have spared lives. With such precious cargo, they would have likely called an immediate retreat. But Ardor Benn did not do that, either.”

Okay. Ard finally knew exactly where Lyndel was going with this. And put the way she was saying it, things didn’t look good for him.

“Instead, this liar kept the single piece of salvation we had to himself and returned to Beripent, leaving our people to struggle against not one—but two Lander navies. This man alone is responsible for the deaths of thousands of our people.”

She turned to look directly at him. He remembered that night when she’d touched the testament spire and her eyes had vibrated so quickly that they had begun to glow with a red hue—so akin to the perfected eyes of a transformed Gloristar. Lyndel’s eyes were dark now. Full of nothing but hatred.

“Speak the truth, Ardor,” she said in Landerian. “Confess your guilt to these crimes.”

Ard took a deep breath. There had to be a way out of this. He just needed to convince the onlooking crowd that Lyndel was wrong. That he wasn’t as guilty as she’d made him sound.

But he was.

Delivering Shad Agaul to his mother in the throne room had undoubtedly been the right decision. Deep down, he knew that he had never intended to fulfill his promise to Lyndel. He had never actually considered any other options.

Ard blamed his name for this stubborn determination. Once his mind had homed in on what he deeply wanted, there was little anyone could do to convince him otherwise. Sparks, there was very little he could do to convince himself.

Wasn’t this the root of why Quarrah couldn’t stand to be with him?

“It’s true,” Ard said, speaking slowly enough for Gorosad to translate comfortably. “I did what I thought was best at the time. I suppose I didn’t pause to think what impact it would have on the Trothian fleet. That is why I have come here today. To apologize for my actions and beg your forgiveness.”

“We have planted our feet,” Gorosad translated Lyndel’s words again. “There is no forgiveness for your crimes. Only payment. Because of you, our people have suffered grief. Because of you, I am unwelcome in the Greater Chain, unable to fulfill my Shoka duties.”

“Let me talk to Queen Abeth,” Ard said. “She can clear your name like she did for me. The Sovereign States have dissolved anyway. Sure, some of the Dronodanian and Talumonian nobles are probably still upset about the way you ignored their orders. But that was years ago. Water under the bridge. Just let me go back to Beripent and talk to the queen.”

“Our feet are planted. We will not be moved until payment is made.”

“You keep saying that,” Ard shouted, “but I don’t know what you want from me.”

“There is only one payment sufficient for your crimes.” Then Lyndel said a single word, and Ard guessed what it meant before the translation came through.

“Death.”

The pronouncement struck him with a chilling force. Surprising, since it wasn’t the first time someone had sentenced him with such conviction. Sparks, it wasn’t even the first time an old acquaintance of his had threatened him with death. But hearing Lyndel say it was different somehow, and Ard felt a pang of genuine fear.

In unanimous agreement, the other priestesses repeated the word one at a time. Gorosad’s emotionless echo only deepened Ard’s feeling of dread. Lyndel might actually get her way.

She began speaking again, this time addressing the throngs of Trothians watching from the pats.

“Come, all who are grieved at this Lander’s actions,” translated Gorosad. “Make for him the bed in which Nah will drown him to sleep.”

“Hold on. What?” Ard cried, taking a step backward. “Who the blazes is Nah?”

“The Bringer of Punishment. The Collector of Debts,” said Gorosad. He pointed skyward. “The Red Moon.”

“It’s still six days before the Moon Passing, pal.” Ard glanced up just to make sure Lyndel’s pronouncement hadn’t somehow altered the Moon’s regular course. Sure enough, the clear blue sky was vacant, save for a distant flock of birds winging westward. “And what are you going to do—get me Moonsick?” They’d have to take him more than halfway up Pekal for that.

Before Gorosad could answer, Ard’s attention turned to the pats, where dozens of Trothians were climbing out of the canals, advancing across the dry sand toward him. They stopped between Ard and the line of priestesses, dropping to their knees and digging up fistfuls of sand.

Singing—or at least chanting—rose from the Trothians waiting in the ditches. They splashed and cupped their hands against the surface of the water in that same rhythmic style Ard had glimpsed at Tofar’s Salts. Only this time it seemed much less innocuous, the tone and tempo bordering on malice.

“What are they doing?” Ard asked his translator. He could no longer see Lyndel or the other priestesses through the digging throng.

“They dig a pit for you,” Gorosad said.

“That’s awfully nice,” Ard replied. “But I really don’t need a pit right now.”

“All those who dig suffered grief at your hand,” he said. “They are the kin of those whose deaths might have been avoided, had you fulfilled your promise to our Shoka priestess.”

Ard looked over the crowd. Women, men, little children. They heaped up sand behind them, the pit growing rapidly deeper. And when one of them tired, there was no shortage of others waiting their turn in the pats.

Homeland, Ard thought. What did I do?

“Will they bury me alive?” Ard asked quietly. That would be one of the worst ways to go. Where was the heroism in lying unseen, choking for breath?

“When the pit is sufficient,” said Gorosad, “you will be lowered down with great stones around your ankles. Then you will wait for Nah.”

Ard suddenly realized exactly how this was going to go. When the Moon Passing raised the water levels to cover the Ennoth, his pit would be flooded. The Moon would be his executioner, but not through its horrifying sickness. It would kill him naturally. Ceremoniously.

“I’d like a final word with Lyndel,” Ard said. If she’d just listen to him, maybe he could convince her to lighten the punishment to a few lashings, or something.

“I cannot take you to her,” Gorosad replied. “And her feet are planted.”

“Still?” Ard said. “For how long?”

“The priestesses do not take this punishment lightly,” he said. “They will remain until payment is made and the same flood that drowns you washes the sand from their feet, releasing them from their responsibility over you.”

“Lyndel’s going to stand there for six days?” Ard cried, his voice spiking incredulously.

“Stand, sit, or lie upon the sand,” he answered. “But the feet of the priestesses will remain buried.”

“Aren’t they going to get hungry?” Ard had no idea how long a Trothian could go without food and water, but he wasn’t likely to make it a week.

“They will receive sufficient sustenance,” said Gorosad. “As will you.”

“That’s very considerate,” Ard said. “I’d hate to drown on an empty stomach.”

He turned back to see the pit taking shape. It looked about ten feet in diameter, already several feet deep. The grieving Trothians showed no signs of slowing down, and fresh diggers continued to emerge from the pats.

He watched a little girl digging furiously with both hands. Her blue face was streaked with tears and her body shook with a mixture of sobs and apparent fury. Had she lost a mother? A father? A sibling?

Ard felt a knot in his throat and a subtle salty taste in his mouth that he recognized as the harbinger of tears. He swallowed hard, pushing it aside.

This was not his fault. Ard hadn’t killed a single Trothian in Pekal’s harbor. Lyndel claimed that he could have prevented deaths by turning over Shad Agaul, but that was purely conjecture. The tragedy of lost lives was the horrible result of war. A war that Ard had actually stopped. Instead of blaming him for lives he might have saved, Lyndel’s people should have been praising him for preventing more deaths.

Based on where they were digging, Lyndel would probably be able to hear Ard’s voice from the pit. That would give him six days to wear her down. Change her mind.

And if that failed… Well, Raek and Quarrah would know what to do.

How did I manage to surround myself with such loyalty? Loyalty of which I am sorely undeserving.