Kellanved's Reach

She nodded, then tilted her head back, glowering imperiously. She slammed a fist into a palm. ‘You must crush Malaz Island. Now. Destroy it.’

Iko almost missed her words in her surprise at seeing the woman’s nails were long, pointed, and entirely black.

Yet Mosolan nodded, all seriousness. ‘Malaz Island? Why?’

‘A disturbing set of powers are gathering there. I have foreseen they could threaten the mainland. Threaten Itko Kan.’

Iko cudgelled her brain to even recall that particular island to mind. All she could remember were tales of a pirate haven. She snorted. ‘Sea-raiders are no threat to the kingdom.’

‘Shut up, Sword-Dancer,’ the witch snarled. ‘There is more here than you can grasp.’

Iko let out a hissed breath, but held her silence: Mosolan was regent, not she. She also noted a smirk of satisfaction similar to the witch’s earlier pleasure quirk the noble Kan’s lips.

Mosolan had raised a hand to intervene. ‘Iko here was at Heng. She is not to be dismissed.’

The witch tossed her mane once more to show what she thought of that. ‘I do not travel here and give my warnings lightly, regent. Do not dismiss me!’

Mosolan raised a placating hand once again. ‘We would do no such thing, Jadeen. Your wisdom is appreciated.’ To Iko’s eyes the witch was in no way appeased. ‘Yet,’ Mosolan continued, ‘for such drastic action – what evidence can you provide?’

A snarl twisted the woman’s thin lips even more and she glared. ‘I am not used to having to justify my advice, regent. But if you insist …’ She crossed her arms, grasping her black-nailed hands on either arm. ‘The Dragons Deck warns of the end of the Chulalorn line.’

Iko was before the witch in an instant, her whipsword half drawn. ‘What is this!’

To her credit, Jadeen did not so much as flinch; her gaze remained fixed upon Mosolan. ‘You are warned,’ she announced, and spun upon her heels to march from the chamber.

When the door closed, Councillor Leoto coughed lightly into a fist. ‘Well, regent. I must attend your consultations more often. They are certainly not boring.’

Iko slammed home her whipsword and turned upon the aristocrat. ‘Shut up, Leoto.’

The head of family Kan offered her a cold smile. ‘A pleasure as always, Iko.’

Mosolan paced the marble floor before the empty throne of Itko Kan, now draped in royal green silk. ‘Malaz?’ he wondered aloud. ‘A gathering of powers that could worry Jadeen?’ He shook his head, almost in wonder. ‘She warned against the Third’s march north, you know. And before that she gave warning of the Dal Hon invasion to the Second.’ He turned to regard them, amazement upon his features now. ‘I never imagined I would be the one to hear a prediction from her.’

Iko cut a hand through the air. ‘She senses a rival to her influence in the south and would have us do her dirty work for her.’

‘Perhaps,’ Mosolan allowed.

‘Question,’ Leoto put in, raising a finger. ‘What sources do we have on that worthless island?’

Mosolan turned to face them, clasped his hands at his back. It looked to Iko as though the Witch Jadeen’s words had affected him far more than her; the man had already been old – practically retired – before the burden of regency had fallen to him. Now he appeared positively exhausted, his lined features marked by the cares of his office. He sighed. ‘Not a one.’

*   *   *

The so-called ‘fortress’ at Two-River Pass occupied a wide gravel wash between the two braided arms of the river that gave it its name. After a series of falls the Two-River lost its way in the lower northern valley of the pass, and here the fortress guarded the road to Tellick on the coast.

Orjin Samarr’s troop descended the pass in the night, their way lit by a clear and bright starry sky. In the pre-dawn light they forded one arm of the river, the frigid rushing waters rising to Orjin’s waist, and marched up the gravel strand of the mid-channel island.

Vegetable plots planted in the rocky soil surrounded the fortress’s outer timber palisade. Within, peeping above the sharpened logs, rose the top of the inner tower, built of mortared river stones. He noted multiple watches on the walls pointing their way and shouting down within. The twin leaves of the palisade gate stood open, and as Orjin and his immediate lieutenants – who considered themselves something of an unofficial bodyguard – approached they were met by a cordon of Purge regulars barring the way in a shieldwall. An officer pushed through to meet with them; a tall and lean woman in a coat of leather armour, cut as overlapping scales. Eyeing them, she announced to the gate guards, ‘More survivors from the battle. You are?’

‘Captain Orjin Samarr.’

She extended a gauntleted hand, ‘Prevost Jeral.’

Orjin knew ‘prevost’ to be an ancient rank equivalent to captain. He took her hand and she nodded, then pulled off her helmet to reveal four long braids that bounced about her shoulders. She waved him onwards. ‘You are free to join us, though we are ordered to withdraw.’