The Emerald Storm (The Riyria Revelations #4)

Thranic shook his head with a pitiful smile, “Now, Wesley, will you actually take the word of a pirate and a cook over the word of a Sentinel of the Nyphron Church?”


“Your Excellency,” Wesley said, turning to face Thranic. “You will address me as Mister Wesley or sir, is that understood?” Thranic’s expression soured. “And I will decide whose word I will accept. As it happens, I am well aware of your personal vendetta against Royce Melborn. Midshipman Beryl tried to convince me to bring false charges. Well, sir, I did not buckle to Beryl’s threats, and I’ll be damned if I will be intimidated by your title.”

“Damned is a very good choice of words, Mister Wesley.”

“Sentinel Thranic,” Wesley barked at him. “Be forewarned that if any further harm befalls Seaman Melborn, that is even remotely suspicious, I will hold you responsible and have you executed by whatever means are at hand. Do I make myself clear?”

“You wouldn’t dare touch an ordained officer of the Patriarch. Every king in Avryn—why the regents themselves would not oppose me. It is you who should be concerned about execution.”

Wyatt, Grady, and Derning drew their blades and Hadrian took a step closer to Thranic.

“Stand down, gentlemen!” Wesley shouted. At his order, they paused. “You are quite correct, Sentinel Thranic, that your office influences how I treat you. Were you an ordinary seaman, I would order you flogged for your disrespect. I am well aware that upon our return to Aquesta, you could ruin my career or perhaps have me imprisoned or hanged. But let me point out, sir, that Aquesta is a long way from here and a dead man has difficulty requesting anything. It would be in my best interest, therefore, to see you executed here and now. It would be a simple matter to report you and Seaman Bernie lost to the dangers of the jungle.”

Defoe looked worried and took a subtle step away from Thranic’s side.

“I would have thought I could rely on your family’s famous code of honor,” Thranic said in a sarcastic tone.

“You can, sir, and you are, as indeed that is all that keeps you alive at this moment. It is also what you can count on to have you executed should you threaten Seaman Melborn again. Do I make myself clear?”

Thranic fumed but said nothing. He simply turned and walked away with Defoe following after.

Wesley exhaled loudly, and straightened his vest. “How is he doing?” he asked Hadrian.

“Sleeping at the moment, sir. He’s weak, but should recover. And thank you, sir.”

“For what?” Wesley replied. “I have a mission to accomplish, Blackwater. I can’t have my crew killing one another. Derning, Grady, take a few others and bring Staul’s body back to camp. Let’s not leave him to the beasts of this foul jungle.”





Chapter 15

The Search


“I think I saw him.”

Arista woke at the sound. Disorie





nted, she did not know where she was at first. Turning over, she found Thrace in a small streak of moonlight. The empress was dressed in her wispy thin nightgown that fluttered in the draft. She stood straight, hair loose, eyes lost to a vision beyond the window’s frame.

It had been nearly a week since Gerald invited Arista to the empress’s bedroom and she wondered if this was a sign she was on the right path. If fate could speak, surely this is how it would sound.

Thrace saw to her safety, guarding her like the mother of a newborn. Soldiers stood outside her door at all times, now in pairs with strict orders to prevent the entry of anyone without permission. Only Amilia and Nimbus ever entered the chamber and even they knocked, something Arista inferred was a new development. At her urging, Thrace ordered Nimbus to carry messages to Hilfred.

In her nightgown, Thrace looked almost like the girl from Dahlgren, but there was something different about her—akin to sadness yet lacking even the passion for that. Often she would sit and stare at nothing for hours and when she spoke, her words were dull and emotionless. She never laughed, cried, or smiled. In this way, she appeared to have successfully transformed from a lively peasant girl into a true empress—serene and unflappable. Yet at what cost?

“It was late like this,” Thrace said, looking out the window. Her voice sounded disconnected, as if in a trance. “I was having a dream, but a squeaking noise woke me. I came to the window and I saw them. They were in the courtyard below. Men with torches, as many as a dozen and they wheeled a sealed wagon. The men were knights, dressed in black and scarlet armor like those we saw in Dahlgren. They spoke of the man inside the box as if he was a monster, and even though he was hooded and chained they were afraid. After taking him away, the wagon rolled back out of the courtyard.” Thrace turned to face her. “I thought it was a dream until just now. I have a lot of unpleasant dreams.”

“How long ago did this happen?”

“Three months, perhaps more.”

Shivering, Arista sat up. The fire had long since died, and the stone walls did nothing to keep the chill out…the window was open again. Regardless of the time of day, or how cold the temperature, Modina insisted. Not with words—she rarely spoke—but no matter how often Arista closed the window Modina quietly opened it again.

“That would coincide with Gaunt’s disappearance. You never heard anything else about this prisoner?”

“No, and you would be surprised how much you hear when you are very quiet.”

“Thrace, come—”

The empress halted her by the sudden tilt of her head and the curious look on her face. “No one calls me that anymore.”

“A shame, I’ve always liked the name.”

“Me too.”

“Come back to bed. You’ll catch a cold.”

Thrace walked toward her, looking at where the mirror once hung. “I will need to get a new mirror before Wintertide.”





***




Dawn brought breakfast and morning reports from Amilia and Modina’s tutor. Nimbus was bright-eyed and cheery, bowing to both—a courtesy Amilia refused to extend to Arista. The Imperial Secretary looked haggard. The dark circles under her eyes grew deeper each day. Holding her jaw stiff, and her fists clenched, she glared at Arista eating breakfast in Thrace’s bed. Despite Amilia’s obvious contempt, Arista could not help but like her. It was not hard to recognize the same fierce protectiveness in Amilia that Hilfred exhibited.

“They’ve stopped the search for the Witch of Melengar,” Amilia reported, looking coldly at Arista. “They think she’s either headed to Melengar or Ratibor. Patrols are still out, but no one really expects to find her.”