Word of a new King on the Cliffs had come to D’zan months ago, and then a few months later the news that the Feathered Serpent himself had removed the new King and replaced him with a bastard sired by Undutu. A strange decision, but Khama must have his reasons. His power would overrule any objections to such an heir. The folk of Yaskatha would never accept a bastard ruler, and there was no revered Feathered Serpent there to change their minds about it. D’zan put thoughts of Theskalus from his mind as the sparkling domes of the Pearl City dwindled in the wake of the Cointosser.
Sailing along the established trade routes took longer than braving the open ocean, but it helped ensure the safety of any ship. Today, as in all the nine days previous, the sky and sea were calm and a good wind filled the sails. Soon the ship would turn its prow west toward the wizard’s isle, and then would come the ring of storms.
D’zan passed the gentle days reading Lyrilan’s biography of Dairon the First. In the evenings he gathered with Andolon in the captain’s cabin and played at dice. A minstrel named Yudun entertained them with harp, flute, and bawdy tales as they drank fine wines from the Jade Isles. D’zan enjoyed the young lord’s company, and that of Andolon’s cousin Hammon. The lad was only fifteen but possessed all the wit of a lord twice his age. Between Hammon’s jokes, Yudun’s tales, and Andolon’s good wine, D’zan found himself enjoying the voyage. Yet at the end of each night he was left alone in his cabin with his churning thoughts, his burning memories, and his doubt.
The evening of the fifteenth day saw a dark wall of stormclouds rushing toward the ship. Rain came in gusts, pelting the decks and ripping at the sails. D’zan spent the next three days inside his cabin while Andolon and his crew battled the storms. They must have come deep into the Shaper’s territory by now. A natural storm would have broken after a day or two. The ship rocked incessantly, and D’zan’s nightmares rose like Sea Serpents to tear apart his sleep. A sailor was swept over the railing and lost on the third day of storms.
The fifth day into the ring of storms dawned gray and windy, yet calm and dry. A cry from the crow’s nest brought D’zan from his cabin, stomach queasy and feet unsteady on the deck. He could still feel the ship moving and swaying beneath him, even though his eyes told him it sat steady upon the water. On the horizon a small green chunk of land had appeared.
Andolon clapped his hands together. “There’s your wizard isle, Majesty.” The young lord smiled and rubbed the stubble of his chin. “The Sea God smiles upon us.”
By midday the Cointosser had made the island. Bright birds filled the sky above thick groves of palm and cypress. A citadel of white stone rose from the eastern shore, hemmed by a range of forested hills. Three slim towers stood at the keep’s center, their cupolas bright with jewels inset into clever patterns. Pitted stone gargoyles perched on the ramparts.
A long and narrow cove welcomed the Cointosser. At its end was no dock or wharf, but only a set of weedy stairs rising from the black water toward the citadel’s main gate. There was no sign of guardian or sentinel along the white walls. The sailors eyed the stony grotesques along the battlements as if the monsters might spring to life at any moment. They might indeed do such a thing if Iardu willed it, D’zan mused. He did not share this thought with the nervous crew.
Andolon ordered a rowboat dispatched so that a small party might approach the stair. The forestland was so thick and the cliffs so steep that no other approach to the keep was possible.
“I must go alone,” D’zan said. His guards objected, as did Andolon, but he commanded them all to silence. Then he followed the path of their wide eyes past his shoulder and turned to see what had captured their attention. At the summit of the salt-crusted stairway stood a woman in a robe of white silk. Her hair was long, dark, and curly. Even from this distance D’zan recognized the emerald glare of her eyes.
Sharadza. He had guessed she would be here. She had made no secret of her choice to join Iardu on his island. Perhaps it was her magic that had guided his ship through the ring of storms.
The crew lowered D’zan alone into the small boat, seeing now there was no evident threat to his person. He rowed it toward the stair with anxious strokes, then mounted each of the slippery steps until he stood before her. Sharadza’s presence stole his breath away, as it had always done. The supple skin of her cheeks held a rosy hue, and he longed to kiss her scarlet lips. Yet he had lost the right to do so. It was perhaps his greatest mistake, letting her go. Greater even than sailing his fleet to its doom at Ongthaia.