Lance of Earth and Sky

Since the awakening of the skyships, Val Harlon's tallest towers, long abandoned, now saw new life. Strange bridges that seemed to lead nowhere proved to be skyway piers; most had not survived, but Endera had taken over a tower near one of the few that did, flying from it the three-flames banner of Sharli. Slender balconies that wrapped the towers in long spirals punctuated by broad open courtyards also disclosed their original purpose: landing platforms and open-air roads where gryphons could spare delicate interior carpets and marbles their sharp talons. A passing rumor in the city held that some enterprising soul had developed woolen knit “gryphon mittens” that allowed safer indoor walking, but rather mysteriously they weren't catching on.

They docked at the pier, which had been marked with small golden elemental lanterns, and Vidarian disembarked with Thalnarra.

As they descended the spiral walkway toward the large, arched door, Thalnarra walked proudly beside Vidarian. It was a somewhat subtle attitude to catch in a gryphon, since they always looked somewhere between angry and proud by dint of sharp-beaked predator faces, but in Thalnarra it was recognizable in the shift of her wings, the length of her stride.

“You've painted your feathers,” Vidarian noticed obediently. It wasn't hard to feign admiration—the golden patterns weren't as tightly executed as they'd been when he first met her, but they were beautiful nonetheless, gilding the tips of the blue-black feathers on the tops of her wings.

Thalnarra's cheek-feathers puffed, pleased. // Brannon's work. He's coming along. //

“Are you sure it was wise to bring him away from his family?”

She turned a narrowed red eye on him without tilting her head. // He's chosen to become a gryphon-ward. It is his life, not theirs. // Vidarian wanted to ask what it meant to be “a gryphon-ward,” exactly, but the pinning of Thalnarra's pupil said that asking would only get him a riddle, and he couldn't muster the will.

An acolyte greeted them at the door, summoned by the sound of claws on the walkway. Slim and spectacled, she bowed deeply to Thalnarra, who dipped her beak in return. // We are here to see Priestess Endera, // Thalnarra said.

“The High Priestess takes luncheon in the solar,” the acolyte said cautiously. “Whom may I say is calling?”

Vidarian looked at Thalnarra, surprised at Endera's new title, but her eyes were fixed intently on the acolyte. Thalnarra's tufted ears lowered just a fraction. The girl had enough experience with gryphons to be intimidated. // Tell her that Thalnarra is here, and the Tesseract, Captain Vidarian Rulorat. //

By now Vidarian was used to priestesses and their ilk ignoring him if there was either a woman or a gryphon around, but the way that they scrambled when they learned who he was still had a bit of sparkle. The girl began apologizing, and Thalnarra gestured with her beak, sending her vanishing back inside the tower with a squeak.

In moments, a different acolyte, this one with gold stripes on the grey sleeves of her robes, came out and immediately ushered them into the tower. In the hall, they were plied with luxuries: a steaming hot towel for Vidarian's face and hands, an oil-rubbed cloth for Thalnarra's feathers, glasses of chilled melon water and a peppery dried venison that gryphons favored. More still they offered: bathing chambers, clothing, meals—but Thalnarra gently insisted that they be taken straight to Endera.

They wound down through the tower to the fifth floor, and then out onto a round rooftop garden enclosed in glass. Endera was there dressed in rich golden robes, sitting at a small, wrought-iron table set with tea, pears, and delicate cress sandwiches. Her carnelian circlet had been replaced by one of silver set with garnets and rubies. She smiled sardonically at Vidarian's theatrically raised eyebrows and waved him to a seat. As they approached, another acolyte entered the solarium bearing a tea service for Vidarian with more cress sandwiches and a plate of seared fish for Thalnarra.

“We're honored to merit the audience of a High Priestess,” Vidarian said, by way of complimenting her promotion with just the right dash of impudence.

Endera stirred fragrant coconut sugar into her tea. “I have you to thank for that.” She lifted her cup to him.

Vidarian took one of the chairs and Thalnarra sat to his left, delicately lifting one of the fish by its tail and swallowing it whole. Endera lifted her own teapot and poured him a cup of tea. “Me?” he asked.

She picked up her own cup again, sipped, and nodded. “The Fire Council believes now that it was Sharli's intention that we should be part of your journey, that our…friction…was part of that path, and that I acted in accordance with the will of the goddess in shaping it. They are here in Val Harlon for my ascension ceremony.”

“Congratulations,” he managed. He looked at Thalnarra, searching for the protocol for a newly promoted priestess, but she was no help at all. She continued eating the fish and actually seemed to be pretending that Endera wasn't there. It seemed she hadn't quite forgiven her for the betrayal that had caused Thalnarra to win a separation from the priestesshood with her pride—by ritual combat.

She waved a hand. “Temple politics. Had I been a High Priestess when we first met, who knows what might have happened?” Delicately she picked up a sandwich—a tiny thing with pressed cream-colored bread and bright greens—and pushed the plate at Vidarian. He took one out of politeness and ate it. The cress was pleasantly peppery. “But come. You said you were in need of friends.” At this, Thalnarra snapped through the body of one of the fish, crunching bones.

As he explained all that had happened—the sky skirmishes with the Qui, the collapse of the Sky Knights, the arrival of Ariadel, the revelation of the imperial finances—a quiet fire visibly ignited in Endera's eyes. She watched Vidarian like a cat stalking prey. He gave as much detail as he dared without disclosing exact statements, or the fact that the emperor had left the city with them. When at last he trailed off, she folded her hands and stared at the table for several long moments. He half expected the plate of sandwiches to burst into flames.

At last Endera gave the slightest shake of her head, waking from a tense meditation. “We've known pieces of this,” she admitted. “Ariadel—sought my help…”

“Where is she?” The words escaped him before conscious thought.

Endera blinked, and her eyes slid over to Thalnarra for only a moment. “She's with Thalnarra's flight—”

Vidarian started to stand, but Endera's hand on his arm, startlingly hot, kept him in his seat.

“You can't go there now,” she said, her circlet sliding lower on her forehead as she frowned. “If half of what you say is true, your ship could only draw attention to their location.”

His free hand came down on the table, rattling the dishes. He looked up in an apology he couldn't bring himself to voice, then rubbed his eyes. “What exactly am I to do, then?”

“We can give you the assistance the imperial court could not afford,” Endera said. In her eyes now was something he never thought he would see: an age, a tiredness, even—regret? Even as he watched, it hardened. “I will personally guarantee it.” When his head jerked with surprise, she smiled sadly. “The priestesshood, despite some miscalculations, has not been so foolish as to chain itself to a mercantile master. And we owe you.”

“Owe me?”

“Well, I owe you for this,” she said, touching her circlet. “And, of course…” She trailed off deliberately, tilting her head.

Vidarian shook his head, not understanding.

Endera waited, then laughed, a surprised golden bell of sound. “Did you ever read the Breakwater Agreement?”


Endera summoned an acolyte—the same one who had first met them, who blushed red when she saw them again—and sent her immediately to convene an emergency session of the Fire Council. If what she'd said was true, it must have been her first time doing so since being added to the council as a High Priestess. As Thalnarra tersely explained, the priestesshood had no more than seven High Priestesses at any given time—one for each of the districts claimed by the Sharlin Temple—and three additional Robed council officers who filled different facilitation roles. In theory these officers, indicated by three different robe colors, were impartial, but—and at this Thalnarra trailed off onto a rapid track of thinking that Vidarian could make out little of other than its anti-human tone.

It took some time to assemble the council, and so they were moved to another hall, this one indoors, wherein the luxuries descended again: scented oils, aromatic steam, imported delicacies. It was never so lavish as he recalled Endera pressing upon him before—attempts he now knew intended to impress and even intimidate—and at any rate anxiety over Ariadel made him stare at the double doors of the council chamber with a wolfish persistence. There was no use pressing Thalnarra on whether she'd known where Ariadel had gone; she had shown no sign when Endera had said so, which meant that she was unsurprised, and also uninterested in commenting.

At last, the council convened, and there was more waiting. Vidarian thought of returning to the ship, but dared not leave the vicinity lest some answer came, or worse, some question to which they needed an answer.

When shadows stretched long across the alabaster tiles, Endera emerged from the tall double doors. She radiated exhaustion, but also a cold determination. “Come with me,” she said, and disappeared back behind the door. Vidarian exchanged a look with Thalnarra, and they followed Endera into the chamber.

The hallway beyond the door was dark, but it quickly opened up into an octagonal chamber lit by beacons that used a system of mirrors to channel sunlight from outside the tower. Each was spaced around the white-walled chamber with geometric precision, and the pale light that slanted through the room as a result created slowly shifting patterns doubtless intended to suggest the movements of fire energy itself. Now that Vidarian had wielded his own fire magic, albeit still crudely, he saw the temple artifacts with new, and humbling, eyes.

Nine fire priestesses—High Priestesses, he corrected himself—sat around the table in the center of the chamber. Six wore golden robes like Endera's, and the remaining three were dressed in burgundy, black, and white. One chair was empty.

The white-robed priestess, a tall, sharp-featured woman with white-blonde hair, held a large, black stone shaped into an octagonal prism, which she now rapped on the polished stone table to call the meeting back to order. She did not bother with a greeting, and Vidarian was at first unsure whether to take it as a slight. “We have brought you into this council meeting to clarify certain matters…Captain.” A slight it was, then.

“Arbiter, you claimed that you had information from Val Imris that would make our decision clear.” Endera's voice was tired, and the leash on her tone tight.

“The Company has released a banner,” the white-robed priestess—the Arbiter, apparently—said. “They say he's kidnapped the emperor.”

“What?” Vidarian managed not to shout only because shock stole the breath from his lungs.

The Arbiter's cold, silver eyes turned toward him. “You deny this, then?”

“Of course I do! Why would I come here if I'd kidnapped him?”

“But you admit that he is on your ship, and not aboard the Empress Cimeria.”

“The Luminous is an imperial vessel—”

“Which, by rights, we should detain until further clarification can come from the Imperial City.”

“By which you mean the Alorean Import Company.”

Thalnarra's cedar-smoke voice was pitched for him alone. // Her family has close ties with the Company. A cousin is one of the western directors, I believe. //

Vidarian focused his thoughts. He still did not quite understand what allowed some gryphons, or seridi, or humans, to speak mind-to-mind and others not, but tried to think as loudly as he could. How many of them have such ties?

// You don't really want the answer to that. //

“I remind the council only for our record,” Endera began, “for surely my fellow councilwomen recall that the Rulorat family entered into an agreement on behalf of the Priestess Aelana Wintermark some seventy-five years ago—”

“We are of course aware of the Breakwater Agreement,” one of the golden-robed priestesses said, “but it cannot outweigh our fealty to the empire, Endera.”

“The priestesshood is beholden only to Sharli,” Endera said.

“In spirit, High Priestess,” the white-robed priestess's cadence implied she was speaking to a child. “Our souls answer to Sharli, but our bodies must be fed, our daughters sheltered.”

“Fed and sheltered by mercantile masters,” Endera finished, venom curling her lip.

“You overstep, High Priestess,” the Arbiter said.

“This is quite disappointing,” Endera said. Her voice was low, dangerous.

The white-robed priestess seemed not to notice. “The needs of the greater priestesshood must outweigh individual concerns.”

“You are of course correct,” Endera said softly. Her palms were flat on the polished table, her eyes fixed somewhere between them. “I am left with only one course of action.” Vidarian watched the Arbiter, and so saw the exact moment when her satisfaction turned to outrage. “The west branch of the priestesshood divides from the mother temple. My priestesses will come with me, or be permitted to transfer to another district.”

“This is madness, Endera!” one of the golden-robed priestesses hissed.

“You've no guarantee any will follow you at all,” the burgundy-robed priestess said, and unlike the others, she seemed genuinely distressed, not angry.

“Madness,” Endera said sharply, and silence cut across the table like a whip, “was allowing the Alorean Import Company to so thoroughly infiltrate and influence matters that should be the exclusive purview of the goddess of sun and fire.” She looked directly at the Arbiter, and the woman nearly rose out of her seat with fury. “I happen to agree with Vidarian. And it is within my authority to split my district from the mother temple when I perceive corruption within her. I have once adhered to the temple's strictures when they did not agree with my own.” Now she looked at Thalnarra, who returned her gaze for the first time since they'd arrived. “I will not do so again.”

Three of the golden-robed priestesses listened to Endera with jaws slack with astonishment. The Arbiter pounded on the table with the stone octagon until Vidarian was sure it would shatter. All of the remaining priestesses except Endera began talking at once, their voices echoing off of the high walls and ceiling.

The black-robed priestess, who had been entirely silent, cleared her throat, which cut through the cacophony instantly. She was old, older than any of the other priestesses, her hands thin-boned like bird claws or fine ginseng. “High Priestess Endera is correct. This divide is within her authority.” She said no more, and after three moments more of silence, the din of voices erupted again.

Endera stood, and the rest of the council stood with her. But they didn't follow as she circled the room toward Vidarian and placed a hand on his shoulder, turning him toward the door. “We should go.” Vidarian looked between her and Thalnarra, dumbfounded. She snapped her fingers. “Now, Vidarian!”

They rushed from the chamber, and Endera brushed the acolytes aside as they converged on her with a flurry of questions. “It won't take them long to relay messages back to Val Imris. How much room have you got in that ship?” Vidarian told her, and she nodded, calculating. Then she barked a quick order, and one of the acolytes produced parchment and stylus. She wrote a message, then ordered it to be copied and distributed. When she was done, she said, “I hope you have somewhere to go, by the way. I'm afraid Sher'azar is rather out of the question.”

“Thalnarra,” Vidarian whispered. “Would you be so kind as to contact the Luminous? Tell them to prepare Marielle's coordinates. Quickly.”


It was not the first time that Vidarian had led a band of refugees fleeing Val Harlon, but he vehemently hoped it would be the last.

“Last time we did this—” Vidarian began.

“You left by land,” Endera said, leaning over the rail of the Luminous to look down through cloud-threaded sky at the city spires dwindling beneath them. “I must say this is rather an improvement.”

“It soon won't be, if the Company reserved any skyships,” Vidarian said, peering down at the clouds through a borrowed spyglass.

“They didn't,” Endera said, satisfaction heavy as honey on her words. “At least not in Val Harlon. There aren't so many of these ships left, you know. Has it occurred to you that you take them for granted?” She was watching him speculatively, as if gauging the potential of a child, or an exotic animal. While he was considering her question, she asked, “Isn't that rather redundant?” indicating the spyglass.

“I've just learned recently that not only can telepathic communications be disrupted even via relay, entire ships can be hidden from telepathic contact if they have the right sort of device on board.”

Endera frowned. “Such devices are exceedingly rare. In their heyday they were contraband.”

“That may explain why Marielle has one,” he muttered, almost to himself. Ever since he'd seen the burly officer reporting to Marielle, the seed of a theory had planted itself in his mind, fed further by the instructions she'd given about her location. But it hardly seemed possible…

“High Priestess,” a voice said from behind them, pulling him out of his thoughts.

They turned, and waiting three steps away was a burgundy-robed fire priestess, a costume that could only ever remind Vidarian of Ariadel. But this priestess otherwise was as far from her as could be, with silver hair cropped short around her face, and large, hazel eyes. She had a look of mischief about her that made her look younger than she probably was, though with priestesses it was usually hard to tell.

“What is it, Ilara?” Endera said. The girl's face was a mask of formality, but Vidarian felt her flinch; he wondered if Endera knew the terror she so casually induced.

Visibly Ilara hardened, summoning boldness. “I have asked my Sisters to begin combat practice,” she said, and quickened when Endera's eyes widened ever so slightly. “I know you wished us to omit such training at Val Harlon, but circumstances have clearly changed.”

Endera watched the other priestess for a long moment, measuring. “You'll need the permission of the quartermistress,” she said, finally.

“I've asked,” Ilara said, and now the quickness of her words was relief. “She directed me to the training space to the rear of the ship.”

“Aft,” Endera corrected. “The training deck.” She sighed, very softly. “Carry on, then.”

Ilara bowed. “Thank you, High Priestess. We won't disappoint you.” She bowed then to Vidarian, and turned to beat a hasty retreat.

“Ilara,” Endera said, and the girl turned back. “Ask the gryphons. Their knowledge of combat techniques far exceeds our own. And don't offend them!” The last she added sternly when the younger priestess lit up at the word gryphon. At Endera's rebuke, she studiously dimmed her expression, bowing and excusing herself to hurry across the deck.

Endera turned back to the rail, her eyes tight with worry. “I've tried to keep them away from combat,” she said. “This ludicrous war business…”

“Qui invaded our southern border,” Vidarian objected.

Endera turned one of those scathing looks on him that said he might amount to something if only he hadn't the wit of a flea. “And surely this isn't the first time Qui has dared aggress, yet for the last hundred years we have found diplomatic solutions. Until now.”

He felt foolish for refusing to believe that the Company alone could be so pivotal in something as titanic as an imperial war—also realizing how much he hadn't wanted to believe that Alorea was capable of such corruption. There was no good answer, and so he returned to searching the clouds, sure any moment he'd find the white sails of imperial pursuit.


The instructions Marielle had sent carried them far west from Val Harlon, out over the open West Sea. Miles and miles they went with only the azure glass curve of the ocean below, correcting course by the stars. They passed beyond even known pirate territory and into the Deep Outwater, past the boundaries of the maps captured from West Sea Kingdom vessels. After three days above the Deep they came upon a ring of knife-reefs that jutted far out of the water—a mark Marielle had described—and one day north from there passed into a wall of mist. The crew of the Luminous steered her skyward, but thin air and straining sails gave way before the weather did.

Thalnarra, Altair, and Isri stood with Vidarian—Rai curled protectively around his feet, cat-claws gripping the deck—at the bow. Altair had tried to repel the mist, but even his formidable ability could not grasp it. At first the gryphons had considered scouting above and below, but it was quickly deemed too hazardous, as there was no guarantee they'd be able to find their way back to the ship.

// Something is creating this, // Altair said, closing his eyes for long stretches as he reached out, trying to find the mist's edge. // Something strong. //

“We're at the location,” Vidarian said, looking at the logbook where one of Malloray's assistants had quickly taken down Marielle's instructions. “We'll have to try to make contact using the relay sphere.”

Isri's eyebrows were drawn down, the closest her beaked face could come to a frown. “Whatever's masking them is equally strong. I should be able to break through, but I can't, not without potentially injuring whomever is hiding them.”

“Or whatever,” Vidarian said, but added, “Better not to risk it.”

The gryphons returned to watching the mist for any sign of opening, and Isri went with Vidarian to the relay chamber. Rai followed close on his heels, shrinking to wolf-shape to more easily fit down the ladder. Ever since Vidarian had returned from his last voyage, Rai had refused to let him out of sight without intense complaint.

They found Iridan and Malloray already in the relay room, and in contact with Marielle.

“She's asked to speak with you and the emperor,” Iridan said, a note of thinly veiled worry in his words.

Moments later, Lirien, looking haggard—the attendants said he'd hardly slept since boarding the Luminous—entered the room, and donned relay lenses. Vidarian did the same.

“You've made good time, sirs,” Marielle said, once again in the hauntingly familiar stateroom.

“Skyships do that,” Vidarian said, cutting around formality. “We're rather taken aback by the weather, though.”

“The mistwall,” Marielle agreed. “A formality, but a necessary one, I'm afraid. Before we lower it, I'll need your word, Vidarian, that whatever you see here will not under any circumstance be reported back to Val Imris.” She turned and gave a slight bow to the emperor. “And your word as well, Emperor Lirien.”

Lirien stiffened slightly, affronted at her audacity. He looked at Vidarian, pressing his unhappiness into a glance.

A chill tickled up Vidarian's spine, combated by his trust in Marielle, whatever mysterious role she now held. The thought that they—whomever she was with—controlled the “mistwall” was both unsurprising and unsettling. “We're well within their territory already, your majesty,” he said slowly. “If you had an envoy from a foreign nation at the palace, you would ask the same.”

“This presumes the West Sea Kingdom to be a sovereign nation,” the emperor said, his mild tone saying that he wasn't objecting, merely making it clear to Vidarian that his agreement to Marielle's request represented a concession that the Alorean Empire had not made toward the Sea Kingdoms in over a century.

“They are our friends,” Vidarian said. “Or can be.”

The emperor inclined his head, closing his eyes for a long moment. When he raised them, it was with a mask of a dynasty's pride and authority, and also its weariness. “You have my word.”

Vidarian let out a breath he didn't realize he was holding. “And mine.”

Marielle smiled, gently, a friend's relief. “Then I bid you welcome, and advise you to return atopships. You'll want to watch the landing.”

Malloray sent messages to the crew to prepare for the descent, and Vidarian turned to Isri, whose neck-feathers puffed in a shrug. Her eyes lost their focus. “I can see them,” she said, then blinked with surprise. “All of them!”

They hurried back to the top deck to watch the landing as instructed. Even as they ascended the main ladder, the mist was parting around them, giving way to blindingly blue sky.

As the ship descended, the gryphons fanned out their wings, letting the updraft carry them light as dandelion seeds into the air. They arced out around the ship, circling—and each uttered an aquiline whistle of surprise when their sharp eyes picked out what lay far below them.

“What do you see?” Vidarian shouted.

// It's—a city! // Altair replied, struggling for words.

They were descending fast, and before Vidarian could press for a better answer, he saw for himself.

There were ships down on the water's surface, large ones—but spread out between them and stretching beyond for leagues was a network of floating piers, stationary rafts, and walkways. The rafts came in all shapes and sizes, some of which, incredibly, carried pyramids of soil studded with crops, or multistory chicken coops. Sailors walked the piers on errands, or caroused, or worked; merchants plied wares on a particular set of rafts; children raced and leapt from pier to raft to walkway with the alacrity and fearlessness of youth.

Altair was right. It was a city. A floating city.

The largest ship among them floated some distance from the rest, accessed via a wide pier decorated with banners. The flag of the West Sea Kingdom flew from its highest mast—it was the Viere d'Inar. Ruby's ship.

As they descended, a pair of sailors with small hand-flags waved them to a pier not far from the Viere. The ship turned serenely toward it, and in minutes, they were lowering the gangplank.

Vidarian descended to the pier first, even as Thalnarra and Altair landed on wider open spots on the pier. Isri followed him, and Iridan, Lirien, and Malloray.

A small group of three met them at the end of the pier. Two were officers—one of them being the big man weighted down with weaponry that they'd seen on relay—and the third was Marielle.

It was all Vidarian could do to not to rush straight to her. When he thought of all that had happened, and the tortuous echo of the destruction of the Quest from when he'd last seen her, chained and escorted by Endera's fire priestesses—the sight of her here, hale, free, stung his eyes. But he blinked measuredly, reached for professionalism. As they drew closer, the big man at her right stepped forward.

“I present Queen Marielle, Captain of the Viere d'Inar, Admiral of the Free Armada, sovereign of the West Sea.”

Marielle's—Queen Marielle's—familiar smile twitched at the corner of her lips, tired and amused by the world all at once. “Welcome to Rivenwake, Captain Rulorat.”