The Key to Creation (42 page)

The scholar feebly reached out a hand, still trying to stop them. He stared upward as they smashed and pummeled the model. They had nearly finished by the time the life faded from his eyes.

Tierran Military Camp,
Ishalem Wall

A pasty-faced Subcomdar Hist roused the queen, urgently reporting something about a raid, Mateo, Destrar Shenro, and other soldiers. Barely able to process what the man was saying, Anjine threw on a robe and emerged from her tent.

“Subcomdar Bornan is seriously injured, Majesty,” Hist said. “He’s with the Saedran physicians.”

The camp was beginning to stir like a bashed hornets’ nest. Riders returned, groaning and blood-spattered, many of them wounded. Her mind racing, she absorbed the chaos in an instant. “We’re going to the medical tent—now!” She pushed past him into the cold morning and the smell of campfires. “How great are his injuries?”

“He is alive, Majesty. Beyond that, I have no details.”

Two steps ahead of the army leader, Anjine hurried through the milling soldiers, past the corral where the patrol horses were kept at night. Most of them were gone.

Because the Tierran army had not yet engaged in major battles, the canvas tents erected as field hospitals were being used primarily for temporary storage. So far during the months of siege, the doctors had tended illnesses, sprains, broken bones from misadventure, and cuts and contusions the soldier-trainees received during daily sparring practice.

With the unexpected flood of wounded, army workers moved supply crates out of the medical tents and set up cots and tables. Saedran physicians hurried to the hospital tents as the injured soldiers were brought in; they grabbed their instruments and called for rags and suture strings to be boiled, cauterizing irons heated.

As Anjine raced toward the medical tents, Hist added as many details as he knew, although the information was sparse and contradictory. She barely heard him through the fears swirling in her head. “How could this happen? You’re the subcomdar of the army! Why wasn’t I informed of this foolish assault?”

“I was not informed myself, Majesty. This was an impulsive act concocted by Subcomdar Bornan and Destrar Shenro. Jenirod was apparently involved as well. We’re still debriefing the returning soldiers as to what this was all about.”

Anjine swore under her breath. “What were they
thinking
? How many did we lose?”

“At least ten—maybe more. It’s hard to tell. There’s still a great deal of confusion.”

They reached the hospital area just as a shaken Jenirod stepped out of the main tent. His shirt was soaked with blood, his face ashen. When Anjine saw him, she lashed out, unable to stop herself. This man’s stupid bravado had already inflamed the Urecari once and led directly to the murder of Tomas. She slapped Jenirod with all her strength. “Now what have you done?”

He lowered his gaze, devastated. “This was not my doing, Majesty, but I did bring the subcomdar back alive.” He plucked at his shirt, frowning. “This is his blood. He lost a lot of it.”

“Was this your idea?”

“No, Majesty.” Jenirod continued reluctantly, “Destrar Shenro and his men planned to kidnap Soldan-Shah Omra, but were unable to find him. Apparently they had mistaken another man for the soldan-shah. Fortunately, the Alamont destrar didn’t suffer a scratch.”

She couldn’t believe what she was hearing. “They went without preparation? Without support troops?” The Alamont destrar had always been far too eager to throw himself into battle, having studied so much military history. Jenirod had once been much like him, and she’d had enough of that sort of idiocy.

Anjine tried to move past him into the tent, but Jenirod blocked her. He chose his words carefully, after a discreet glance at the others moving around them. “Majesty, when I learned of the plan, I reported it to Subcomdar Bornan, expecting him to stop the destrar, but he wanted to join the fight. It wasn’t clear whether anyone had a…fully developed tactical plan. The subcomdar seemed quite distressed about something and said he needed to demonstrate his loyalty to you. Though I counseled him against the mission, I could not question his orders. I had no choice but to go with him.” Jenirod let out a sigh. “I tried to keep him safe.”

Anjine felt a flash of anger. “I’ll speak with you later, Jenirod—you’re dismissed. Subcomdar Hist, talk to the soldiers. I want to know exactly what happened, every detail.”

Both men bowed and left. Despite their import, the words were just distractions to her. She’d had enough of being the queen for now; at this moment, she needed to be a woman, worried about her dear friend…her
lover
. Mateo was all that mattered. He might die.

She drew a deep breath, forcing herself to be calm and prepared. Then she entered the hospital tent.

Her senses were instantly assaulted by groans of pain, the stench of blood and burnt flesh, a cacophony of shouted instructions. Her head reeled, and she had to steady herself. Six soldiers lay on cots or plank tables, tended by Saedran camp doctors and shell-shocked young helpers. One man let out a raw scream as two doctors used hot irons to cauterize a wound.

The Saedrans looked up at her arrival. Two offered brief respectful bows, but the rest just continued their work. One of the wounded men died, and the attending physician stood in regretful silence for a moment, before bracing himself and turning to the next patient.

Trying to control her urgency, Anjine looked around until her attention was drawn—by instinct—to Mateo. He lay facedown on a bloodstained wooden table. The physicians had cut away his uniform vest and shirt, and now operated with sharp, thin blades—like fish-gutting knives, she thought—to extricate an arrow shaft that protruded from the center of his back. The cut was delicate, and the surgeon worked like a patient clockmaker, worrying away the flesh and muscle until he could extract the barbed arrowhead from Mateo’s back.

A second doctor carefully packed a knife wound in Mateo’s side. Though the gash looked small, it was deep and continued to ooze dark blood. Mateo flinched under their ministrations, his face contorted in pain, his eyes shut.

Anjine wanted to clasp his hand and whisper soothing words, but he was mercifully unconscious. Instead, she hovered beside him and peppered the physicians with questions as they operated. “How serious is it? Will he recover?”

“You can see that it is bad, Majesty.” The doctor barely glanced up at her. “But we stopped the blood loss in time—I think.”

The second physician finished packing the knife wound. “Tending the immediate injuries is only the first hurdle, Majesty. Infection could set in. The loss of blood itself might be enough to kill him.”

She knew what she had to do. “I’ll stay here and give him strength.” When she touched Mateo’s hand, his fingers twitched.

The physicians glanced at each other, flustered. The elder of the two spoke with firm respect. “He is unconscious, Majesty. You can do nothing for him by waiting here—and, truthfully, you are in the way. Let us do our work.”

“You
are
doing your work,” Anjine replied stubbornly, but she stepped away from the table. “But…I would not want to distract you. Please, do whatever you can to save him.” The physicians continued their care, now using sizzling irons to cauterize the arrow wound.

Anjine remembered all too clearly that years ago the Saedran physicians had been completely helpless to save her father’s wife from the scratch of a rusty nail. Ilrida had writhed and thrashed in her royal bed.

Anjine ground her teeth, vowing that such a thing would not happen to Mateo…but she had no power to prevent it. She wanted to cry out to him and demand why he had done such a stupid thing, why he had practically thrown his life away. But those were empty questions, for she already knew the answers. Afraid that she might be pregnant, Anjine had pushed Mateo away to protect herself, though she had not meant to hurt him. How could she not have opened herself up to
him
? Of all people in the world, whom did she trust more? She had kept herself cool and distant because of what she feared Sen Ola na-Ten’s tests would reveal—and he had interpreted the signals as a rejection of him. She had been so stupid!

But Mateo had given his own signals: within hours after they’d made love, he had fled the castle without saying goodbye. Rather than face her, he had escaped with the army. Wasn’t it obvious that he regretted what he’d done? If he was ashamed of loving her, so soon after the death of Vicka, how would he react if he found out that Anjine was carrying his child? What would he say when she told him that, as a queen with an army to command and a war to win, she didn’t dare let the pregnancy come to term?

Thinking it the safest course, Anjine had walled off her emotions to protect Mateo and herself. She wanted to make it easier for him to stay away. But now in the thick-smelling hospital tent, as she observed the pain on his face, the blood from his wounds, and the stark expressions of the Saedran physicians, Anjine knew that her own rebuff had driven Mateo to this.

No matter how much she tried to hide it, Anjine loved him, and she had no doubt that he loved her in turn. But their unwillingness to admit it only caused more tragedy. Mateo had cared a great deal for his wife, and Vicka’s death had devastated him, but Anjine suspected deep inside that he had married Vicka Sonnen because he could not have
her
.

It was time to stop hiding. Anjine’s love and support would give Mateo the strength he needed to recover, and in turn, he would do the same for her: He would help Anjine to be the leader that Tierra deserved and demanded.

But first, he had to live.

Careful not to interfere with the doctors’ ministrations, Anjine took his hand and held it. She bent down and whispered, certain that at some level he could understand her. “I need you, Mateo.” She repeated it many times over the next several hours and refused to leave his side. “I need you.”

The
Dyscovera

As another resounding boom of thunder pealed across the sky, and lightning flashed from cloud to cloud, the Leviathan attacked the
Dyscovera
. The creature heaved its bulk onto the deck, crushing two of Criston’s sailors. The other crewmen scrambled away in a wash of slime and foam, screaming as they grabbed for ropes, open hatches, anything to hold on to.

The splintered deck groaned and foul-smelling water swirled over the boards. Criston lurched to his feet again, still gripping the harpoon. The
Dyscovera
was mortally wounded, doomed to sink. Her deck, hull, masts, and keel were shattered beyond repair. He felt a pang in his chest. Now he would never reach Terravitae, never make it home to Adrea.…

The monster’s fang-tipped tentacles thrashed in all directions, and a low, rock-grinding growl thrummed out of the Leviathan’s chest. A sickly pale glow emanated from the beast’s milky eye, as if it recognized Criston Vora as the one victim who should never have gotten away years ago.

Then suddenly the waters around them were full of ships—dark vessels with ghostly silhouettes, including the unforgettable form of the
Luminara
. The specter of Captain Andon Shay stood at the prow, shouting into the storm, “Leviathan, your time has come!”

The haunted vessels had escaped from the seaweed morass. Criston had no idea how they had slipped away from the titanic woman to respond to his call. Many of these crewmembers had also been killed by the Leviathan, their ships smashed and sunk by the beast’s unreasoning anger. Now they had returned from the grave. Countless angry sailors issued challenges from aboard the ghost ships, demanding revenge. And tonight they would get it.

Sensing this new threat, the monster released its tentacled grip on the
Dyscovera
and slid back off the deck like a beached whale retreating to sea with the outgoing tide. Opening its maw, the Leviathan let out a curious, booming growl.

Though far away now, the lighthouse beacon still shone bright enough to penetrate the black, whipping clouds. The storm came at them from all directions now, drawn to the vortex that was the Leviathan.

Criston gripped his harpoon and ascended the wet, canted deck like a man climbing a mountain slope. Below, the Leviathan loomed in the water, tentacles thrashing. With the
Luminara
and the host of ghost ships closing in, he felt emboldened. At the very least, if he died here, he would rejoin those ghostly sailors and spend eternity with his father and Captain Shay. But he remained alive, for now.

Standing at the wrecked bow, barely holding on as broken boards fell into the churning sea, Criston saw the Leviathan turn its staring eye back toward him. He hefted the harpoon, cocked back his arm, and hurled it, releasing two decades of rage for all that this monster had cost him.

His aim was true.

The sharp point sank into the milky eye, burying itself halfway up the shaft. Translucent ooze spurted out, and the Leviathan reeled and clawed at the harpoon with its numerous tentacles, ripping away the spear and tossing it out to sea. But the light in the mangled eye had gone out.

As the blind creature reached for the
Dyscovera
, the ghost ships closed in. The
Luminara
drove forward with such ferocity that her hull groaned as she rammed the Leviathan. The undead crew hurled their own spectral spears and harpoons, and two struck the open wet flaps of the monster’s gill slits.

Wounded now, leaking black oily blood into the water, the beast lurched and writhed away, leaving the
Dyscovera
. But the
Luminara
and the other ghost ships hounded it, propelled by ghostly force. The Leviathan swam off in blind rage, pulling clouds and thunderstorms with it.

Criston swayed, nearly losing consciousness. His legs trembled. Mingled tears and rainwater streamed down his face, and he held fast to one of the last intact ropes.