As Castlemere burned, Miro raised a reddened gaze to watch the ship. He stood on the beach, listening to the breaking waves contrast with the breaking timbers of Castlemere’s falling buildings. The smell of burning wood filled the air; even the sea breeze couldn’t banish it.
The Infinity came steadily closer as Scherlic brought his crippled ship to where clear water met the line of deep blue. Miro’s eyes took in the broken timbers and fallen sails, holes in the sides and shattered prow. Scherlic’s proud ship was a shade of her former self, yet even so, the shadow of night had sought to claim her, and she’d survived—the only vessel to do so.
A figure in green leapt off the side of the ship, and the man began to swim with strong strokes to shore. As soon as the bladesinger left the ship, Scherlic turned the vessel, and the Infinity limped farther down the coast. Miro waved, but his arm finally dropped to his side; he wasn’t sure if the sailmaster waved back.
Miro watched as the bladesinger swam for shore. The man in green shook his head and stood when he reached the shallows, staggering forward before making better headway. Miro walked into the water to help him out, clasping his hand and putting his arm around the man’s shoulders.
“Well met,” Miro said. “You survived.”
“Lord of the Sky, I don’t know how.”
“Come, I’ll take you back to the encampment. We think they’re going to commence their landing tomorrow.”
“I tried, High Lord, but I couldn’t see any ship being specially guarded,” the bladesinger said. “If Sentar has essence aboard one of his ships, he isn’t doing much to protect it. He sacrificed his own to destroy us. We took his flagship, and he simply moved to another.”
The smoke from the burning city rolled over the killing ground as Miro took the bladesinger in a wide circle, skirting the red flags and leading him past the thick wall. The smoke-red eyes of the defenders followed them as they headed deeper into the encampment.
“Commodore Deniz?” Miro asked, holding his breath.
“Fallen,” the bladesinger said. “I watched the fight through a seeing device. Deniz killed one of the commanders, a man whose flag was red with blue crossed swords, but fell himself, along with Bladesinger Willem.”
Miro remembered Deniz describing Farix, the pirate king of Torian. The captured necromancer said there were two more of these so-called kings. Miro knew Deniz was a skilled swordsman, yet Farix had bested a bladesinger as well as Deniz.
“Here,” Miro said. “Rest. Then go to High Lord Tiesto Telmarran. He will have orders for you.”
Even as Miro mourned the loss of Deniz and the Veldrin and Buchalanti sailors, his mind turned to the coming struggle. Soon his men’s courage would be sorely tested as they watched their friends killed and fought enemies who refused to die.
This was the worst time: the waiting. Miro knew that the longer he could hold, the more time there would be for help to arrive from the other houses.
Yet every day bought from now on would be a day bought with blood.
Miro and Beorn pored over a map of the rugged coastline as they waited to hear from Tiesto.
“They’re not stupid,” Beorn said. “They’ll make landing either here”—he pointed at a place on the map east of Castlemere—“or here.” He marked another place west of Schalberg, between the two cities. “My gilden’s on the latter. Better beaches, shallower water.”
“Do you think they’ll have landing boats?”
“Who can say?” Beorn shrugged. “We’ve never fought a foe like this before. If we were fighting regular soldiers, of course I would say yes, but revenants?”
Miro voiced the one concern he didn’t have a strategy for. “What are we going to do about Sentar Scythran?”
“I’ve told the men to concentrate their ranged fire on him, to try to weaken him. You never know; a lucky shot might get through.”
Miro snorted.
“We’ll have to put our trust in the Lord of the Sky,” Beorn said.
“Are you saying we have to have faith, or do we hope Evrin Evenstar has something planned?”
“Both.” Beorn grinned.
“High Lord?”
Miro and Beorn looked up as one of Miro’s palace guards entered the command tent, a civilian at his side.
“What is it?” Miro asked.
“High Lord, this man comes from Sarostar. I think you should hear what he has to say.”
Miro saw a solid man with thin hair combed over a bald pate.
“High Lord,” the newcomer said gruffly, “I come from Bladesinger Bartolo.”
Miro’s eyes shot up. “Bartolo? Where is he? Dorian’s also missing. Where are they?”
“There . . . there’s been treachery. Some men tried to prevent our signal getting through to the lands in the east.”
Beorn cursed.
“What? Tell me what happened?” Miro demanded.
“Some Tingarans swapped the real prism for a false one.”
“Jehral,” Beorn said. “He said he fought some Tingarans near the river. Now we know what they were doing there.”
“Treachery,” Miro spat. “I didn’t even think of it.” He pounded a clenched fist into his palm.
“Don’t blame yourself—none of us could have known.”
“But we could have guarded the towers.”