The women blanched, exchanging glances.
"This escape," Lina said. "It won't have a chance though unless we have support from outside. We could take over this camp tomorrow and the Black Army will just send reinforcements. There are just too many of them."
"You're right," Amber said. "For now we just need to open up communication. Leopold knows about a guard here, a sympathiser. He can get a message to Rogan."
"Leopold?" Samora raised an eyebrow. "He's mad."
"He was once a prince of Altura," Amber said. "I believe him."
"So what do we do then?" Lina said.
"We think, and we plan. That's enough for now. The main thing is to keep quiet. I'll get a message to Rogan Jarvish, and we'll see what he says. You'd better leave now."
The five women stood.
"We can do this," Amber said. "We must do this. There's no other choice."
The Halrana nodded, and filed out, leaving Amber alone.
Amber wondered where she would find writing materials.
27
SERANTHIA'S huge harbour was home to countless ships, and the port of call for a great many more. People came to Seranthia from far and wide to trade and to treat, to make deals and to build alliances. The harbour was a lively, vibrant place, famed for its workshops and taverns, nearly a city in its own right.
Yet the harbour gave way to a sight more renowned still, a mighty monument, second only to Stonewater in its fame.
It was called the Sentinel.
Barring the harbour, the massive statue rose from a tiny island, barely an outcrop of rock, as if thrusting out of the water. He stood tall and bold on a wide pedestal, legs outspread, with one arm raised, pointing upwards as if at the stars, or the sun. His features were soft, almost feminine, and hair flowed down to his shoulders, while on his head was a strange headpiece, a crown, with a rune decorating its front. Most of the sailors navigating past the Sentinel barely gave it a second look — it had been there for an eternity, and it would be there for an eternity more. Many said it was ancient, old when Seranthia was just a fishing town. If it was old, it was barely worn, and how old would it have to be, to have existed when Seranthia was small? It was yet another of the world's mysteries.
In The Floating Cork, the harbour tavern with the best view of the Sentinel, Evrin Evenstar sat nursing a tankard of black beer, glaring out at the distant statue. His wounds pained him. The journey from Salvation to Seranthia had truly worn him out.
Evrin wondered how much longer he should wait for Killian. He didn't even know if the lad had received his message to meet him here. He could use Killian's help, but he couldn't afford to wait much longer.
Seranthia was always a difficult place, and now Evrin felt for its denizens more than ever before. He still couldn't believe the Akari were here; of all people, the Akari! Provided they kept their lore to themselves, they were no trouble, living in the north as they did, but there was danger here, Evrin knew. If their lore got into the wrong hands — the Primate's hands — the world would become a dark place indeed.
The streetclans were now basically running the city, extorting the common-folk with impunity, while the increasingly corrupt templars took the bribes and looked the other way.
Seranthia, a beautiful city, a grand city, with majestic cathedrals, columned arcades, arch-lined streets, and statues and fountains in every square, was becoming a terrible, ugly place.
Evrin wished he could do something, but he knew his own mission was more important.
He finished his tankard and sighed. He could wait no longer.
Evrin quickly scribbled onto a piece of paper, folding it up and then dripping wax from a candle to seal it.
"Another blackstorm?" the tavern-keeper asked when Evrin approached the bar.
"Need to be on my way. I was wondering if I could leave a note with you," Evrin said, holding out his sealed message.
The tavern-keeper hesitated, licking his lips. They were all like this, Evrin had noticed; every honest shopkeeper and craftsman in Seranthia was terrified. The poor fellows were only trying to make a living; they deserved better.
"Can I read the note?" the tavern-keeper asked.
Evrin thought about what he had written. "I'm sorry, but no."
The tavern-keeper shook his head, nervously wringing his hands. "You understand, don't you? What if someone leaves a note with me hatching plans, or saying something against our new High Lord? I'm going to have to say no."
"Really?" Evrin said, feeling nothing but sympathy for the man. "Is it that bad?"
The tavern-keeper looked to the left and the right, dropping his voice. "People are being rounded up, young and old, and being taken to prison camps. If you cross the templars, you…"
The tavern-keeper's voice trailed off, and his face went as white as the piece of paper in Evrin's hand. Evrin turned, knowing what he would see.