having no guide at all.
But most important of all, Tylar had another reason to point his arm toward the castillion rising above the mists. He preferred not to enter the forbidden hinterlands with a ravening god at his back.
Obeying his silent command, the ship smoothly banked out over the wide jungle, turning its stern toward the smolder, and aimed for the tallest tree in the forest. With the dying fire behind them, the spread of cloud forest appeared like a vast emerald lake, swept by fog, untouched. And as the sun climbed above the horizon, the mists thinned, slowly revealing the breadth of canopy and the fervent vitality of the steaming and damp jungle beneath. It was a pristine world, beyond man and god. Seeing it like this, Tylar wondered how it even could burn-and who would be coldhearted enough to let it.
Brant joined him. “In the shadow of the Huntress’s castillion, a large bowled meadow lies open to the sky. It should be wide enough to land the flippercraft.”
Tylar nodded across the deck. “Inform Captain Horas. Help guide him to the spot.”
As the boy left, Tylar turned to discover that others had gathered here, the remainder of their party, drawn by their approach into Saysh Mal.
Krevan’s woman, Calla, had entered and stood at her leader’s shoulder, staring out toward the spread of misty jungle. Though she still wore the gray cloak of her guild, she had shed her ash for this voyage, a rare sign of trust. Tylar had been surprised to find her skin as pale as milk, softening her considerably, until you looked into her eyes. They remained as hard as agates and as sharp as the daggers at her wrists. She may have washed her face, but she was still a Flagger at heart.
Filling the doorway was the last member of their party, the loam-giant Malthumalbaen. Tylar had spent the previous morning talking to the man. While the giant’s tongue might be thick and coarse, there was a quick wit about him-though perhaps tinged a bit more darkly by his brother’s passing. Still, a certain easy companionship developed between them, a balm for Tylar’s own misgivings. Perhaps sensing this, the giant had filled the emptiness with tales of his brother’s exploits, mostly involved with the bottomless pit that was his brother’s belly.
With everyone gathered, Tylar spoke to the group. “Once we land, we’ll leave the mekanicals stoked high in case a hurried departure is necessary. Krevan and I will inspect the state of the immediate area. The rest will remain with the ship.”
Malthumalbaen spoke from the doorway. “Mayhap I should go with. A strong arm may serve where a quick sword fails.”
Tylar bowed his head at the offer. “I would prefer that strong arm guard the ship and those inside.”
Other objections were voiced Tylar held up his hand and dismissed each in turn. “Lorr, I know your skills at tracking, but even in the best of moods, the Huntress has forbidden the Grace-bred from her lands. Calla, your gray cloak is no match to our shadowcloaks. And Dart, I will be bringing more than just Rivenscryr.” He patted his belt, where a diamond-pommeled sword was sheathed, a shadowknight’s blade. “And I have a tiny repostilary of your blood should it prove necessary to anoint the Godsword.”
He turned to Rogger.
The thief held up his own hand. “I’m fine with staying inside the flippercraft.”
“Keep the skull hidden,” Tylar said.
“What skull?”
Tylar rolled his eyes and swung back forward. The ship sailed over the treetops, skimming mists. He stepped over to join Captain Horas and Brant.
“The Grove lies below the castillion. On its east side. See the shadow cast by the rising sun?” Brant pointed to the marker. “That’s where we want to go.”
As the pilot corrected their glide, Tylar’s gaze followed where the shadow pointed, farther off to the west. The blaze of the morning sun stretched across the valley to ignite two of the tallest peaks in the western range, pinnacles so steep that even the creeping vines could not scale them. The bare rock, rich in salts and crystals, captured the sun’s rays and ignited with fire.
Brant noted where he looked. “The Forge,” he said. “The two peaks are named the Hammer and the Anvil.”
“With the fire between,” Tylar said.
“They flare at sunrise and at sunset,” Brant mumbled, plainly drawn into old memories. “In the forests near the Forge-that is where the rogue god burnt to ash.”
Tylar tried to spy the spot, but the ship rolled back around, putting the Forge astern.
It took another quarter bell to reach the ancient pompbonga-kee. The mists below remained thick, gathered close around the leafy crown of the forest. The tree’s shadow stretched across the white shroud.
Brant spoke in low whispers to the captain.
Horas was not so quiet. “And you’re sure there is an open glade below? We’ll be dropping in blind.”
“I’m sure.”
“The boy’s right,” Rogger said, sneaking up behind them in his soft boots. “A great big empty hollow full of weeds and low scrub bushes.”
Brant glanced to him, pained. “Last I saw it, the hollow of the Grove was a rolling meadow of green grasses and flowers.”
Tylar cut in. “Either way, it is the only open space within a hundred reaches of the castillion.”
Both Rogger and Brant nodded.
“Then take us down, Captain Horas. Right through the tip of the tree’s shadow.”
By now, everyone had gathered to the rails on either side of the pilot’s spar. Captain Horas called orders to his four-man crew, the additional hand gained in Broken Cay. The pilot worked wheel and pedals, deftly adjusting the aeroskimmers to float them over the shadow, and slowly they sank into the mists.
Sunlight lost its sharp glare, then grew ever dimmer. It was as if they were descending into a twilight sea. Still, the water in the mists captured enough of the surface brilliance to bathe the ship in a suffusing glow. Around them, shadowy giants appeared ahead and to both sides.
“The Graces,” Brant announced. “The giant pompbonga-kee that make up the Grove.”
The captain shied from these ghostly behemoths, blindly feeling for the glade’s center.
Finally, the potbellied keel of the flippercraft dropped below the cloud layer. There was little time to react or call out further orders. The ground rose quickly, appearing suddenly.
The pilot hauled on the wheel to raise the aeroskimmers high. They did not want to break any of the control paddles. The Eye fell toward the field below.
Tylar captured only a harried glimpse of the hollow. Cloaked in mist and shadowed by the height of the giant sentinels, the Grove remained in a perpetual gloom. All he managed to see was a strange bristling across the slopes of the bowl. Then the Eye slammed into the ground with a teeth-jarring bump, burying the view in tall grasses.
Tylar heard a slight crackling as they hit, like the snap of branches, but there was no pop of plank or loud crack of broken paddle. Everyone was silent for a long moment, as if unsure they were still among the living and afraid to ruin the illusion.
Then Captain Horas barked an order, readying his crew to check the state of the flippercraft.
Tylar forced his fingers to loosen their grip on the railing.
They’d made it.
Krevan caught his eye. “We should not tarry. Our arrival will not go unnoted for long. The quicker we’re out and lost in shadow, the better we’ll know what we face.”
As a group, they vacated the captain’s deck and retreated to the rear. Krevan crossed to the side hatch and began unscrewing the latch. Faces sought portholes. Tylar joined them.
He pressed his forehead against the frame of one of the tiny windows. The mist seemed to have been sucked down with their passage. There was nothing to see beyond a swirling murk.
Frowning, he returned to Krevan, who shouldered the hatch open and flipped down the small ladder. It struck the ground with a rattle, then settled.
They listened for a long breath. The world beyond lay quiet. No trill of birdsong. Not even a buzz and whir of winged nits and natterings. Had their landing hushed the realm?
“Ready?” Krevan asked, pulling up the hood of his cloak.
