A vast crumble of old ruins—nothing more than sun-washed and weather-stained limestone now—mark the background, the skeleton of the ancient city’s first iteration left neglected and unburied on a hill for all to see.
I know that view from Alexus’s dreams. I recognize the lay of the land. They’re still in Quezira, at Min-Thuret’s old training yard.
Fleurie is surrounded by a prowling red cloud, as if a cloud can be red. As if it can prowl. I know it’s the prince, circling her slowly, but she seems unfazed. Unbothered. Even as he and Colden and another man, a guard perhaps, watch her. More guards lurk around the yard, but their eyes are on the surrounding city.
Colden’s attention slides to a pale-skinned older woman with coppery red and silver hair. I don’t know her, and yet I do, thanks to those familiar family traits that cannot be missed.
Bronwyn Shawcross.
She stands with her hands clasped, nervously working her grip as Colden’s view darts back to Fleurie. I can feel the tension pulsing between each person, even though I’m hundreds and hundreds of miles away.
Fleurie lifts her right arm straight over her head and brings it down like a blade. Colden’s anticipation moves across time, through the waters, and into me.
But nothing happens.
Relief strikes Colden next, radiating into me, even as the prince’s red cloud roils and swells, and Fleurie nods and tries again.
She’s trying to open a portal.
When her arm comes down, I cringe, waiting for what, I do not know. The world to open, I suppose. But again, thankfully, nothing happens, save for the prince’s red mist swirling and twisting before it rushes toward Colden—toward me—and then vanishes from the scene, leaving a red vapor to spill over my scrying dish’s edges and disintegrate across the cabin floor.
I let out a long breath. The prince’s secret weapon isn’t ready yet. It’s a small favor from the Ancient Ones, but it buys us much needed time.
Given what we still face, I’ll take it.
“I hope everyone can swim. Well.”
Every member of our group, plus Dedrick Terrowin, sits on a circle of crates in the dim cargo hold, staring at the Witch Collector with wary faces.
No one speaks up, so he continues.
“The Summerland’s first line of defense in these waters is a checkpoint. All arriving trade ships are funneled into shipping lanes that lead to Itunnan’s cove and boarded by officers of the Summerland Guard. They check passage papers and walk the cargo hold before allowing vessels into the harbor for further inspection.”
“You can hide in my cabin while they look around,” Dedrick says. “They’re too thorough in the cargo hold.”
That makes my stomach twist. The thought of being right under the noses of the Summerland Guard.
“What about Dedrick’s papers?” Zahira asks. “The dates are old, and they’re stamped with a return status from a matter of days ago. That will spark suspicion.” She turns to Terrowin. “Is your cargo list accurate with the cargo count? Did you offload anything before sailing to Starworth Tor?”
“Only five barrels,” he says. “One of my men is working on the papers now. Bit of a forger. We just have to hope it works.”
“If worse comes to worst,” the Collector says, “spill ale on the pages and apologize profusely. They know your name and face and ship. You are not suspect. Yet.”
Which means he’s obviously good at what he does to have never been caught and to have never aroused caution. That makes me feel a little better about the night.
“And then?” Hel asks. “Once we’re safely anchored in the harbor?”
The Collector sits on the edge of a crate. “Then we sneak off the ship and swim to Goma Pier on the eastern side of the cove. Dedrick can get us as close as possible, and Joran can help with the current if necessary. We just can’t disturb the other ships in the harbor. According to Terrowin, Goma Pier is always empty at night.”
“My contact, Orlena Madar, lives in the warehouse near Goma,” Dedrick says. “Her safe house is the only secure route for foreigners into Itunnan. The other docks are more heavily patrolled since the arriving ships come from the west.” He lifts a finger that boasts a fancy emerald ring. “You must still be wise and careful because Orlena isn’t expecting you, so I cannot guarantee that the guard won’t be walking the piers there, or anyone else for that matter. As for the sea wall, it’s always manned, but at night, with Goma’s darkness, their eyes are avoidable.”
“Wise, careful, and silent as the dead,” the Collector adds. “If we’re seen, we’ll be seized and locked in a prison cell for trespassing for gods know how long before we can persuade the Guard to send word of our presence to Fia Drumera. If they would even listen.”
“As if they could hold you,” Keth says. “Or Raina. Or Nephele. You three could storm us right through the guard if you wanted. I haven’t seen what you can do, but I heard Rhonin talking about it. Just blow these bastards to pieces and light anyone on fire who gets in our way, and this trip will happen much faster.”
Of all people to reply, Joran is the last one I expect, but he lifts his silver head from his perch on a crate and says, “This land is far different territory than the North. The North is a gentle place compared to the Summerlands. These people have fought for their very existence for centuries. They’ve perfected and studied ancient magick to the point that it is a methodical part of their learning. They don’t play with magick here. They live it. Magick even thrives in the shifting sands, in the cold dark of the desert. It hides in plain sight in the provinces, and you can’t fathom the things that live in the Summerland mountains and forests. Don’t think these people aren’t more than prepared for a little magick like some of you can dole out. Meet with a swarm of Dread Vipers, and this group will be no more than a bloodstain on the Summerland’s desert floor.”
“Dread Vipers?” I sign.
