The Cerulean Queen (The Nine Realms #4) - Sarah Kozloff

PART ONE

Reign of Queen Cerúlia

THE FIRST DAYS

1

Alpetar

Smithy woke early with a feeling of deep unease. While General Sumroth had gone on with thousands of his troops to the shipbuilding center, Pexted, pursuing his plan of vengeance against Weirandale, Smithy had stayed in Alpetar with the refugees in Camp Ruby, situated where the Alpetar Mountains slid down into fertile plains.

Camp Ruby, the first of four camps established along the Trade Corridor, lay closest to the Land.

He strode out of his tent into the dawn air, gazing northward in the direction of his homeland, as he always did. He saw fingers of smoke far away and read these as a sign that FireThorn yawned and stretched.

Around him the camp stirred as the other exiles from Oromondo woke and began their days.

Pozhar’s Agent stoked his nearby fire, adding coal and blowing up the flames with a hand bellows. He had no real forge here and he missed the high, cleansing heat. But he had his hand tools and he used this outdoor fire to soften metal and shape it as best he could whenever one of the Spirit’s children approached him with a commission.

As if conjured by his thoughts, a girl of about twelve summers appeared, a little slyly, thrusting out at him a tin kettle with a broken handle. Smithy examined it closely.

“Aye,” he told the girl-woman. “Come back tonight.”

But instead of leaving immediately she lingered by his fire, mesmerized by the flames. And the fire reflected in her eyes, making them glow red.

“You like my fire?”

She nodded. “It makes me warm all over.”

“Good. Make sure you come back for the kettle yourself. I will have a small treat for you.”

Smithy realized he had found another; this girl made three Oromondo children who harbored a spark of Pozhar in their souls. He would tend these flames cautiously, to see if any of the children would grow into new Magi. The death of those Eight more than a year ago counted only as a setback, not as the end of the reign of the Magi.

Smithy walked to the camp’s communal kitchen area and asked a baker for a bowl of bread dough, which she gave without question. When he returned to his tent, he reached under his flimsy bed for the canister he kept hidden. He used his thick fingers to add large pinches of volcanic ash to the glutinous material. After mixing in the additive, he set the bowl to rise in the warmth of the stones ringing his fire. Later in the day he would bake biscuits—it didn’t matter if they looked misshapen or got singed—which he would offer to the three prospects. The ash did not contain as much Magic as cooled lava, but it would serve. These children would gain the Power, abilities that demonstrated their devotion to Pozhar and illustrated the Spirit’s might and majesty.

That fool Sumroth believes that because the Eight past Magi perished, he will rule Oromondo. But he would rule as all dictators rule: for himself. Only Magi will keep the Land of the Fire Mountains for Pozhar. I will aid General Sumroth in enacting retribution against Weirandale, and then the Spirit will deal with his pride and blasphemy.

The fire he sat by rose higher than the fuel he had given it should burn. In the crackle of the flames, Smithy heard the voice of his master.

The witch’s spawn has returned to Weirandale.

Smithy pounded one fist into the opposite palm.

What can I do, Mighty Pozhar, to stop this?

You can do nothing, Smithy. But I have other servants. Tend your flames and keep watch over my children.

2

Cascada

Ciellō and the dog, Whaki, set out from the Sea Hawk inn in the pearly dawn light. Both felt too restless to stay inside the lodging house environs a single moment longer. Despite his remonstrance, the dog had been whining and scratching at the fence gate throughout Ciellō’s morning exercise routine. He could hardly get Whaki to wait while he scrubbed and dressed.

Together, man and dog surveyed the empty streets of the capital city. Last night these same streets had been crammed with townsfolk celebrating some wedding amongst the gentry by feasting at squares where soldiers roasted pig—carving off generous slices—and poured hard cider into whatever vessels the citizens proffered. Street musicians played while people danced and cavorted, happy with the free victuals. When night fell, fireworks set off over the harbor bedecked the sky in patterns of blue and white.

Ciellō had partaken of the pork and Whaki had scarfed down