The warlock clapped him on the shoulder. They continued down the stairwell in silence.
The courtyard outside the tower swarmed with knights, winged mounts, and engines of war. A great force had been drawn up before the war gates. The largest company was comprised of knights on griffons. The griffons wore silver barding, and the knights wielded crystalline lances.
Some of the griffons were hitched to chariot-like conveyances outfitted with ballistae, catapults, and a few devices Raidon didn’t recognize. Two griffons overshadowed all the others, and their pelts seemed equal parts feather and frost. Plumes of cooled air rolled from their nostrils with each breath.
The knight who had met them at the gate turned up at the monk’s elbow.
“This way!” she said, leading them to a chariot designed to carry soldiers. Four archers were already aboard-one at each corner.
An eladrin in red robes and a flaring collar was also aboard. A thick tome hung off his belt on a golden chain.
The knight said, “Dayereth, these are-”
“I know who they are, though I can hardly believe it,” the robed eladrin said. “Who would have thought the Lady of the Moon had a child? Unthinkable! But, here you are, nonetheless. Anyway, come, come aboard! I’m honored to have you in my chariot. I’m Dayereth.”
Japheth shot the monk a quick look. Raidon guessed the warlock’s unstated thought was something along the lines of, “What’s going on with this fellow?”
Raidon shrugged to the warlock, and stepped up into the chariot. Japheth coughed, then followed.
Instead of seats, the transport was outfitted with several upright metal poles fixed to the floor. Hand grips jutted from the poles at shoulder height. The archers, disdaining the hand holds, were loosely attached to their poles with tethers.
Dayereth pointed at the monk. “You are obviously Raidon, progeny of our lady,” he said. “My, my-you really do have a Cerulean Sign stitched to you! How did that happen? And what’s this I hear about your sword? It contains the soul of a Keeper of the old order?”
Raidon blinked. The eladrin’s rapid fire speech could prove a trial. “Dayereth, suffice it to say I’ve enjoyed interesting times over the last decade or so,” he said. “Once we defeat the Sovereignty, there will be time for long tales.”
“Listen,” broke in Japheth. “You seem to be familiar with us-Raidon, at least-but what’s your story?”
The man grinned and pointed at his book. “I’m a wizard of uncommon strength,” he said. “The Spellplague may have changed magic, but I’ve charted entirely new paths to arcane power that far outstrips what I could do when the Weave was in place, holding us back.”
“Ah,” said Japheth. “That’s nice … Probably another long story we’d love to hear after this is all taken care of.”
“But I’d be delighted to tell you more right now!” the eladrin said.
Raidon felt his focus fraying.
Japheth raised hand. “No! I mean, uh, no,” he said. “I have a question first, about these chariots. One griffon is really enough to pull them into the air?”
The wizard waved a hand. “Magic went into each chariot’s making,” he said. “A single flying steed can draw one with ease. I worked on the ritual myself, as a matter of fact. It wasn’t too-”
Notes blared from a hundred horns. Japheth sighed with relief; Raidon felt the same. Anything to shut the odd wizard up.
Raidon glanced at the war gates. They remained steadfastly closed.
He chided himself-what need did a flying armada have for gates?
The griffons screamed a chorus of piercing hunting calls and took to the air. The chariot jerked forward into a storm of beating wings and rushing air. Raidon was glad for his grip.
“Forever’s Edge!” Dayereth yelled. He waved one hand, and a golden light shot out before them.
Their chariot cleared the top of the wall by just a few feet, its wheels spinning without purchase. They passed out over the dark plain in a wide curve. Their griffon was momentarily silhouetted by the Feywild gleam on the horizon before the view rotated as they followed a curving flight path. A moment later, and they were aimed directly into the void.
A wedge of mounted knights took the lead with their crystalline lances drawn. Each lance produced illumination like Dayereth’s conjured light. The two larger griffons with hoarfrost pelts flew on either side of the vanguard.
The remaining knights and chariots drew up in discreet squads behind. Their own chariot was nearer to the front of the flying platoon than the rear, and higher than most of the others too. From their vantage, Raidon saw occasional flashes of light emerging from the depths of the dark abyss falling away before them, and in those brief flashes, images of writhing horror.
“Look!” Japheth said, pointing. “They’re all emptying out.”
Raidon saw platoons issuing from the other watchtowers, billowing up into the darkness beyond the cliff face like dust in the wind.
The gathered armada of Forever’s Edge flung itself into the void.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
The Year of the Secret (1396 DR)
Over the Edge
White light splintered the heavens. Thunder tumbled like crashing stones. But Anusha’s gaze was riveted on Malyanna, and the Dreamheart in her hands.
A seam on the stone parted, revealing an unblinking eye old past understanding. The fey woman peered into that mind-shattering gaze and laughed.
The world parted, bleeding darkness. Xxiphu fell through the wound, and out of the world.
The link connecting Anusha’s dreamform with her body snapped as taut as a hangman’s rope at the bottom of its drop. She was jerked off the balcony and back into the waking world, back to the safety of Green Siren.
Something hard struck her forehead. Anusha opened her eyes. The entire room was spinning, tumbling, including her! A horrible roaring, tearing sound vibrated through the hull.
The room continued to rotate, and she found herself on the ceiling, then on the opposite wall. She banged her elbow hard against the doorframe. A brush, a pitcher, pieces of loose parchment, quills, and clothing leaped through the air. The pitcher just missed her head, and smashed against the door frame. An old belt buckle pelted her stomach.
“What’s going on?” she yelled. Her voice was drowned out by the sound of Green Siren’s hull crumbling.
“Yeva?” she called.
When she’d fallen into her dream, her friend had agreed to watch over her, and wake her up if her sleep looked troubled. But Yeva was not in the cabin. Although a human-sized hole gaped in the ceiling, near the door, about the size a woman made of metal might make …
A sound of cracking wood somewhere beneath the floor jerked her attention back to her wheeling cabin.
The bureau and her traveling chest remained fixed to the wall and the floor. But for how long? The fastenings holding them were for rough seas, not wholesale flipping end over end. She was surprised the ship hadn’t come apart already.
Wetness trickled on her scalp. She ran her fingers through her hair, and they came away with a faint blush of blood.
Beyond her door came the plaintive sound of people calling out in surprise, in dismay, and for someone to help them.
No one was going to help them. Or her.
Anusha closed her eyes, and willed her dreamform to emerge.
A sharp sting in her knee jerked her eyes wide open. Before she could identify what had hit her, the washbasin struck her. A piece of loose board barely missed blinding her.
“It’s impossible!” she said. She couldn’t summon the concentration to fall asleep while her life was being battered from her. Panic clawed at her stomach and her chest. She’d never felt less like sleeping.
A glint of purple pulled her eyes up.