“Yes, please do,” said Yserria.
Ptelana stepped into the crowd, and they watched as she questioned several people. When she returned, she said, “A new king has been crowned in Ferélle. His fleet is to arrive today. One man claimed the new king is the emperor of Cimmeria.”
“I have never heard of Cimmeria,” said Malcius.
“Nor have I,” said Yserria.
“Perhaps we should avoid him,” said Malcius. “He could be in league with Caydean. If not, he may be seeking to take advantage of the unrest on the Souelian.”
Ptelana looked at him and said, “One woman said she had heard a rumor that he is the king of Lon Lerésh, but she did not believe it.”
Yserria and Malcius grinned at each other. Yserria said, “Should we dare to hope?”
Malcius crossed his arms. “If anyone could take over another kingdom and start an empire, it would be Rezkin.”
“We must find out,” she said. “We need to get through this crowd.”
Ptelana grinned. “You may leave that to me, Echelon.” She crossed her wrists, pressing them to her forehead. “By your leave.” Then, she disappeared into the crowd.
Slender fingers slipped into the clear water. They slapped the surface, spraying water into the air. An echo of soft laughter flitted on the breeze, and then the entire world was a rush of watery bubbles. Distorted blobs of green and brown danced back and forth in the light above, and below was only murky darkness. A figure in the dark, a shadowy silhouette, slowly drew closer. It entered the sphere of light, the farthest it would travel in the water, and became brighter, clearer. A halo of white hair swayed with the current, obscuring the view. Then, silver eyes emerged from the swath. A pale hand reached forward, the fingers uncurled, and a light blue crystal lay nestled in the palm.
Rezkin was not sure what had awoken him, but he was almost certain it had been his stomach. Although he had slept the entire night, he still felt drained. He knew he would feel somewhat better after he had eaten. With a glance at his time dial, he realized he had eaten a full meal little more than an hour before. His legs wobbled as he tried to stand, so he sat back and took deep breaths as he began running through a list of causes. Had he been poisoned? Had he encountered a toxin? Did he have an infection? Was he ill? He opened his eyes to find a plum taking up his entire field of view. It was nearly touching his nose. Rezkin shifted to see the plum’s bearer, and large orange eyes blinked back at him.
“Power spent is power lost. Power gained is power tamed,” said the craggy, lilting voice.
Rezkin eyed the piece of fruit. He knew that a fae gift was never what it seemed. He said, “What is the price?”
Bilior glanced at Rezkin’s chest where the stone had grown hot beneath his shirt. The sensation occurred more frequently of late, such that the stone was warm most of the time. The katerghen said, “The price, the cost, mistrust, beware.” His limbs cracked as they curled in on themselves. “It is paid.”
Rezkin wondered if the ancient had somehow weakened him so that he would be beholden to the creature’s will, but he took the plum anyway. He examined the surface with a critical eye and a sniff. It smelled sweet, and the dots of moisture clinging to the taut, purple-black skin brought to his attention a thirst that had been overshadowed by the hunger and fatigue. He used a knife to cut into the plum as he glanced at Bilior. The katerghen’s gaze shifted anxiously between his face and the plum. Inside was the juicy pink and yellow flesh of normal plum, except that it had no pit. Rezkin’s stomach grumbled again, and he glanced at Bilior. The katerghen’s anticipation was palatable. Rezkin licked a drop of juice from his finger and waited a few minutes. When he felt no ill effects, he finally braved the fruit. His hunger overtook him, and he consumed the entire plum within seconds.
Bilior stretched out on the floor and propped his head on a twiggy arm. He watched as if waiting for a show. Nothing happened. Rezkin shook his head as he got to his feet. Suddenly, the room was filled with colors. Bilior was composed of the brightest colors Rezkin had ever seen. They swirled across his woody flesh in a chaotic dance of eddies and waves. The walls were drab and dim, and the muddled browns barely moved within them. He looked down at himself. He was nearly as bright as Bilior, but his colors appeared shattered, like a vessel of colored glass that had been broken and pieced back together a thousand times. He began to hear a hum, a distant melody. It grew louder the longer he listened. It was a tune with which he was familiar. It was the music of his meditation.
Rezkin glanced down at the katerghen who looked pleased as his leafy feathers danced to the cadence of the music. In that moment, it was almost as if he understood the katerghen’s native language. The secret was just beyond his grasp. He wondered, if he focused long enough, might he learn it? His hunger abated, he felt energized, determined. Rezkin put on the guise of Dark Tidings, strapped on his swords, hooked the mask to his belt, and strode toward the door. He glanced back to the katerghen, but Bilior was gone.
Once on deck, Rezkin was amazed by the vivid dance of hues that pervaded the world. Living things shined the brightest to his eyes, while those that had once been alive appeared dim. Objects that had never lived did not swirl with colors, but rather radiated varying amounts of light. In combination with the sun, it was rather overwhelming. He blinked several times, hoping the previously hidden lights of the world would fade. He focused his eyesight, as if trying to see through a fog. After a few minutes, the lights became less intrusive. He knew not whether they had changed or if his mind hand begun to accept them.
Striker Akris strode up to him. “Are you well, Your Majesty?”
Rezkin looked at the striker, whose colors appeared different from his own. He wondered if the patterns had meaning. “All is well,” he said. “Do you have a report?”
“Yes. This city was alerted of our impending arrival, and a large crowd has gathered at the docks. The governor has issued an invitation, and we have received a request for a meeting with a Leréshi echelon.”
“Which echelon?”
“The missive says the third and fourth.”
Rezkin nodded. “I anticipated a shift in power after Erisial’s daring move. Who is it?”
“House Palis,” said Akris. He looked thoughtful and then said, “Was that not the name of Lord Malcius’s brother?”
“It was,” said Rezkin. The tension between his shoulders released. He had not realized his level of concern over Malcius and Yserria’s disappearance until that moment, but he now knew that at least one of them had survived. He said, “Bring them aboard.”
Less than an hour later, Yserria and Malcius boarded Stargazer, accompanied by their entourage. Frisha pushed past everyone to fling her arms around Malcius while Rezkin greeted Yserria.
“You look well, Echelon.”
Yserria shook her head. “It was a difficult time, and he made it worse with his obstinance, but we prevailed in the name of our king.”
Malcius grinned. “She said that she would show them the might of the Kingdom of Cael, and she delivered.”
Frisha reached up to tug at Malcius’s hair. “What is this?” she said, fingering the red ribbon.
Malcius huffed and snapped at Yserria. “Why did you not remind me to remove this? I cannot believe it has been there all this time.” Then, he looked at Frisha and said, “Some despicable woman tried to claim me as consort, so Yserria was forced to challenge her. It was the Third Echelon—Ah!” Malcius suddenly winced and held his hand to this side of his face. “It burns!” he hollered.
“Malcius!” yelled Yserria. “I told you to never speak of that! We agreed that I would tell the story!”