went chromium with the dawn. Caliph remembered phrases:
“Caliph?”
“Sorry. I’m … tired.” He stood up and stretched. “You’re absolutely sure you want to come?”
“You already asked that.”
He rubbed his temples. “I know. It’s just that this trip might not be perfectly
“Important one. I know.”
“You could say that.”
“There’s a lot riding on this trip, Caliph.” The way she said it made it sound more like a warning than an acknowledgment.
“All right. But we have to leave by twelve.”
“My ships are ready.”
“Ships?”
She sat back. “I’m taking the
“I see. So we’re taking three … three airships,” he spread his pinkie, ring and middle finger like an array of weapons, “when we only need one? Why do we … I mean, why do
She stood up, walked over to him and draped her hands around his head. Despite a cup of loring tea, the scent of her breath remained almost perfectly neutral. “Caliph, you’re bringing the Pandragonian priestess. I haven’t asked you why.”
It felt like she had punched him. “How did you know that?”
She breathed—which he knew was a presentment—and closed her eyes. When her lids slid shut she looked almost exactly as he remembered her from college. But when her lashes unzipped, like black vinyl, they revealing glistening alien pools.
“Trust me,” she said.
But he couldn’t.
“You know I brought you something,” she said. “But you were so upset the other night, I didn’t give it to you.”
“Oh? Was it a birthday present?”
She nodded and her fingers produced a wooden carving that resembled his collection of tiny figurines in the high tower’s display case—except that this one’s workmanship was not as elegant. It was a man with a young girl on his shoulders.
“Thank you.” It was nice of her to remember his fondness for those wooden figurines but she apparently lacked understanding. He was not a collector. The set in the high tower was not an array of pieces purchased from upscale shops. He kept them because of the person who …
Caliph’s heart skipped. He turned the thing over and saw the familiar words carved into the piece’s base.
“For Caliph.” The same that marked each of his other figurines.
He felt elation and confusion at the same time as he pictured how Cameron’s hands must have aged, how whittling a hunk of wood must have grown more difficult with the years—
“You saw him? You went to Nifol?” Caliph interrupted his own thoughts.
Sena nodded.
The dream man had left Stonehold just before the war, heading for the warm south. But this carving pulled him back across the miles. Caliph stroked the wood lovingly with his thumb. Upon closer inspection, the carving seemed to be of Caliph himself. He noticed how Cameron’s knife had picked out the smile of the girl on his shoulders with particular care.
Sena had told him nothing about her trip. Ten months of mystery. The casket-shaped boxes unloaded from the
Well, now he knew one more thing.
Seneschal Vicunt knocked on the parlor door. Caliph recognized the two-stroke tap, light-handed and expressly unobtrusive. He slipped the wooden carving into the pocket of his long coat. Sena withdrew her arms from around his neck and walked slowly back to the glass coffee table where she retrieved her cup.
“Pardon me,” said the seneschal as Caliph opened the door. “There’s a diplomatic package here, addressed to the lady of the castle. It’s from the Grand Arbiter that’s been holding rallies in Gas End.”
Caliph glanced over his shoulder to where Sena stood, blowing across her cup, watching him.
“It’s a bit heavy.” Vicunt’s voice communicated strain.
Caliph opened the door and directed him to bring it in.
The seneschal placed it on one end of the coffee table. It was a square wooden box, roughly two feet on a side and eight inches deep. The label bore the diplomatic seal and was clearly addressed to Sena.
A strange aroma surrounded it. It smelled of ointments and spice.
Caliph lifted a butter knife and offered it to Sena, gesturing for her to break the seal.
She sipped her tea and did not respond.
“You’re not going to open it?”
“No. Take it out and bury it.”
“Bury it?” Caliph smiled quizzically. “What’s in it?”
“Nothing good,” she said.
Caliph brandished the knife at the seal but Sena only shrugged. A pavid chill crawled across his back. It was addressed to her. He had no right to open it.
“You know what’s in it?”
“Take it out and put it in the ground,” she said again. “The Church of Kosti Vinish feels threatened by me. If you open it, it’ll be public knowledge … and it will derail our reason for going to the conference.”
Caliph hesitated, still holding the knife. He could not fathom what the box might contain that would prevent him from going to the conference. He looked at Sena’s unreadable blue eyes, hovering an inch above her cup. Finally he put the knife down. “Drown?”
“Yes, your majesty?”
“No one opens it. Take it out to the bogs. Make sure it’s never found.”
Drown bit his lip nervously. He approached the box with brand-new, highly-visible dread, picked it up in both arms and hauled it from the room.
“See,” she said after he had left. Caliph scowled at her. “You
CHAPTER
10
Suspicion nagged Taelin. Her invitation to accompany the High King’s entourage bore the stink of contrivance. Especially since the high-profile conference in Sandren was going to be the first real forum between the Tebesh Plateau and what was collectively known as the Hinterlands in over eighty years. Her father had instilled in her an awareness for what he called
On the other hand, Taelin had come north with a keen understanding of her social status. Her whole goal in transforming St. Remora into a mission home was to gain the attention of the crown.
In light of how her journey had unfolded thus far, it was only natural that the crown would seize the opportunity to pose her next to itself. And that was precisely where she wanted to be. Only from such a position of privilege would she have access to Sena Iilool, to the possibility of persuading her to denounce the groups that had
