Mikaen’s father waved away this excuse and nodded to Reddak. “Go on.”
The liege general skipped any preamble. “The Shield Islands have been attacked,” Reddak declared flatly. “Brought to ruin.”
Treasurer Hesst, a crow of a man with graying black hair, shifted straighter. “The Shields?” He glanced to the king. “Those islands supply a majority of the rare minerals we need for procuring our ship’s lifting gasses.” He turned his pinched, dark eyes back on Reddak. “How many towns and refineries did they bomb?”
“They didn’t just bomb the Shields,” Reddak clarified. “They laid waste to them. The main island of Helios is a fiery cauldron, choked in smoke, flames still burning. All that is visible are the giant stones of the Southern Henge that crown the island’s highest hill. A half dozen smaller outer islands also burn.”
“How?” Provost Balyn struggled to stand, but his rotund belly dragged him down. “How is that possible?”
“Naphlaneum,” Reddak answered. “Reports describe the Klashean warship, the Falcon’s Wing, raining fire across the island in a continual flaming storm. A few islanders made it to the boats, but thousands died. The fires will burn for months, if not years. And even after that, Helios will be a dead burnt rock in those seas. Nothing will grow there for centuries.”
Mikaen had read of the horrors of naphlaneum. The Klashe rarely deployed such a devastating weapon, reserving it only for the direst circumstances. And even then, it was usually a tool employed for a more precise strike, not wholesale slaughter.
Torusk, the mayor of Azantiia, shook his head. “But why? Why such fury?”
Before Reddak could answer, King Toranth pointed an arm at his son. “There stands the reason.”
Mikaen clenched his molars, refusing to balk as all eyes turned his way.
“Word must have reached Kysalimri,” the king continued, “about the cold-blooded execution of Emperor Makar’s son by my son.”
Mayor Torusk’s mouth dropped. He clearly had not been informed about Prince Paktan’s death.
“And I wager both my bollocks,” Toranth said, “that such an attack is only the start. There will be no negotiation or recompense that will assuage Makar’s loss. Only blood and ruin.”
“What of the Falcon’s Wing now?” Wryth asked softly, plainly cautious not to draw the king’s ire his way. “Prince Mareesh’s warship?”
Reddak answered. “After dumping its vast hold of naphlaneum, it was last seen vanishing back into the Breath, likely returning to the Klashe to replenish its armaments.”
Wryth nodded. “Then perhaps we can anticipate a short reprieve before further attacks commence. We must be ready.”
Mikaen’s gaze narrowed on the Shrive. Wryth had shown no reaction to Reddak’s report. He had likely heard about it already from his network of eyes and ears throughout Highmount.
Still, Mikaen studied the man. Wryth stood with his arms folded into the wide sleeves of his gray robe. His eyes, banded in a black tattoo, shone darkly.
Those eyes …
They gave Wryth away. It wasn’t only the lack of surprise. Wryth was excited. But not about what had transpired at the Shield Islands. Something else, something that made him late, which even now sought to pull him away.
Wryth caught him staring.
Mikaen kept his face stoic. He had known Wryth since he was a boy. The Shrive had been as much Mikaen’s shadow as the king’s. Only of late, Mikaen had begun to rankle at the man’s presence, cringing at his whispers. It had grown to where he could hardly stand to look at him anymore. Mikaen also knew Wryth was dangerous, full of secrets and hidden ambitions—but for now, also useful.
“But how are we to get ready?” Marshal Balyn asked the table. “What manner of strike from the Southern Klashe can we anticipate next?”
The king answered, returning to his seat. “If the Klasheans ever catch Kanthe, there’s no doubt they’ll be sending me his head.”
Mikaen hid a sneer.
As if we’d be so lucky.
The mere mention of his brother’s name set his heart to pounding and rushed fire throughout his body, paining the scars under his mask, a permanent reminder of a traitorous attack.
“What is going on with your other son?” Treasurer Hesst asked. “Has he truly absconded with two of the emperor’s children? If so, why? And where has he gone?”
Toranth sighed, some of his storm abating. “Maybe he seeks to return to Hálendii, to use the ransom of Makar’s son and daughter to buy his way back into my good graces.”
Mikaen clenched both fists, frustrated and furious. His father forever sought ways to forgive Kanthe, to excuse his failings, to believe the best of him. It had been no different in the past. Kanthe was always failing in his studies, often found more drunk than sober. Yet, the king still held out hope.
