18 Calay

Destrar Broeck had made many trips down from the cold north, but each time he returned to Calay he felt a pang of sadness for his lost daughter. He still remembered bringing Ilrida here to marry King Korastine, never guessing that something as simple as an accidental scratch could end years of happiness.

As their ship pulled into the harbor, he watched the wonder on the face of his nephew Iaros. The eager young man had never before left Iboria Reach, but if he was going to be the new destrar, he would have to understand more of the world. “Can we go to the castle straightaway, Uncle? I want to meet and serve the king.”

Broeck wondered if he had looked like such a bumpkin his first time in Calay, but that was long ago and under a different king. “Don't be impatient, lad. Korastine will see us in his own time.” He pointed a stern finger, knowing the admonishment would not sink in. “Do not forget that you make a better impression the more you listen and the less you say.”

“I won't say anything unless it's important. I won't ask questions. I won't speak up. I'll just be quiet and learn what I can. I've been practicing.”

“I hadn't noticed.”

Iaros was a full-grown man, well-muscled, almost as handsome as he thought he was, but his innocence gave him a childlike air. After the ship tied up to the dock and the two men disembarked, Iaros licked his palms and smoothed back his thick reddish hair. Then, with great care and concentration, he used his fingertips to straighten the mustache that spread like a rooster feather across his upper lip and down his cheeks.

Not long before, Iaros had sported a full flaming-red beard, which he had constantly washed, combed, and trimmed, preening in front of anything that reflected his face. Tired of such displays of vanity, Broeck had commanded his nephew to shave his chin. Though horrified, the young man could hardly disobey his destrar, so he had followed the instructions precisely: he shaved his chin, but left the huge mustache in place.

The ridiculous style made him look like one of the walruses from the high ice banks of the north, but Iaros was convinced that it appeared dashing—so convinced, in fact, that he persuaded his swordsmen to shave themselves in a similar fashion, so that now mustache-sans-beard was quite popular in Iboria Reach. Broeck didn't think he'd ever get used to the look.

Leaving the docks, the two men made their way on foot across the bridges to the Royal District, trudging up cobblestoned streets. His nephew would rather have brought a large retinue of warriors, but Broeck had countermanded that suggestion. “We're Iborians, lad—not some effete lordlings from Erietta or Alamont! What do you need bodyguards for? If you can't defend yourself against a few pestering street merchants, maybe I should pick a different successor.”

“No need, Uncle. We will make a grand impression all by ourselves.” Iaros puffed out his chest, placed his hand on the hilt of his sword, and strode alongside the destrar, determined to look fearsome.

On their way to the castle, though, they sensed the somber mood of the city, heard gossip about the recent defeat at Ishalem, and saw ragtag groups of returning soldiers, many of whom wore red-stained bandages. Growling and angry, Broeck demanded explanations from people on the street. Appalled by what he learned, he clenched and unclenched his fists, picturing Urecari throats. He picked up the pace, storming toward the castle. “With me, Iaros—the king needs us!”

Inside the castle, the two visitors found King Korastine spending the afternoon in a small sunlit office. He sat at a writing table where he had spread out reports from his financial minister, studying the costs of the war and the expenses of running the country, but he didn't seem to be paying much attention.

When they entered the warm room, Broeck was startled to see his old friend's worn appearance. Though he and the king were approximately the same age, Korastine now carried a mantle of oldness around him, a weight of years and pain. The king simply looked used up, like a boiled soupbone that had been too long in the pot.

But the smile of relief that crossed his face was real. “Broeck, my friend!” The king struggled to his feet with a wince, placing a hand against his swollen left knee.

Broeck caught him in a bear hug, supporting him, then eased the man back down to his chair. “Sire, allow me to introduce my nephew Iaros, who will be our next destrar—if he learns enough about the job. He is the best of the choices I have. With a bit more training and another survival trek up in the north, I suppose he'll be an adequate leader.”

Iaros stumbled to make a formal bow; he flushed so red that his cheeks almost matched his mustache. The king looked the lad up and down, assessing him. He gave the requisite compliments, commenting on Iaros's striking mustache, which gratified the young man immensely. “These days we have nothing but troubles, young man. I trust you have a strong spine and a solid constitution? You'll need it.”

Iaros nodded vigorously but said nothing, squirming as he forced himself to remain silent, as his uncle had advised. Broeck leaned closer to him. “It is all right for you to answer when the king actually speaks to you, lad.”

“Yes, Majesty!”

Before they could begin their casual discussion, Anjine burst into the room leading a gaunt, knife-eyed man who looked like a thundercloud in human form. He wore a clean and well-maintained prester's tunic as well as a stylized fishhook pendant at his throat. Waxy burn scars covered one cheek and both his hands.

Paying no attention to Broeck or Iaros, even as the destrar's nephew struggled to make a formal bow to the princess, Anjine blurted, “Father, Prester Hannes has important news. He's just returned from the mountains of Corag, where he discovered something that will change the war.”

Korastine glanced down at the financial papers before him, as though to avoid whatever message the prester had. “Very well, tell me.”

Hannes explained that he had discovered the long-rumored pass through the rugged crags and down to the Middlesea. “The Urecari have a large base there, on our shores. They have built extensive mines above the Edict Line, worked by hundreds of Aidenist slaves. For years, they have excavated our iron and copper, manufacturing swords and armor for their armies. The weapons that recently killed our soldiers at Ishalem came from there.” He nodded grimly, taking a deep breath to compose himself, but his voice dripped with hatred. “I know. I was held prisoner there for a long time before I escaped.”

Anjine looked at her father, and her voice was full of urgency. “We cannot allow the enemy to keep this foothold—especially after what just happened at Ishalem. We must take back those mines! We must hurt them as much as they hurt us.”

At her urging, Hannes produced a packet of papers bound in a waterproof oilskin. “I kept careful notes, and the Corag scout will lead others to mark out a better-defined path.” He added a note of caution. “It is a route, but by no means a road. It would be impossible for a large military force to cross that land. Horses, carts, and supply wagons could not survive the rigors.”

Standing there in the room with the princess, Broeck smiled as an idea formed in his mind. “Sire, what if we use beasts that are accustomed to the snow and the cold? If the people of Corag can mark out a clear path, Iboria Reach can provide an army that will strike terror into the hearts of the Urecari.”

That night, Korastine was pleased to invite his old friend to dinner in his private chambers. The fire in the hearth was roaring and hot, and the king sat in his padded chair with a poultice of herbs wrapped around his knee. On a serving-board sat a platter of roasted pheasant for the two men to split, apples baked with whole cloves (smuggled from below the Edict Line), and pumpkin pastries fresh from the castle's kitchens.

Now, with a flurry of loud voices, Broeck entered the king's chambers with Kjelnar in tow. The destrar had turned his eager young nephew loose on the city to sample the taverns, restaurants, and anything else he might find amusing. Iaros was only too happy to comply.

Now he placed a hand against the shipwright's back, nudging him forward. “Forgive me, Majesty. As the Dyscovera makes its last preparations to sail, Captain Vora requests the use of the map on the sea-turtle shell. He needs it for his voyage.”

The Iborian shipwright glanced away self-consciously. “I apologize, Sire. I didn't mean to intrude upon your evening with my destrar.”

Korastine waved away Kjelnar's embarrassment. “Nonsense, Shipwright. Anything to help guarantee the success of the voyage. The Saedrans have already studied and copied the drawing, but Captain Vora should have the original.”

From his chair, the king looked at the faded leathery shell on which some unknown lost sailor had etched a crude map of unknown continents and mysterious shores. Years ago, Sen Leo had brought the amazing object to the king while he mourned for Ilrida, and that discovery had shone a ray of hope upon his despair. Now his face wore a pensive expression. “Take it. I hope the map helps guide the Dyscovera.”

As Kjelnar lifted the object carefully from the stand, Broeck said, “Once you've found Terravitae, the king and I will follow on the second voyage.”

Korastine's lips curved in a wistful smile. “You know that's not likely to happen.”

“Ha! It wasn't likely anyone would find a map etched on a sea-turtle shell in the first place. And it wasn't likely that Captain Vora would survive a Leviathan attack and come back to lead a new expedition. We don't base our lives on what is likely, Sire, but on what we are determined to do.” Inhaling the delicious aromas of the dinner laid out before them, Broeck turned to Kjelnar, spoke with comradely gruffness. “What are you waiting for? You have what you wanted, now leave the king and me in peace.”

After the shipwright hurried off with the shell, Broeck closed the wooden door, then dropped heavily into a large chair at the king's side. He tore off a drumstick from the well-cooked pheasant and snatched up one of the spiced apples, placed both on a pewter plate, and handed it to Korastine. “Let no one say that I hesitate to serve my king.”

Korastine groaned at the joke. Broeck served himself, anxious to talk about his unusual plans for moving an army through the Corag mountains, but the king raised a hand. “Let us just be friends tonight, Broeck. I spend too many days with nothing but business. Grant me a few hours without that.”

The two men ate a relaxed meal, talking of old times. After they finished their dinner, Enifir brought Prince Tomas to the king's chamber. Broeck lurched out of the chair at the sight of his grandson. “Tomas! Look how big you are.” He snatched the boy up and held him above the floor. “You might grow tall enough to be considered an Iborian after all!”

The ten-year-old struggled playfully to get down. “Will you take me out in the snow? We can hunt another ice dragon.”

“Oh, I'd rather leave them alone, so the ice dragons can continue to protect all of Tierra.” He set the boy down and held him at arm's length. “Here, I've brought you a gift.” From his belt, Broeck removed a fine steel dagger with an ornately carved hilt. “This is a knife for a man, for a fighter, and for a prince. The handle is made from mammoth ivory.” He extended it to the wide-eyed boy. “It's your own knife, an Iborian knife. Carry it proudly.” He lowered his voice teasingly. “The mammoths and ice bears will be afraid of you now.”

After Enifir took the boy away to put him to bed, the two old men sat together in each other's quiet company before the fire. Great love showed in Korastine's eyes. “Thank you for that, Broeck. Tomas will treasure the knife.” He cleared his throat, trying to find his voice again. “Now let us talk about great days, when our future was bright and when Ondun smiled on us.”

Broeck bowed his head. “Whatever my king commands.”