The Queen of Death

42

Kandler had to suppress every paternal urge in his body to keep himself from grabbing Esprë and hauling her back on to the Phoenix. He stood with his sword ready, prepared to slash out at the first islander who made a dangerous move toward the girl. He didn’t think he and the others stood a chance of surviving a battle with so many—especially if the dragons that had brought them there returned—but he’d take down as many of them with him as he could. Centuries from now, the survivors would talk of the trio of warriors who nearly wiped them all out.

Kandler ran through a plan of action in his head. He figured he could kill three of them before they could reach Esprë, perhaps five with the fangblade. He’d never used a blade so sharp and deadly before, and he marveled at the way it could slice through just about anything. With none of the islanders sporting any armor thicker than a thatch of grass, the sword would make quick work of them.

Then the shrouded woman raised her arms and said something in Draconic. The other islanders lowered their weapons.

Some of them seemed relieved, but the turn of events clearly disappointed most of them. They’d gotten their blood boiling and the lack of a battle left them frustrated. Kandler wondered if they had much else to do here on the island other than get into fights, heal from the last fight, and prepare for the next one. Still, they did as the woman in the shroud had ordered and gave up on the battle.

That didn’t mean they’d welcome the intruders with open arms. Kandler read hostility and suspicion in every face—except that of the woman under the shroud.

Then the woman lifted the front of the shroud over her head, draping it over her shoulders. Unlike most of the others in the tribe, her hair bore streaks of gray, and her face showed fine lines around her mouth and eyes that showed that she often smiled. Still, she was not smiling now.

“My name is Zanga,” the woman said. Her voice was low and rough but sweet, a pleasant counterpart to her exotic accent. “Welcome to Seren. We are the Gref.”

“You speak—?” Kandler could not believe his ears. “You can understand us?”

“In my youth, I spent time in Port Krez.”

Burch grunted at that. “You don’t look much like a pirate.”

“It’s been a long life.” She smiled. “For such reasons, my people do not trust strangers. You will not be permitted inside the palisades.”

“We don’t wish to stay long,” Esprë said. “We probably wouldn’t have come at all if not for the dragons.”

“Where are you bound?” asked Zanga.

Esprë looked back at Kandler. He sheathed his sword and stepped forward, meeting Zanga’s studious gaze.

“We’re on our way to Argonnessen,” he said.

“Of course,” said Zanga. “My people can take you to Totem Beach. That is where we worship at the feet of the great idols.”

“Who do you worship?” asked Sallah, carefully nonchalant.

Zanga glanced at the silver flame embroidered on Sallah’s tabard. Blood and dirt stained the slashed and torn garment, which now barely covered the lady knight’s breastplate, but Sallah had refused to abandon it.

“The dragons, of course.”

Kandler saw Sallah bite her tongue. Her first instinct when faced with such beliefs would be to spread the faith of the Silver Flame, but she managed to avoid any hint of proselytizing. For that, the justicar gave thanks.

“We’ll want to go a bit farther inland,” Burch said.

Zanga’s brow creased with concern. “How far?” she asked.

“Did you recognize the mark on Esprë’s back?” Kandler said.

He didn’t want to talk about any long-range plans with Zanga, not right now. If her people could bring them to Totem Beach, perhaps that would be enough.

“Of course. It is a dragonmark.”

“Could you tell which one?”

Kandler heard Esprë’s breath catch in her chest. If the Seren had recognized the Mark of Death, he needed to know what that meant to them—including why they had not killed the girl on the spot.

Zanga shook her head. “We do not see many of the marks of favor on Seren. We have little need for them. We enjoy the direct attention of the dragons instead.”

“Then why did you demand to see it?”

“How’d you know she had one?” Burch asked the islander.

Zanga flashed a serene smile. “I didn’t. We only knew that Greffykor bade us watch for one among the invaders who sometimes find our shores.”

“That’s the silver dragon who founded Gref,” Esprë said to Kandler and the others. “He studies the Prophecy.”

“Did the Prophecy tell him to look for you?”

Esprë shrugged. “It seems so.”

Kandler stared at the islanders all around them, then back at Zanga. “I think I’d like to meet this dragon.”

“Greffykor said you would,” Zanga said. “Once more, his wisdom is proven.”

The shrouded woman turned to say something in Draconic to the other islanders, and a cry of joy went up among them. It pleased Kandler to see them smiling. They seemed far less dangerous.

“So,” Kandler said, “can you tell us how to reach this Greffykor? ”

“No,” Zanga said, beaming with excitement. “It is a dangerous journey through unfamiliar territory. There are no roads. It must be approached by air.”

Burch pointed a finger toward the airship overhead. “I think we got that angle covered.”

“I know,” Zanga said, her eyes wide and her smile growing larger. “That’s what makes this all so wonderful.”

“How’s that?” Kandler asked. The woman’s glee confused him. He wondered if they might not have been better off getting into the fight. At least with swords drawn he knew what to expect.

“Because I will take you there myself.”

Zanga said this not as a request or an order, but as a matter of fact, as if she had chosen to comment on the particular shade of blue in the sky.

“Fantastic!” said Esprë. As the words left her mouth, though, she spied the sour look on Kandler’s face and winced. “That’s not a good thing?”

Kandler forced a smile onto his lips. “It’s a very gracious offer,” he said, “especially from someone we just met, but I would guess that Zanga’s people need her here far more than we would.”

The shrouded woman laughed. “You do not know much about Seren life,” she said. “Most days the biggest challenge put before me is to divine the weather. Sometimes I need to prepare a poultice or set a broken bone, but all are well here now. Unlike in Khorvaire, we have few sicknesses here. We live by the sea, and by the grace of the dragons it and the jungle provide all that we need. For what we want, we sometimes go to war against our neighbors, but at the moment we are at peace.”

“Sounds nice,” Burch said, eyeing the long, sandy beach and the tropical trees that lined it. “When this is all over, I might think about shacking up in one of those huts.”

“Still,” Kandler said to Zanga, “Burch here is an excellent navigator. If you just point him in the right direction, I’m sure we’ll be able to find the way.”

Zanga frowned. “Without a Shroud of Scales aboard, the first dragon that sees you will knock your little airship from the sky.”

Kandler grimaced. “Perhaps we could borrow the shroud from you for the trip. I wouldn’t want to—” He could tell from the look on Zanga’s face that this path led nowhere.

“A Shroud of Scales is more than the garment,” she said. “It is the person inside of it. Without me, my shroud is just a set of scales.” She gave Kandler a shrewd look. “You cannot fool the dragons. They see everything.”

That was just what Kandler feared most.

“Very well,” he said, surrendering. “I would be delighted.”