36

  On the mainland, amid the smoldering wreckage that had been a mortal village:

  “Drek,” muttered Alexion, once that threatening message faded away, and Lord Tormund’s voice ceased to echo from icy crags and high valley walls.

  The grim navy captain had probably meant to warn them by transmitting the Grand Council’s orders a day early, out where he knew that the fugitive royals would hear it and act. Very well. Message received. Now, what?

  Alexion looked around, rubbing the back of his neck with one hand. There were more dead than alive in Longshore, including the population of its emptied cliffside grave ledges. Icy wind mumbled and gusted, driving a thick pall of acrid dark smoke that turned the sunrise to blood. A big, black-and-white dog ran around barking excitedly, rolling in corpses and stealing occasional bites. The lake had apparently frozen solid, splintering most of Longshore’s fishing fleet. There would be no escape that way, except by footing it with a band of invalids, children and weak mortals in tow.

  There weren’t many provisions, either, unless you hoped for burnt wood, cracked stone or piled bodies. A necromancer would have settled right in, humming a cheerful dirge. Not so much, Alexion Valinor, who was taking stock of a very bad situation. On the one hand, he felt like himself. Oberyn was present in his mind, but behind some kind of deliberate wall. On the other hand… just about everything else.

  His Imperial Majesty (!) turned to examine a noisy and fluttering healers’ tent. No more than scavenged cloth strung up on tall poles, the place was an assembler-hive of activity. Inside, mortals, half-elves and paladins dosed, prayed and struggled to save Longshore’s people. Alexion wished them well, but his business lay elsewhere.

  Absently, he scratched at a slave-brand that he’d gotten a hedge-witch to trap in his left armpit. The accursed thing was starting to burn again, as if the Arena Consortium was not only near, but actively hunting.

  Sure. Why not? And what the drek else could go wrong?

  Marika stood up in a rustle of spells and billowing scent. She accepted Alexion’s hand to arise from their bedding of straw and old blankets. Mari was unveiled and radiant, gazing at Lex with her whole heart and mind on her lovely, pale face. She would probably make an outstanding empress, if they lived long enough to retake control of his stolen realm.

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  Alexion leaned down to kiss her forehead, which shone like a pearl. She rested against him momentarily. His… for three months of each year.

  “Derrick is nearby, Alexi,” she told him, having a much better sense for her son than he did. “Changed, but alive.”

  “Go find him,” said the emperor, as others rose up (yawning or groaning) around them. “I’ll get Kori to track down Genevera before she slips off to join a pirate crew.”

  Marika surprised him by smiling, waking the dimples that normally slept by her mouth. Mortals meant little to her, in the face of a healed and recovered family. Of Alexion, once more her betrothed.

  “Genna has ever been crafty and bold,” she admitted. “She is meant for epics, rather than treaty-by-marriage.”

  “Gods help her eventual life-mate,” Alexion agreed, smiling back. Then, looking around at absolute ruin, “Gods help us all.”

  Just when the idea came to him (arse-backward-stupid though it was), Alexion couldn’t afterward pinpoint. It hit him, though, as he checked on Mikale, Galadin, Freys and Zesha… embraced Korvin… thanked Valerian, then accepted a spoonful of revolting tonic from Lerendar’s beautiful, scowling and pregnant young wife.

  The fair. As Karandun’s rightful emperor, he could command a performance by longstanding agreement with Magister Serrio. Aye… such shows were normally meant to mark celebrations and royal name-days, but this was just as important, if far less cheery, and war did not pass Serrio’s borders. Neither did illness, blight or magical curses. Better, that immortal tiefling ringmaster traveled the realms and the fey-wild. Sooner or later, his circuit of towns and cities would take him back to Karellon; clean past all its wards and its gates. Unstoppably.

  Right, so… nobody else got a say in the matter, because Alexion didn’t ask for any advice. Call it sweeping executive act number one. As people were healed and reunited all around him, the young emperor lifted his face to the smoky-red sky and called aloud, saying,

  “I summon Magister Serrio’s Caravan of Curios to a special command performance before the court-in-exile of… of… just me, Alexion, crowned in haste by that warg-son idiot, Galadin.”

  Everyone heard him and stopped their doings, for his summons carried all the force of a vow. At first, only the wind and its mournful echoes responded. Then a quintet of chubby brass dragons popped into the air overhead, spouting confetti and aerodynamically-folded tickets. A fanfare rang out, clear, pure and thrilling, followed by Magister Serrio’s jaunty, repetitive theme song. Flying wagons soared out of a wide, scrolling gate, darting through it to wheel and circle like birds.

  Three times, that bright cavalcade passed overhead, tossing playthings and sweets to those below. Then, as Serrio’s wagons dropped down to settle onto the frozen lake, a tall and elegant tiefling materialized to stand beside Lex. Magister Serrio doffed his tall hat, bowing politely.

  “Alexi, dear boy,” marveled the horned, dark-haired tiefling, cocking an eyebrow. “You certainly do make a mess.”