and her weapons, while all Adrian needed to defend herself was the craft. Moreover, the two women bore not the slightest physical resemblance to one another. They were an odd couple, but one that commanded respect from friend and foe alike.
Clearly the prettier of the two, Tyranny was tall with an attractive figure. Her short, dark, urchinlike hair moved with every turn of her head. Her wide, dark blue eyes rested above high cheekbones. She wore tight striped pants, a short leather jacket with a high collar, and worn knee boots. A gold hoop earring dangled from each earlobe. A sword hung at her left hip, and a sheathed dagger lay tied to her right thigh. A brass spyglass hung across her chest from a leather strap around her neck. Even her pungent cigarillos seemed to suit her rakish nature.
In contrast, the First Sister was short and plump. Her dark red acolyte’s robe, tied around the middle with the traditional black knotted cord, did little to change that impression. She had a pleasant but unremarkable face, soft brown eyes, and loads of curly sandy hair. What she lacked in stature she more than compensated for with dignity, bravery, and an ever-growing command of the craft. As the First Sister of the acolytes and a respected member of the Conclave, she was quickly becoming a force to reckon with.
Tyranny took another sip of tea. “You and the other acolytes have done well,” she said. “I didn’t know whether you could empower the ships all night, but you did. I also see that you four have acquired the ability to fly the ships while walking about and doing other things as well. Before now I had seen only Wigg, Faegan, and Jessamay do that.”
“Thank you,” Adrian answered. “The craft is much like anything else. The more one practices, the better one becomes.” Reaching into her robe, she produced three small parchments and offered them to the privateer. “You should know that I just heard from the other sisters by way of Minion messengers. They are exhausted, but they should be able to empower the ships the rest of the way to the coast.”
Tyranny decided that there was no need for her to read the messages. Instead, she nodded her understanding and took another pull on her cigarillo. She turned to look aft, down theTammerland ’s seemingly endless topside. Although Tyranny had been commanding these great vessels for more than a year, they still held her in awe.
Each ship was an inky black color and built largely of magically enhanced hardwoods held together with cast iron fittings. They had been constructed by the late Directorate of Wizards more than three centuries ago, during the height of the Sorceresses’ War. The vessels were largely impervious to battle damage and could survive tremendous storms. With ten full masts each and spars as thick around as several tree trunks combined, every ship was easily quadruple the size of a standard man-of-war.
Each vessel held eight full lower decks, allowing for the simultaneous transport of thousands of Minion warriors and enough food, water, supplies, and weapons to fight a protracted sea campaign. A massive hinged door took up the stern of each ship. The doors could be opened and lowered to a safe distance above the waves much the same way a drawbridge could be lowered from within the walls of a castle. Even the sails were black, and each was adorned in its center with a bright red image of the Paragon. Hundreds of male and female warriors swarmed over her topside, masts, and spars, and among her eight lower decks.
Despite their massive size, the ships’ greatest advantage was their amazing speed. They could sail atop the waves like normal vessels, and when they did their progress was astounding. But when taken aloft and empowered by a trained mystic, the sea drag on their hulls was eliminated and their airspeed was even greater, easily rivaling that of the swiftest Minion fliers. At one time crossing the Sea of Whispers had taken at least thirty days. Now the voyage could be done in less than six. The ships could soar with equal efficiency over land.
On Tristan’s orders, four massive wooden cradles were being built on the palace grounds so that the ships could rest in them and be easily maintained, supplied, and taken aloft at a moment’s notice. When Tyranny had word that the cradles were finished, she would order the vessels overland to their new resting places. She smiled wryly as she imagined the incongruous sight. Like fish out of water, she thought, and sighed. With the ships stationed full time in their cradles, she would probably give in for good and stay in her luxurious palace quarters permanently.
Just then the two women heard the warning bell ring out three times from theTammerland ’s forwardmost crow’s nest. Because of the vessels’ great size, when a warrior shouted out from so high above, his or her voice was often lost to the elements. Recognizing the problem, Tyranny had worked out a series of bell signals. Three loud clangs meant that land had been sighted off the bow.
The Minion scouts I ordered aloft two hours ago have finally sighted land, she realized, and they have returned to inform the warriors manning the crows’ nests. Grasping her spyglass, she pulled open its brass cylinders and looked to the west.
As was often the case at dawn, the Cavalon Delta bay was heavily shrouded in fog. Tyranny lowered the spyglass, thinking. She had two choices. She could order the ships to fly in circles as she waited for the rising sun to burn away the fog. They could then approach the coast with confidence and moor the fleet. But she also knew that the acolytes needed rest, and she was eager to get the ships down as soon as possible.
The second choice was to set the ships atop the waves straightaway, then take soundings as they cautiously approached the coast through the fog. When the depth was right they would lower the anchors and let the ships swivel into the wind, digging their anchor blades firmly into the seabed.
As Tyranny considered her options, Traax walked up. He was accompanied by Scars, Tyranny’s giant first mate, who had been with her long before she became a member of the Conclave. The two had heard the warning bells.
Tyranny lowered her glass and looked at Scars. “Your opinion?” she asked.
Scars rubbed his chin, thinking. To those who did not know him well, his fearsome appearance overshadowed his sharp, seafaring mind. At nearly seven feet tall he seemed more like some freak of nature than a human being. His head was shaven and he wore only ripped trousers with no belt. His feet were continually bare. When asked why, his only response was that bare soles gave him a better feeling for the movements of the great ship. A ragged scar-the result of wrestling sharks during his youth-ran down his forehead, near one eye and down the length of his left cheek. Yet more such scars graced his arms and chest.
“I say we descend and take soundings,” he answered, in his unexpectedly erudite way. “The sisters are near exhaustion. Should they lose control, the result might be unpleasant. Besides, my sailor’s bones tell me that the fog bank does not extend all the way to the waves.”
“I agree,” Tyranny said. She turned to look at Traax.
The Minion second in command was an even more fearsome presence than Scars. Tall and muscular, he was also clean shaven-something of a rarity among male warriors. Long dark hair fell down behind his back and was secured with a bit of worn leather string. With his dark wings folded behind his back, his leather body armor in place, and his dreggan and returning wheel hung at opposite hips, everything about him suggested sudden death. To know Traax was to also know of his legendary devotion to hisJin’Sai.
Everyone was eager to return to Tammerland, but Traax’s wish to make his way home ran especially high. Just three months ago he had become a husband. His new wife, the warrior-healer Duvessa, eagerly awaited him at the palace. These sea trials had been the first time he had left her side since the wedding, and he missed her keenly.
The couple had been wed by theJin’Sai personally. During the ceremony, Shailiha’s daughter, Morganna, had been the bearer of the two jeweled pins that symbolized the betrothed warriors’ love for each other. Traax was a member of the Conclave, and Duvessa commanded all the female warrior-healers, an elite cadre of fighting women who were expert healers as well. As Tyranny looked into Traax’s eyes she understood how badly he wanted to get home. But there was still work to do.
“Traax, when we reach the sea, have your warriors take soundings,” she ordered. “I want the depth called out in one-fathom intervals. Have all the sails furled and tied off.”
Traax nodded. Tyranny knew the waters of the Cavalon Delta like the back of her hand. By the changing depths alone, she would be able to gauge the fleet’s nearness to the coast and keep the ships from running aground.
“Send three warriors aloft and have them deliver a message to the other acolyte pilots,” she continued. “Tell them that we are going to descend through the fog and land on the waves. When they see us start down, they are to follow. They must stay close enough to continually see us.” She shot a sly smile at Adrian, then looked back at Traax.
