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CYRELE SLEPT FITFULLY on the deck of the ship, the wood rough against her skin. She’d propped herself next to a cargo chest to keep from rolling onto the mirror, which was securely strapped against her side for the night. Unfortunately, that didn’t stop the fear of accidently damaging it from periodically jolting her awake—the dratted thing had so taken over her life that she couldn’t forget about it even in sleep.
It was an odd feeling, to grow so bitter towards an object she’d once cherished. When she’d first joined the team studying the mirror, it had represented a chance to defy the limitations of her fate. Now the artifact was a chain around her neck, shackling her to Kamene’s destiny rather than letting her have a life of her own. And yet, a part of her still loved it and appreciated all the knowledge she’d gained from it, even after it had become her doom. She supposed it should come as a comfort that her passion for glyphwriting had survived this exile, given it was all she had now.
She’d barely managed to drift off to sleep for the fourth time when the thunderous ring of an alarm bell roused her. It was baffling to hear such a sound on a journey guided by so much of the Maelstrom’s magic, when it should have been impossible for anything to go wrong. Cyrele scrambled onto her feet, only half-believing that this wasn’t a dream.
Shouts suddenly echoed from around the ship. Then fires began coming alight across the fleet of barges as the sailors sought to find the cause of the alarm—but the flames could only do so much against the pervasive darkness. At best, they served as indicators for the other barges’ positions.
A loud crack of wood filled the air, as Cyrele felt her body lurch forward. Flinging her hands out to break her fall, the impact sent a shock of pain coursing up her arms. Then the deck under her hands began tipping to the side, making her head reel with a sudden vertigo, and her body was rolling towards the water—because the barge was capsizing.
The waters engulfed her, sweeping her away in their powerful currents even as she struggled against them. Panic spiked when she realized the heaviness of the mirror was pulling her down towards the bottom—once the key to her freedom, her precious artifact had become the weight that was dragging her under the water’s depths.
But then something scooped her up, much as if someone had cast a fishing net over her. Whatever it was, it swept her out of the water and dumped her against solid earth, where she lay on her back, heaving to catch her breath.
Opening her eyes, she expected to see herself wrapped in whatever netting had rescued her, expected a savior standing over her...but there was nothing and no one. To her left, the storm that ravaged the wasteland loomed as if held back by an invisible barrier, startlingly close, the air crackling with electricity. To her right, distant lights from the other barges flickered dimly against the overwhelming darkness of the night.
Between the howling of the storm and the churning of the river, Cyrele might not have heard other survivors nearby even if they called out to her. She certainly wouldn’t see them. No matter what had happened to the others on her barge, no matter how close or far they were, Cyrele might as well have been completely alone—left gasping along the river’s bank in the darkness, soaked through and stranded in the Maelstrom’s wasteland.
She had no provisions. She had no shelter. She only had her sandals by virtue of the straps tying them to her ankle. Her only hope of survival was to somehow reach one of the other barges...but was that hope false? Something had sunk one of the Maelstrom’s boats and fished her out of the river. There were an extremely limited amount of people in this world with the power to do that—and the Maelstrom himself was foremost among them.
What if he and his family members had decided they didn’t want the Viemian delegation arriving safely after all? What if either Kamene or Cyrele herself were meant to be lost in this wasteland forever?
...except that someone had pulled Cyrele out of the waters rather than letting her drown.
So who had sunk the barge? Who had saved her? Were they the same person?
Then one of the lights in the distance tipped sideways until it disappeared into darkness. The sight seemed so innocuous that it was almost surreal to realize what it must represent—the flames on deck dying out as another ship went down. Cyrele held her breath, watching those lights with more care, counting them to discover how much of the fleet had been affected by the attack.
And then another light went out. And another.
What was happening? This couldn’t be the Maelstrom or his family—they would know exactly which barge to target if they wanted Cyrele or Kamene to disappear. They had no incentive to destroy the rest of their own fleet.
But what else could have destroyed their boats? A monster beneath the surface, strong enough to exist in the Maelstrom’s waters? A genuine miscalculation in the Maelstrom’s enchantments? Or perhaps the mirror had other magical effects that the Order had yet to discover, ones that interfered with the Maelstrom’s enchantments. Assuming the mirror had made it through the shipwreck intact—
—oh, no. What if the artifact had been damaged?
Scrambling for the satchel at her side, Cyrele pulled the mirror out. No scratches on the reflective surface, nothing but a few new impressions in the wax. The relief was almost overwhelming, for who knew how the royals—either set of royals—would have responded if the artifact had come to harm?
But on the heels of that relief came an unexpected bitterness. Because why should her life be so tied to the mirror that she panicked at the prospect that it had been damaged in an accident? Why should she care if any harm befell the mirror? It might have meant something to her once, but these days, the only people who would get any use of the mirror were people like Kamene or the Kavan princes. Not her.
And wasn’t that ironic? Here she possessed the most advanced communication device of her age, at a time when she was stranded and alone, but the artifact might as well have been a rock for all the good it would do her. Because who could she possibly call for help? The Viemian court didn’t possess a barge capable of traversing the wasteland’s river. The Kavan royals were as likely to see this as an opportunity to eliminate her without drawing suspicion as they were to help her, now that she was no longer under their nominal protection.
Or under their direct control, a part of her mind whispered at her. Hadn’t you wished for freedom? No one—not Kamene, not the voices, not the Maelstrom himself—would expect you to survive this. All you have to do is live, and you’ll have freedom like never before.
Living was the issue, of course. She was a scholar with no ability to provide for herself, even when not trapped in a magical wasteland ravaged by storms.
But she could try. Of course, if the royals had the ability to sense any glyphwriting she worked even without the massive power of the mirror behind it, she stood no chance of remaining beneath their notice. But if they only ever sensed her because she’d used the mirror...perhaps she might figure out some way to get by long enough to escape the wasteland.
But that thought was cut short when something swished through the air and hit the ground next to her with a light thud. Cyrele flinched away from the sound, pushing herself off the ground with her tired arms. It was too dark to see what had landed beside her, so she reached a hand to feel for it, brushing up against a thin piece of wood that was...lodged into the ground?
A momentary confusion swept over her, but as her fingers touched the soft tuft of a feather, she realized what this was. An arrow.
Which meant someone was shooting at her in near total darkness—where was she supposed to hide from such danger? She couldn’t see her hand in front of her face! Frozen in place, heart pounding from sudden panic, her fingers shifted along the arrow’s shaft...and she realized there was something wrapped around it. A piece of parchment. A message?
Gingerly, she placed the mirror on the ground and picked up the parchment. Then she grabbed a piece of wreckage that had washed up on shore and used it to trace ‘illuminate’ into the ground, lighting up the specs of dirt that touched the glyph with a soft glow.
Unrolling the parchment with a mix of trepidation and anticipation...she found the words were written in Kavan. Because of course they were written in Kavan—why had she ever expected otherwise? Still, this left her completely ignorant as to her current situation. What was she supposed to make of this currently unreadable message, sent to her through a deadly weapon?
But one thing was clear. She wasn’t alone out here. And whoever else was in this wasteland with her had the uncommon ability to aim an arrow in the dark. She couldn’t imagine any of the sailors or attendants possessing such a skill, let alone using it to communicate with her rather than simply approaching her. Which meant it had to be someone else. Perhaps whoever had sunk her barge and pulled her out of the river.
And whoever it was...they too, wanted something from her. Badly enough to nearly drown her to get it.
#
CYRELE COULDN’T SIMPLY stay here, alone and drenched, with an archer of unknown intentions skulking about the darkness. But she didn’t quite know what else to do. The Maelstrom’s storm raged just beyond the riverbank where she’d landed, while the Rasa River flowed furiously to the other side. The only place she could go was along the river’s edge, either towards Viemis or Lesra Kar. Should she start walking home? Was that a feasible plan?
A faint, indistinct shout cut through the sounds of the wind and water roaring around her, placing Cyrele on alert. She peered into the darkness beyond the glow of her glyphwriting, but to no avail—whoever she’d heard was simply too far for her to see...but not so far that they couldn’t see the light she’d created on shore. She’d certainly signaled her presence, and all she could do was hope that whoever had noticed was a friend rather than a foe.
Then the creaking of wood and the splashing of water filled the air, followed by raised voices and a crash from somewhere nearby. As if the currents had smashed a crate against the shore...or as if the rowers of a small boat hadn’t realized that her light shone from the land and had rowed themselves right into the ground.
“Elei Cyrele?” spoke a familiar voice—Aralath, who strode towards the light with two sailors following behind her, all of them drenched and disheveled. “Are you alright? Do you know where the rest of your barge crashed?”
“I don’t,” Cyrele said, somewhat startled at the coincidence that Aralath, of all the people that had been on the sunken barges, had found her.
The translator’s presence brought with it a sense of reality, a reminder of Cyrele’s place in the world, and all her plans to run off by herself came crashing down. She glanced at the mirror lying by her feet. It seemed her fate was still very much tied to it after all. Crouching to pick it up, she secured it inside her satchel once more, holding in a sigh of wistful disappointment.
Though Aralath’s arrival was in some ways unwelcome, Cyrele couldn’t deny that she needed someone to translate for her. She held out the parchment. “There’s an archer out there. They sent this.”
Aralath took the message, angling it toward the light, as the sailors leaned closer to peer over her shoulders. One appeared to read the words out loud to the other in a shaky voice—and then suddenly the two sailors were arguing with each other.
Aralath gave Cyrele an assessing glance. “Let me translate it for you. It reads, ‘We have taken the Princess Kamene and sealed her inside the vault of the Temple of Lost Hope. If the Karits want to protect their secrets, tell them to retrieve her themselves.’”
Cyrele shook her head. “I don’t understand.”
“I don’t know what the Temple of Lost Hope is either. I’ve heard rumors that the first Maelstrom destroyed a number of ancient temples when he unleashed his storm, but the barrens are forbidden, so whatever structures they hold are a mystery. ‘Karits’ is a title for the Kavan royal family. As for why these abductors want to lure the royal family out here, I wish I could offer some insight. But I know as much as you do.”
Forbidden temples, missing princesses, a dare to the Kavan royals to protect their secrets...it read like a story far beyond the purview of someone like Cyrele. If she wanted to survive, she would do well to stay far away from such grandiose happenings. And yet, something about the notion of undiscovered secrets intrigued her, especially when they suggested that the Kavan royals might actually have a weak spot. It was the first indication she had that they might not be all-powerful after all. But dare she even imagine that she could exploit their weaknesses to her own advantage, assuming she ever discovered what those weaknesses were?
Aralath glanced uneasily at the sailors and their panicked argument. “One of them thinks we should burn the note, sail back to Lesra Kar, and declare the princess lost. Perhaps the Karits will send a search party for the missing, if they feel generous, but anyone who’s so much as heard of a lost temple in the barrens is in danger of execution.”
Aghast, Cyrele stared back at the other woman. “For reading a note?”
“The barrens are forbidden,” Aralath said once more.
What sort of secrets did the wasteland hold, that the Kavan royals would go so far to keep them? The sailors shouldn’t have needed to fear for their lives when they’d done nothing wrong.
Cyrele glanced at the men, still arguing. “And the other sailor? What does he think?”
“He’s heard the rumors about you.” Cyrele couldn’t help stiffening, prompting a knowing smile from Aralath. “He knows the princess summoned you, then dressed to greet royalty. He knows the servants whisper that you must be one of the Viemian glyphwriters—a talking library, indeed.”
Word had spread so fast...and yet, Cyrele didn’t need to hide who she was anymore. “What does he imagine I can do?
“Contact the Karits immediately. Tell them everything so we can beg for mercy.”
“And what do you think?”
Aralath paused for a moment. “I think if the princess is inside the vault, then we are all dead already. If she isn’t—or if the Karits can be convinced that she isn’t—then begging for mercy becomes a viable path.”
Suddenly, with the trembling voices of the sailors serving as a backdrop for this conversation, Cyrele wondered if Aralath wasn’t too calm. Shouldn’t she be panicking along with the sailors? “Why would it matter whether the princess is inside the vault or only inside the temple? And how do you know it matters? You said you’ve never heard of the Temple of Lost Hope.”
“I haven’t heard of it,” she confirmed, speaking slowly as if choosing her words with care, “or at least, not of this temple specifically. But I have heard that the vaults scattered throughout the barrens are where the Karits keep their secrets. Forbidding the entirely of the barrens is simply their way of ensuring no one finds what they truly want to keep hidden.”
According to Aralath’s own explanation of the situation, she shouldn’t know what she’d just said. Cyrele had already guessed she was a spy, but... “Why are you telling me this?”
“Because we’re in a precarious situation. If we make the wrong choices now, we’re dead. And because you’re the only one with the power to make the right choices.”
The only one with power? That notion struck Cyrele as intrinsically wrong. And yet, Aralath had admitted to being powerless in this situation alongside her...which meant she wasn’t a spy for the Maelstrom or Prince Avenah—if her information had come from the Kavan royals, she’d have no fear of them discovering that she’d read the archer’s message. Was she then spying on the royals for someone else?
Cyrele couldn’t admit to her suspicions. Aralath might become very dangerous if she realized that Cyrele suspected her of an affiliation liable to get her executed. “Did the Kavan royals send you here to spy on the princess for them?”
The other woman grinned as if pleased by Cyrele’s deduction, but her eyes contained a hint of relief. “Correct. And I want you to know this: I would make a valuable ally to a glyphwriter who’s come to the attention of the Karits. We servants are expendable to them, so we owe it to ourselves to be loyal to each other.”
“Then tell me why they have such an interest in glyphwriting,” Cyrele prompted. Even if she couldn’t expect Aralath to part with her own secrets, Cyrele wanted to make use of the wealth of information the woman obviously had.
“Certainly. They would withhold this information to use for their own advantage, but I’m happy to share with you and hope you’ll do the same for me. They take such an interest in glyphwriters because the original Order built the vaults for the first Maelstrom.”
That couldn’t have been true. The first Maelstrom had eradicated the original Order. Granted, his reasons were unrelated to the Order’s work...unless they weren’t? What if the first Maelstrom had persecuted the Order to protect the secrets hidden in the vaults, using the affair as an excuse? Had there truly even been an affair?
The first Maelstrom did execute his wife...it would have been a startling display of disloyalty, if he’d used her as a scapegoat for his political actions. But then, Cyrele knew nothing about the Maelstrom’s queen or their marriage. Perhaps she was as expendable to him as...well, as Kamene would become to Prince Avenah.
A sudden suspicion took hold of Cyrele, for Aralath hadn’t only told her why the Kavan royals might have an interest in glyphwriters, but why Aralath herself might have an interest in glyphwriters. To uncover the secrets inside those vaults for her own use. But Cyrele had to take care in how she broached the topic.
“I thought the Kavan royals—your Karits—I thought they had you spying on Princess Kamene, but she’s of limited importance to them, isn’t she? Still, the princess brought with her a Viemian retinue, and Viemis is the home of glyphwriting. The royals had you searching for glyphwriters—for me. That was why you were looking for literate Viemian servants to befriend.”
“Aren’t you clever?” Aralath said, with a laugh. “You’re right, of course. It wouldn’t be unreasonable for the rulers of Viemis to give their daughter a practitioner who could work their most advanced technology and I’d hoped to identify the one among the princess’ company. That audience the princess held in her cabin made the task simple.”
One of the sailors suddenly turned to Cyrele, vehemently telling her...something. She shook her head to indicate she didn’t understand. Then the other sailor began speaking to Aralath in an urgent tone.
“They want you to contact the princes,” Aralath said. “It’s not something we can avoid, in any case. If you have the ability to contact them right now, you wouldn’t be able to justify not doing so.”
Would the tactic of sending the mirror’s magic in their direction even work? They weren’t expecting her to reach out to them, not this time. What if they simply...didn’t notice?
“I can’t promise they’ll answer me,” Cyrele said.
“No one can promise the Karits will do anything,” Aralath replied, blithely. “You still need to make the attempt.”
...and thereby reveal the artifact for what was, in front of Aralath and her two sailor companions. But Aralath was right. Unless she could fake losing the mirror, then ensure she actually did lose it before the royals realized she’d lied, she had no choice. Which wasn’t a terrible idea, actually—if there was a time to believably lose the artifact, it would be during a shipwreck.
But the thought of abandoning such a powerful artifact somewhere in the wasteland, one she’d spent so much time researching, one that had returned some of the capabilities of the old Order to the world...even after all it had put her through, she couldn’t do it. She hated that mirror, she loved it, she couldn’t be rid of it.
And if she couldn’t bear to part with it, then she had to use it. She had to bring the matter of the attack on Kamene’s retinue before the princes...and see what became of them for it.