Airlean Tales S2E18: Atlantis (1)

Morning greeted Sethis with an unapologetic blaze of daylight, slats of warmth falling over his face. He rose swiftly, the rampant light filling him with energy in a way that nothing other than ambient light mana could—or perhaps it was the mission burning like a fire in his chest.

Curses. Purgation. Excalibur. He would tear apart this web of secrets and lies before it strangled them all. And if the senators refused to say anything more, then he would find his answers elsewhere.

Two days had passed since the feast, during which many a noble nursed a strong headache from the abundance of drink. Today, a Warmonger envoy was to show the Airlean delegation around the city and its famed landmarks and finer pleasures. Though the start of the journey had certainly been marred by distrust and violence, the Warmongers were clearly doing their part to make amends with hospitality.

But their generosity did not translate to answers. Any of Sethis’s subtle attempts at uncovering information were met with tight lips and silence, or simply confusion. Nor could he march right to Xiph and demand her secrets—she’d realize then that he’d been speaking with Rathos, and the idea of him conspiring with another senator would only shatter the fragile beginnings of trust between them.

Yet again, I am caught between two grand forces, dancing in the space between like a fool of a puppet.

As quickly as the resentful thought surfaced, he pushed it away. Now was not the time to be selfish. It never was.

When Sethis stepped outside his bedchamber as he buttoned up his jacket and cloak, he saw his guard today was Halcyon Yuden, who was lurking most ominously before the refractive surface of the water window. He probably wasn’t trying to lurk; it just sort of happened when one was tall, dark, and lethal with a martial weapon. Or perhaps he was trying to lurk, in which case his technique proved most effective.

“Lord Yuden,” Sethis said. “It’s a quiet morning.”

“No doubt it’ll be bustling before long. Xiph will want to show the prosperous side of Atlantis.”

Sethis’s hand faltered where it was fastening his cloak. “What of the less prosperous side?”

“Hm?”

“Do you know of any reason the senators may be seeking Excalibur, Lord Yuden?”

Halcyon was silent. His eyes were utterly veiled, impossible to read.

Sethis sighed as he turned away. “I take it your oath binds your tongue.” Of course fate would see to stripping them of any meager advantage. “Then can I ask this much: would the Library of Ancients serve any useful answers?”

“The Library answers any question to a certain extent,” Halcyon finally said. “But the sensitivity of that information is up to the Keeper’s prerogative.”

“Leave that much to me. When will we be introduced to this Keeper?”

“I expect no later than tomorrow. The Library is one of the greatest landmarks. Xiph will be eager to show it off.”

The memory of King Asher’s voice rose in Sethis’s mind: Within their grand library, there is a Keeper born with the gift of futuresight. Take it from me, boy. Do not look into your own fate.

Sethis grimaced. Had he his way, he would keep his distance from the Keeper entirely; approaching them felt only like tempting fate. But he had not been left with much of a choice. He would make his way to the Library and the Keeper to uncover what secrets he could, and on his own head be the consequences.

Now fully dressed, Sethis cracked open the water window, looking out into the bright, glittering city below. Xiph had wished for Halcyon to have a moment of freedom and privacy, no doubt to come to terms with both his homecoming and his family’s fate. But Sethis knew he would have to approach such an offer with great care; Halcyon was practical, but he also held the insurmountable pride of a warrior. He would not accept the opportunity to split from the group for something as mundane as catharsis and emotional respite.

“So, most of this week will be spent showing us around the splendors of the city?” Sethis said.

Halcyon nodded. “Most likely, yes.”

Ease him in, bit by bit… “Within your experience, what does that include?”

Halcyon pondered. “Expect a visit to landmarks in Polis, like the Kardeia and the Library. Maybe a sparring tournament—not an honor match, just something fun for sport. Warmongers like that kind of thing. Ah, the Florenhost is due soon, if I’m not mistaken, so maybe they’ll show you a mistlore as part of the festival.”

“Ah,” Sethis said, as if he understood, which he did not. But all the better. It made the smile that spread across his face that much more genuine. “You’re quite knowledgable, Lord Halcyon, and it gives me a thought. During today’s tour, would you be opposed to scouting ahead, rather than accompanying the rest of the delegation?”

He knew he had misstepped when Halcyon’s brow immediately twitched. The Hunter gave a look that could only be described as cold, and when he spoke, his voice was equally wintry.

“Do you doubt I can keep up, Highness?” he said.

Sethis thought he had been quite subtle.

“Don’t,” Halcyon continued. “It’s not like I’m bent over with grief.”

Well, this was off to a good start. The Royal Hunters despised showing any vulnerability, and Halcyon was more perceptive than most. Sethis reached for the quickest explanation available to him, knowing that every moment of hesitation would only darken Halcyon’s mood.

“You have a familiarity with this land and its people that cannot be understated, as you have just demonstrated,” Sethis said firmly. “I have read passing descriptions of mistlore and the Florenhost festival in the course of my research, yes, but I could not hope to acquire the same knowledge that you possess so readily. It would be a waste of your time to be shackled to a delegation when you could provide far keener insights.”

The knot in Halcyon’s shoulders loosened. He took a moment to consider. “Xiph won’t be happy to have me freely skipping around.”

“Actually, she—” Sethis immediately cut himself off. Damn him. He’d fallen right into that trap.

Halcyon’s mouth quirked. “She’s the one who asked you,” he finished. “To be nice to me.”

It seemed the First Hunter was far craftier than his unassuming behavior might imply. Or perhaps Sethis truly was out of practice in the art of communication, having spent far too much time in combat and far too little in high society.

Sethis finally decided to forego any illusion of subterfuge. “Yes, she requested that you might be absolved of responsibilities for your personal benefit,” he admitted. “But I do not lie when I say it could also be made for the benefit of the delegation, Lord Yuden. As you have witnessed, we are out of our depth in Atlantis, constantly at disadvantage. They seem to know more about us than we could possibly know about them.”

“It’s intentional,” said Halcyon. “They keep it that way.”

“As they have every right,” said Sethis, “to protect their nation’s secrets. Still, we are in dire need of knowledge. Would you do this for me?”

Had not Sethis been looking for it, he would have missed it. But he had noticed a certain dynamic between the First and Second Hunter, and sure enough, he saw Halcyon’s eyes dart out the window to where Karis lingered in the plaza—for just a blink before they swiftly returned to the prince.

Sethis stifled a smile. Between Karis’s possessiveness of Halcyon, and Halcyon’s tendency to loom around Karis like a second shadow, it was a wonder that they were not already courting. Had they broached the topic and decided against it? They must have. If they were keen enough to dismantle the workings of a beast at a glance, surely they could not miss each other’s feelings, which were infinitely more obvious.

“Admittedly,” Sethis said, “I would prefer to never send any soldier on a mission alone. We must think of a suitable part—ally who will, ah, be…effective.”

He counted for two seconds while trying to look thoughtful, then snapped his fingers.

“Ah, Karis! I know she claims that she is ‘doing just fine,’ but she’s been quiet since the feast—for good reason. The opportunity to explore freely may lift her spirits, certainly more than being confined to perfunctory sightseeing. And she is skilled enough to not prove a burden in any way.”

He felt Halcyon’s gaze burn into him, and was quite certain that the First Hunter did not buy the ruse. But Halcyon did not protest. Possibly because he too wanted the opportunity to bring Karis around his home city on a—purely platonic—outing.

“And who will guard you, Your Highness?” Halcyon said.

This answer was easier for Sethis to provide. “I will be surrounded by countless soldiers in broad daylight on a structured activity,” he said readily, “and Senator Xiph seems aptly motivated to keep me alive. So long as you return before nightfall, I doubt I will come to harm.”

Halcyon considered this for a moment. “Alright,” he said. “But make sure to bring Azalea Fairwen with your party, if you can. Her, at least, we can trust.”

“Very well.”

Ever the pragmatist, Halcyon promptly turned for the door. But then, most uncharacteristically, he hesitated.

“Thank you,” he said, so quietly that Sethis almost missed it.

Sethis had no time to respond. The door cracked open and the First Hunter of Airlea was gone.

Karis took a few moments to convince. Which was to say that she took some time, but not very long at all. Reassured by Azalea’s presence around the prince, and no less eager to explore on her own terms, she promptly departed her post and followed Halcyon into the heart of the city.

Well, Halcyon supposed there was a reason they were Hunters, not bodyguards. Sticking to one spot was not their strong suit.

His blood hummed eagerly as he stepped over the familiar tiled paths of his homeland with the ever-present flutter of silk in his periphery. Asters, it was juvenile. This impression that they were…on some romantic outing, which was certainly not the case.

Focus, he told himself sternly. Look for clues. Gather intel. See what’s changed since you’ve been gone. So had the crown prince of Airlea charged him.

Of course, the crown prince of Airlea had given him that charge with quite a mischievous look in his eye…

Karis’s soft gasp shook Halcyon from his thoughts, and he immediately stopped. They’d crossed the border from the Warmonger Dominion into Polis, stepping through a broad plaza sectioned in tangent circles. The flooring was in two layers—a sheet of protective glass set over marbled opalite that caught the light with beautiful, luminescent flecks. Walking on it gave the impression of walking on the ocean.

“This is the Sundial Plaza,” Halcyon explained, gesturing to an angular structure at the plaza’s center. “You won’t see much happening now, but by midday, it’ll be full of people.”

Karis peered curiously around. “Named for its function as a giant sundial, I take it?”

“Probably.”

“What time is it?”

Halcyon shrugged. “Don’t know. I’ve never read a sundial.”

She laughed at that, a lovely sound that made him smile like a nitwit.

Buoyed by her open curiosity, Halcyon led her to the shops next—a beautiful, expansive colonnade, each room tidily populated with goods and wares by well-dressed merchants, vastly different from the cramped and lively alleys of wheeled stalls in the Airlean night market.

“The Marketway,” he introduced, watching Karis’s face closely. “The venue of choice for anyone wishing to procure goods.”

Karis regarded the impressive promenade with clear interest—not like the wide, glittering gaze of Azalea Fairwen, but a quiet and measured smile of approval. “It seems quite…pretentious for daily wares,” she said.

“It is. But most of Atlantis is pretentious.”

Her smile broadened. “I’m reminded of the boardwalk markets in Airlea. Do you remember those, Hal?”

“The ones in Havenport?”

“Right on the harbor, yes. They were livelier before the Great Storm. All the trade swarming the pier.” She smiled, her voice lulling and soft. “After my father received his stipend, he would take me and my mother to the boardwalk. Every time, he would ask us, ‘What do you want? Just say the word.’ He was a quiet man, but he always smiled at that moment. He was proud, I think, of being able to provide and get his family something they loved.”

As she spoke, Halcyon could see the little scene that her words painted: a lovely woman, a stoic man, and their young daughter, dressed in their weekend best and strolling hand-in-hand down the quaint avenue. They were the picture of a perfect family: graceful, loving, happy.

“What was your mother’s reply?” he asked.

Karis’s lips turned up into a smile, distant and gentle. “Oh, how she would laugh. The sound of it was so bright and tinkly, Hal, like bells.” Karis’s was, too. She probably didn’t know. “She would wrap her arm around my father’s, beam at him, and say, ‘To spend this moment with you is more than enough, dearest.’”

She was only quoting her mother, but the words still made his pulse skip. “That’s…nice of her to say.”

“Oh, she meant every word. She and my father were so in love.” Karis turned to him with a glint of mischief in her eye. “In fact, the entire reason she was cut off from the nobility was my father.”

“He kidnapped her?”

“The other way around, I should think.” Karis leaned in for a conspiratorial whisper. “House Sylvester was attacked by a large band of thieves. My father, a newly appointed Hunter, swooped in like a knight in shining armor and saved my mother’s life. Apparently, she asked him to marry her on the spot.”

The grand nature of the tale was entertaining, but even more engrossing was the childlike light in her eyes. “And he said yes?” Halcyon said, smiling helplessly.

“Oh, no,” Karis said. “He ran away.”

Halcyon felt a certain kinship with her father.

“So then my mother—picture this, a proper young lady, sought after by all kinds of noble suitors—marched right into the Hunter’s Guild and demanded to see my father. And he marched out to meet her, as if in battle, all grim-faced and straight shoulders.”

Yes, a strong kinship indeed.

“My mother had been planning to propose to him again, with the offer of a rather generous dowry at that, but she stopped when she saw his expression. She thought that he found her odious.” Halcyon thought this was rather unlikely. “So, suddenly timid, she curtsied, mumbled a thank you, and walked out the door.”

“And he chased her.”

Karis clapped her hands together. “He did! He followed her out of the guild and stopped her, asking her what she wanted. And, well, you’ve met my mother. Honest as you please, she said, ‘Well, I wanted to ask you to marry me and save me from a rather terrible arrangement with Lord Bracklebrook, but that’s a lot to ask from someone who’s already saved my life once.’”

Halcyon chuckled. “But he agreed?”

“No, he didn’t. My father returned to the guild, and my mother returned to the Sylvester estate, dejected and forlorn.” Karis huffed. “My father said he’d also fallen in love with my mother at first sight, but how could that be? Surely he wouldn’t have let her go after she’d already gone through the effort of proposing to him.”

Actually, Halcyon could easily imagine the intentions of Karis’s father, although he’d never met the man in person. Vale Caelute was the westernized version of a Yueraian name, probably something like Shilun Heiyul. As both a commoner and a foreigner, he likely felt he couldn’t adequately care for a lovely, genteel woman like Clara Sylvester, no matter how appealing her spirit was. He likely felt too rough, too broken to deserve her.

Not that Halcyon knew what that felt like.

“So, my mother resolved to put the handsome Hunter out of her mind, and walk obediently into the marriage with the odious Lord Bracklebrook,” Karis continued. “Until this one night—oh, I think this sounds interesting. The Aquaponic Gardens?”

Halcyon had grown quite invested in the tale of this Yueraian Hunter and a beautiful, unattainable noblewoman, for no reason in particular. “Don’t tell me you’re stopping the story there,” he said.

Karis turned to him, and whatever she saw on his face made her lips bloom into a terrible, beautiful smile. “Something to look forward to.”

“Karis.”

She nudged his shoulder with a playfulness he had never seen from her, and it was addicting. “Come now, Lord Envoy. I eagerly await the rest of the tour.”

He relented, mostly because it was too difficult to deny her anything when she was so smiley.

There were several aquaponic gardens throughout Atlantis, but the Polis garden had always thrived with its close proximity to the Marketway. Opening the gates revealed massive tiered ponds teeming with vegetation, stacked like a staircase that climbed skyward. Rich cerulean water glimmered on each level, beaded with rice sprouts, spinach, cucumbers, herbs. A few odd glass terrariums were hanging about the garden, isolating various plants in unique biomes—tundra, hot and arid, wet jungle.

Spices, Halcyon explained. There wasn’t enough space in the terrariums for growing staple crops, but they were more than adequate for coveted spices, like the common pepper and onion, or the exotic griffinbell and King’s Thyme. It was a necessity to keep the population satisfied with their unchanging cuisine of seafood.

“It is astoundingly beautiful,” Karis said, taking in the whimsy of the waterfall-like ponds and the bubbled glass terrariums. “And well-run, besides. I see not an inch of wasted space.”

Halcyon nodded. “Atlantis doesn’t have bountiful soil like Airlea. It needs to be very efficient with how it grows things.”

“Hence rice?”

“Hence rice,” he echoed. “Filling, fast to grow, semiaquatic.”

A small smile pulled at her lips, and she regarded him quietly for a moment.

“What is it?” Halcyon said.

“You love Atlantis still, don’t you? I can see your pride in her.”

The simple words struck him like a nail in the chest. Atlantis, the place that shunned him and scorned him, the place that named him a fugitive and tried to kill him? He would be a fool to think such a place beautiful, to share pride in the tenacity of its people.

“It’s alright,” said Karis, studying his expression. “It’s a land worth being proud of.”

Her approval should not have mattered at all, but it did. The words from her mouth had always landed deeper than Halcyon liked to admit.

Perhaps he had always been a fool anyway.

When they departed the Aquaponic Gardens, they faced a quaint music shop displaying beautiful lyres with shimmering strings and decorated bodies—a small building set apart from the bustle of the Marketway. Karis stopped short, her eyes scouring the lyres’ lovely forms.

“Go on,” Halcyon said, nudging her. “Take a look.”

She smiled at him with a warmth that stirred his pulse, then slipped inside.

The room was cramped, to put it generously. Lyres, lutes, and various traditional flutes were piled haphazardly on the walls, the shelves, the tables, some squat and some round and some whimsical. It reminded Karis of the old antique shops crammed to the chimneys with books and furniture and toys and other such knickknacks. But one instrument stood apart from the rest—a lyre, encased in a roomy glass globe in the center of the room, handsome with an ivory body, gold strings, and painted filigree curled around the rim.

Karis immediately gravitated to the lyre on display, her eyes tracing its form with a familiarity and eagerness that could only be found in an experienced musician. The shopkeeper, a swarthy man with a broad grin and a gap tooth, stepped out from behind the counter.

“A good pair of eyes on you, lass,” he said cheerfully. “The Lament caught your attention, has she? Beautifully made, rare pearlpine wood with a seascale varnish. You get a full and rounded tone, but still with clarity on the high register.”

Halcyon glanced at Karis to study her reaction, but she only returned his gaze. “What is he saying?” she asked.

It took Halcyon a moment to realize that the shopkeeper had spoken in Atlantean.

“Oh,” he said. He paused, attempting to assemble the verbiage in his brain, then relayed the shopkeeper’s market call as faithfully as he could. Karis hummed appreciatively and studied the lyre with renewed fervor.

“I don’t suppose there’s any use to asking the price,” she murmured. “It is quite obviously treated as an art piece.”

“Forty gildings?” Halcyon guessed.

“Try for four hundred.”

The shopkeeper, who was eying them rather keenly, suddenly spoke.

“He’s asking if you’d like to try playing it,” Halcyon told Karis.

Karis bit her lip. “Oh, I couldn’t.” She turned to the door. “We should go, Hal, or I may very well make an exorbitant purchase.”

The shopkeeper quickly launched into a dramatic soliloquy, and Halcyon struggled to stifle a smile.

“He says it’s a pity,” he said. “That he wishes…uh, never mind.”

Karis’s eyes narrowed. “Tell me.”

“He wishes he had just one customer who knew their way around an instrument.”

Karis’s demeanor changed immediately. The straightening of her spine. The minute clench of her jaw and twitch of her brow. The shopkeeper had apparently struck a nerve.

Her one weakness, Halcyon thought with veiled amusement as Karis marched back to the lyre. The desire to prove herself.

Karis gently removed the lyre from its stand. Her fingers barely tapped the strings as she carefully tuned. Then, after a breath of silence, the plucking began, soft but sure, a sweet and rounded sound from her fingertips.

She opened her mouth and sang.

Halcyon had heard Karis sing once before, to a dying man in the guild infirmary. She sat by his bedside as his body jerked in the throes of death, and sang the gentle stanzas of an old Airlean lullaby. Gentle as the wind. Mournful as bells. Beautiful as death. Halcyon would never forget her haunting, enthralling voice for the rest of his life.

Down by the valley, she murmured, down by the graves. Down where the lilybells hide all the knaves. Down where the bones are strung up to dry, where wives wail to widows and fiddlers cry; yes I, await you down by the valley. I await you down by the graves.

She strummed the last chord, and the final strains of her voice faded in a melancholic echo. Halcyon stood utterly still. He did not even want to clap and risk breaking the hallowed silence that had settled over the shop.

It wasn’t until Karis’s plucking hand left the strings that the shopkeeper clapped, a broad grin spread over his wrinkled features. He spoke in rapid Atlantean. Heat crawled into Halcyon’s face, and he replied. The shopkeeper laughed.

“What are you saying?” Karis asked with a puzzled frown.

“Shopkeep said that you play very well. Prettiest thing he’s heard in a while. He told me to buy you the lyre, I said I’d consider it with a discount.” All true. Though Halcyon conveniently omitted the direct translation: Oh, just buy her the lyre, you smitten boy! Then you’ll get to fall in love again every morning.

Karis immediately returned the lyre to its stand. “I didn’t mean to impose.”

“Your discount,” said the sly shopkeeper, “will be the payoff in your marriage. Music makes a household happy. Trust me on that one.”

“We’re not married,” Halcyon said, stumbling slightly.

“Move slowly, do you, lover boy? The lyre can help with that too.”

“What’s he saying?” Karis said.

“He really wants me to buy the lyre,” Halcyon replied evasively.

She huffed. “Nonsense. If I wanted it so terribly, I’d just buy it myself. Not that I would have much use for such a costly lyre.”

And despite every bit of common sense rallying against him, Halcyon turned to the shopkeeper and asked for the price. When he heard the number, he was surprised.

“He said that he’ll make it 165,000 rosachmae. For such a pretty lady.”

Karis’s brow furrowed. “That would be…forty-eight gildings. On the steep end, but not unreasonable.”

“I could contribute.”

“Why? Do you play the lyre?”

His tongue froze in his mouth, and Karis’s face suddenly melted in a smile. She nudged him teasingly with her elbow.

“I’m only jesting, Hal. Please, this is my purchase and my souvenir.”

The shopkeeper seemed much less enthusiastic about this idea, but a merchant was a merchant. Moments later, Karis left the shop with lyre in hand. She traced its engraved edges lovingly, releasing a sigh.

“A wonderful find to bring back,” she said wistfully. “It’s got a very unique timbre.”

“It sounds beautiful when you play it,” Halcyon admitted.

Karis stopped, then cleared her throat delicately. “The sign of a well-made instrument.”

“Your voice is beautiful too.”

She fully stopped at that. Halcyon wanted to keep walking, to flee—but he forced himself to look her right in the eye, bearing with the painful hum of his elevated pulse. He hoped the words had an impact. He meant each one.

Karis’s gaze darted quickly over his face, as if she was looking for mockery. Then she turned, a tinge of color blooming in her cheeks.

“Thank you,” she murmured. “I suppose I’ve been putting in adequate practice, then.”

“I don’t hear you sing very often.”

“Well, I can hardly sit around the town squares, singing of doom and gloom and impending death.”

“Why not?”

“People wish for happier times. Happier songs.”

Halcyon could not refute this. The general populace often had poor taste.

“It’d be welcome here in Atlantis,” he said. At her curious look, he hurried to explain. “The Mismeria is an Atlantean festival of the arts. A name derived from the word mesmerize, but some think…”

“That it references misery,” Karis finished with a smile.

“Well, having a day entirely for tortured artists and poets will do that. There are dramatic sonnets and sad dirges to be heard on every corner of the street. I’m sure the people would be delighted to hear you on such a day.”

She blushed deeper, a look that he would love to see more often. “I don’t perform for just anyone, Hal. Though I appreciate the offer.”

Don’t perform for just—what did she say?

Halcyon’s thoughts, and concerningly, his pulse, ground to a halt for a solid second before they both exploded into a rapid sprint. She must be delirious, he thought bemusedly. Or bewitched. Or enthralled in some other way. Her behavior today had been so strange. The playful jesting, the small touches, the little looks she kept casting in his direction—he could almost construe the behavior as…flirty.

Not that it was unwelcome in any way. He…liked to see her so free. It was infectious. A welcome change from the hollowness in her eyes after the duel.

Halcyon swallowed, trying to keep his expression composed. “That festival is in the winter anyway,” he said hoarsely. “So it wouldn’t…I mean, for a few months…”

Curses. A lifetime spent in deceptions at the tables of Mythaven’s underground, and still he was a tongue-tied idiot in front of Karis. He chose to pivot entirely, scraping together what little of his dignity remained.

“We should reach the Leventis dominion before it gets too late,” he said smoothly. Never mind that the suggestion itself was inane. Too late for what, the nonexistent curfew? The open hours of an ashy tomb?

Thankfully, if Karis had noticed such leaps in logic, she chose to keep them to herself. She nodded with professional poise and slung the lyre over her shoulder.

“Lead on, then,” she said. Something in her eyes warmed, a look that stirred him again. “I will follow.”

Halcyon coughed lightly to clear his throat and quickly strode past her.

Xiphia Kairhea Vascea was not, in any way, shape, or form, delicate.

Simon Kourios’s judgment of her character had not been generous so much as it had just been plain wrong. Even now, seated next to Sethis in a gondola that gently bobbed down the thin, dappled river-roads of Atlantis, Xiph’s sharp tongue was incorrigible, supplying a litany of sardonic additions to the narration of their guide.

“Behold!” the guide called. “The Apokalion, Senate of the Ancients, standing for a thousand generations, and to stand for ten thousand more!”

“Behold,” Xiph murmured to Sethis, leaning over so only he could hear, “the byproducts of slavery and extortion.”

He’d nearly choked the first time she’d supplied such gibes, torn between the desire to be amused and appreciative of her honesty, and appalled at her irreverence.

“You’ll notice the intricate detail in the columns and pediment,” the guide said, gesturing to the marvelous structures that sprouted around them. “The embellished leafing and scrollwork, the fabric detailing, entire scenic reliefs of a favorite legend.”

“Enjoy it while you can,” Xiph whispered. “We can’t build anything like this anymore, because we pay workers fair wages now.”

Now Sethis did chuckle, though a pang lanced through his chest. Myths knew that the royal palace of Airlea possessed its own share of tainted history. Every wonder built by human hands did.

The gondola continued its course, swaying calmly down the water to the heart of the citadel. Hardly a speedy mode of transportation—and from the looks of the lively tiled roads, one that Atlanteans did not bother to indulge in. Still, the rest of the delegation seemed to be enjoying themselves. Azalea Fairwen was craning her neck this way and that, eyes as wide as saucers, as if she could consume everything through her blown irises. Wesley Geppett was equally enraptured, though genteel breeding had tamed his behavior to quick nods and rapid sketches in his journal. Even Violet Forsythe, difficult to read beyond her shrewd features, seemed entranced with the perfect geometry of the runic veins running down the streets and up the walls. History and magic were embedded in every inch.

Another press of the oar, and their gondola surged around the corner. “At last, the crown jewel of our nation, the center of Atlantis,” said the guide reverently. “I present to you the Kardeia ulta Tempeos.”

The sea of buildings briefly broke apart, affording a beautiful, open view of the most stunning structure Sethis had seen. Canted slightly, as if tilted from the weight of its burden, a classical tower vaulted skyward, the glory of its embellished columns none diminished by its apparent age. But most notable was the enormous crystal sitting at its apex—a jagged, vibrant, glacier-like stone coursing with ancient mana, crystalline roots jutting out of its base and twining deep into the tower’s architecture like an overgrown parasite.

One look, and Sethis knew: this crystal was the reason for Atlantis’s survival.

“She is what tirelessly keeps the ocean at bay,” the guide continued. “Her resonance with the sea commands obedience, keeps the waves from sweeping forth and crushing our home. This is why you see the ocean falls starkly around all of Atlantis, as if held back by an invisible wall.”

Across the boat, Azalea drew her knees to her chest, looking unsettled. At Sethis’s questioning glance, she smiled weakly and shook her head.

Ah. With her sensitivity to mana, the aura of power exuded by the Kardeia was probably overwhelming. What was a vague stirring in Sethis’s manawell likely resembled a chaotic nexus to her.

“A beautiful sight,” hummed Violet Forsythe, looking up to the crystal with a faint smile. “Where did the Kardeia come from?”

“Well,” said the guide, “legends say that long ago, in the Golden Age, the hammer of the Forger struck the mountains—”

“It’s the body of a Leviathan,” Xiph interrupted, flat and unimpressed. “The corpse of an ancient sea-dwelling beast, shell disintegrated. Its body calcified into…whatever that is.”

“A corpse?” echoed Violet, doe eyes wide. “It looks alive.”

“It is alive, and it eats particularly naughty children.” Xiph grinned toothily.

Violet’s features pinched in clear dislike of Xiph, and she turned away.

The guide fumbled for a moment, thrown off course by his own senator. He found his words as the gondola pulled in to dock. “Yes, you see—the Kardeia is not so much a wellspring of mana like the oceanic Trenches, so much as a high-capacity conduit—and serves as the citadel’s primary light source besides, containing a teeming biome of bioluminescents that reflects the hours of the sun…”

He led the delegation on land and closer to the canted tower, continuing his spirited exposition of its history, its features, its profound impact on Atlantean culture. Perhaps Sethis would have followed closely, if not for the Atlantean warrior who suddenly emerged, tugging Xiph off the path and speaking in hushed whispers.

Senses prickling, Sethis trailed behind the group—gaze ahead, fixed on the guide, but always just within earshot of Xiph.

His mother had held a great love of other cultures. She’d shared Micah’s voracious thirst for knowledge—only instead of prying it from books, she preferred to coax it from people, willing to share, eager to learn. And she’d bequeathed that same love of culture onto Sethis, guiding him in the vastly different and beautiful ways of others, teaching him a smattering of every language.

Yueraian was his weakest, but Atlantean, with its many shared roots and grammatical structure to both Common and Airlean, proved his strongest. And though there were many holes in his vocabulary, he was able to extrapolate most of the meaning through context.

“Senator,” the warrior whispered hurriedly, “there’s trouble to be found.”

“When is there not?” Xiph replied wryly.

“We’ve detected movement from the Harvester’s Dominion.”

“Rathos?” She sounded surprised. “It shouldn’t be his time.”

“I fear so, senator.”

“And Irene? How’s the old hag responded?”

“Nothing, senator.”

“Leaving it to us, then. Gods know Daryn and Lukey won’t lift a finger.” Her grin turned sharp and feral. “Lazy wretches, the both of them.”

“Shall we”—another foreign word, which Sethis took to mean dispatch—“the Tidebreakers, senator? Or perhaps the Initiate?”

“Tae’s not ready,” Xiph said. “Send the Tidebreakers. But not all of them, because”—and something important lost in translation. She straightened, casting an eye over the Airlean delegation before she turned back to the guard. “No need to incite panic.”

Sethis kept his gaze straight ahead, no matter how his spine prickled. That did not sound good at all.

The warrior ducked away, and Xiph jogged forward, disappearing into the crowd that congregated at the base of the tower. Sethis exhaled and stretched his fingers, nerves beading sweat on his palms.

“Should we be worried?”

Sethis jolted at the sudden murmur by his ear. Wesley Geppett was standing beside him, eyes fixed on the tower, hand rapidly flying over his open journal in a quick pencil sketch—as if he were just an artist taking in the view, not a delegate embroiled in a clandestine conversation.

Sethis clasped his hands behind his back and closed his eyes, as if he was simply a traveler taking in the clear air and the sound of running water. “How do you mean?”

“That guard wanted Senator Vascea to dispatch the Tidebreakers to the Harvester’s Dominion,” Wes said lowly. “Something about suspicious movements from Senator Vathalos.”

Sethis’s brow twitched. “You know Atlantean?”

“Every noble selects one foreign language for their studies,” Wes said. “Atlantean is the one of choice for ingeniators as the origin language of magitech.”

“That is quite the boon. Did you happen to catch who she is dispatching, and why?”

“Third Pod only. Captain Mathias Galeus’s unit. I have a feeling that they’re a special force, maybe like our Hunters.”

Sethis’s eyes slid to Xiph, who was laughing airily among the nobles as if she hadn’t a care in the world.

“Senator Xiph did not disclose this to us,” he mused.

“Yes.”

Every time Sethis trusted her one mote, he was reminded why it was a terrible idea. He held back an aggrieved sigh. The lull of the afternoon had lured him into complacency, and he could only be thankful that he had been rattled from it sooner rather than later. For he was reminded that every moment spent unawares was another moment closer to disaster.

Wes’s pencil slowed over the page. His book snapped shut as he turned to regard Sethis with a piercing stare.

“Your Highness, do you think I’m an idiot?” he said plainly.

Sethis nearly flinched. He glanced around for any prying eyes, but everyone else seemed thoroughly occupied with the captivating Kardeia.

“I would never, Lord Wesley,” he said quietly. “You’re one of the few friends I can trust.”

Wes’s face softened at this, but his gaze did not falter. “Trust. That’s a funny word when you and the Hunters are always stealing away for secret audiences. When you’re escorted by the Warmongers to an unknown location for a whole day and return with nothing to say about it. When a duel’s been called and blood has been spilled and no one else seems to care.” His brow furrowed, and Sethis could see how years of facing the Storm had taken their toll on him. “Azalea and I are young, Your Highness, but we’re not blind. What in the hells is going on with this country?”

Sethis felt his pulse jump. A sickening feeling overtook him—the feeling that he had failed. “I did not mean to concern you.”

“It’s our duty to be concerned. We’re here to help you, Highness.”

“It’s not your duty,” Sethis said emphatically. “You’re the youth of my nation. If I cannot protect even you, then I have failed in every way.”

Wes’s brow twitched. “The Storm’s already taken our youth, Highness. I wouldn’t worry about it.”

No—no, this was wrong. Azalea and Wes had been so blissful and enchanted, both with each other and the marvelous new sights around them. Watching them eagerly absorb the culture of Atlantis had been like watching a starry-eyed couple on their honeymoon. To destroy that felt abominable. How could Sethis drag them into this political mire, this game of pawns with no victory and no end? Wes might have felt like an old soul, but that didn’t make it true. He still had countless years of promise ahead of him, and that promise was worth protecting.

Sethis closed his eyes, heavy-hearted. “Should the situation require it, I will tell you everything. But I yet hope, Lord Wesley, that it will stabilize and the delegation shall have nothing to fear. Please, be at ease.”

He did not expect true, clear anger to flash over the face of the young scion—then it was swallowed by a mask of calm. “As you command, Your Highness.”

Wes turned stiffly and joined with the rest of the delegation. Sethis only kneaded at his temples, wondering how he managed to worsen the situation with every word.

The Leventis Dominion was in ruins.

Karis silently watched as Halcyon stepped over desolate, scorched bedrock, boots crunching on silt and sediment. She could make out the vague remains of what was once an impressive estate: gouged but broad foundations, toppled columns the size of ancient oaks, shattered statues and old shredded banners.

With not even the sound of the wind, the grounds were deathly silent.

Karis’s fingers reached out and traced a blackened streak over the nearest column. “Fire?” she said.

“And lightning,” said Halcyon. “Not every Leventis had an affinity for water.”

His steps slowed as he approached a large, smooth headstone set at the entrance of a large foundation that would have made the great hall. He knelt before it, and his fingers traced the engraved letters, trembling ever so slightly.

“Here lies Peleus Leventis,” he breathed, “the last Arbiter of Atlantis. Buried with him is the veil of the ocean-depths, forever and ever. With him lies also his children: Hyleus Leventis. Euthalia Leventis. Kaiphas Leventis…”

His voice weakened until it faded entirely. The list of names ran on to the edges of the gravestone, lines upon lines that said more than the engraved characters themselves conveyed.

Karis stared at the headstone, the final legacy of something once so grand and prosperous. So many dead. An entire house of peerless warriors, gone. What could have possibly evoked such a massacre? Would they truly have turned on each other all the way to annihilation? Not that she could ask such questions—not with Halcyon’s grief so evident and near.

Halcyon found his voice again as his shaking hand reached the date engraved on the memorial. “It’s been a decade,” he said hoarsely. “No one’s dared to lay a finger on this place.”

“Out of respect?”

“Fear.” He looked around at the desolation and didn’t elaborate further, and Karis did not push. She could sense he was already struggling to tell her what little he could. Vulnerability did not come easily to either of the first two Hunters.

“Do you have…memories here?” she tried as Halcyon’s hand moved, tracing the rough debris and gravel under his feet.

“Not many,” he replied. “And none of them fond.” He let the particles filter through his fingers like grains of an hourglass. They dashed over the scarred ground below. “We were raised more like cattle than people. No, maybe prized racehorses—bred and trained to fight, and if we performed well, we were treated well.”

“From the sounds of it, you performed well.”

“Maybe.”

“The best of your…siblings.”

He laughed, the edge of it raw. “Maybe in the eyes of the Elect.”

“But you were still not treated well,” Karis said, puzzled.

He shook his head. “The opposite. I was favored.” He stood. “Which made most of my siblings despise me.”

Again, Halcyon fell silent, and again, Karis did not push. Instead, she gingerly reached out and laid her hand on his shoulder. When he startled slightly, she thought she’d made a mistake—but then his hand closed over hers, the heat of it pressing on her skin through the gloves. It was an inopportune time for her face to warm at the way his hand dwarfed hers, but it happened nonetheless.

“Thank you,” Halcyon murmured.

She shivered, wishing she could pull away, but knowing it would be seen as rejection. Instead, she ran her thumb over the crest of Halcyon’s shoulder in what she hoped was a comforting gesture, and tried to ignore her warming pulse.

“Is there a…rite of some sort?” she said. “A gesture of remembrance? Like the flower bouquets in Airlea, or the sprinkling of rice wine in Yuerai.”

The shadow in his eyes cleared for a moment. “I don’t know,” he admitted. “The Leventis estate was—closed off, mostly. Didn’t really mingle with society.”

“Surely something was done to commemorate the fallen.”

He mulled silently for a moment. Then he straightened and, holding his glaive evenly with both hands, struck the end of it against the ground. Karis expected a short, dull thud of metal on bedrock, but instead, it rang like a low bell, the resonant sound shivering over the remains of the estate.

He called something in Atlantean, a short but poetic phrase that rolled beautifully on his tongue. Then came the water—mana spun like silk on the tips of his fingers, coagulating into a liquid feather. More mana formed, more feathers of water gathered in his palm. With a flick, the liquid feathers flew forth as if spirited on a breeze, light catching through their watery forms and speckling the ground like stained glass. Karis nearly gasped, her eyes transfixed on the display of beauty.

Halcyon waved his hand, and the feathers dissipated into a light mist that fell upon the earth, dampening the bedrock.

“Hunt guide you,” he said somberly. “Ocean keep you.”

Silence descended upon the grounds, woven with a reverence that Karis was loath to break. But after a long stretch of time, Halcyon lowered his glaive, and she knew the moment was over.

“That was beautiful,” she said gently.

Halcyon turned to her, his gaze softening in appreciation. He opened his mouth, but before he could speak, an unfamiliar voice cut across the grounds.

“Quite a lot of effort,” said a light, boyish tone, “for a desolate graveyard.”

Karis’s head turned.

The first thing she saw was the speaker’s eye. Well, he had two of them, but one in particular was notable—a twisting, glittering vortex, like a golden rope without end, a golden snake consuming its own tail. It was sickening, mesmerizing.

Then she saw the rest of him. A boy, young. No older than Azalea Fairwen. Slender build, ghostly lilac hair, white robes draped around him like a rippling, pale sea. He was serene despite his youth—an unbreakable, chilling composure that crawled in her skin. Immediately, Karis did not like him.

The youth inclined his head and smiled at Halcyon. “Good day, Lord Leventis,” he said. “How does it feel to return home?”

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