<u>14</u>


    Sera sat in a guarded and silenced waiting room, along with the rest of Vancora’s crew. She’d brought the ship’s log with her, but couldn''t open it, or speak…not even sign… with her people. They were together, but no communication was permitted.


    Time passed. A little over two candle-marks, she reckoned, as one after another, the airship’s surviving crew were removed from that windowless room. Starting from lowest rank first, witnesses were signaled out of the barren white holding cell and into the chamber beyond.


    There were thirteen hard wooden chairs, immovably placed by the white pour-stone walls. No sound. Nothing to look at but the guard and each other (though not very well, as their faces had been magically blurred). Two unblinking mage-eyes patrolled the ceiling, watching all that transpired below.


    From cabin girl to chief, the others were drawn from the room and did not return. Finally, alone in that deeply uncomfortable space, it was Sera’s turn to come forward.


    Swallowing hard, the nervous half-elf got to her feet and tugged down her borrowed uniform. The Marine guard at the inner door beckoned impatiently. Made no difference <u>what</u> she looked like, Sera supposed, starting across a hard floor that did not ring, scuff or thump underfoot.


    Head up, back straight, she stepped through the door from silence and painful white light, into an opulent chamber. Took her vision a bit to adjust to the natural lighting, which streamed in through windows as tall as Vancora’s main mast. There were muted noises as well; occasional shuffling feet or rustling cloth, muttered comments, someone pouring iced water. Like music, all of it, to one who’d heard nothing at all for three candle-marks.


    Guided by the Marine (a young, pale-haired elf) Sera walked along a strip of light marble, the only bright note on that polished obsidian floor. Came to a set of three steps and a sort of dais, which featured a smooth wooden railing. No chair, and only a glass of water by way of amenity. At the guard’s gesture, she mounted those steps to stand at the rail, bracing herself to look upward.


    Milardin’s finest families were represented up there, along with the major trade guilds. At center, perched on the council’s high seat, was a young elf-maid with severely braided black hair and very blue eyes. The Lady Sheraza, grim and cold as a hovering night-hag. She was dressed in somber clothing of finest cut and luxurious fabric, with no ornament at all save her mithral circlet of rank. The girl was Arvendahl’s niece, Sera recalled, adopted as a very young child and raised by his lordship’s staff.


    At the Marine’s nod, Sera cleared her throat, saluted and made a reporting statement.


    “Leftenant-select Sera Cliffwatch, second mate and acting captain of the city’s ship Vancora, reporting as ordered, my lady… members of the council,” she stated, forcing some steel and confidence into her voice.


    Stolen story; please report.


    Sheraza nodded slightly, calm as a marble headstone.


    “Noted. You are not on trial here, Leftenant Cliffwatch. You have been summoned to give witness to the events leading up to, and during, the loss of Milardin’s fleet. There is a spell of truth on the witness stand. Should you attempt to lie, or conceal anything vital to this investigation, pain will be administered. Do you understand?”


    Sera inhaled sharply, then bowed; her forehead brushing the wooden rail.


    “Yes, my lady,” she whispered. “I will tell the truth and not lie or leave anything out. You have my oath on it, as Vancora’s senior officer.”


    “Very well,” said Sheraza. “You may begin, commencing with the fleet’s departure from port.”


    XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX


    One at a time, they materialized. Confused, clutching at friends and family, along with a few perfect strangers. They’d been stolen from elsewhere through space and time to land on a very high, narrow pillar of stone. There were sounds of crashing rough water below, and a wall of swirling clouds all around them. Above, only darkness.


    From that streaming grey cloudbank shot lightning and fanged, snapping mouths. The pillar’s edges were unstable; would not bear weight without cracking. Torn from the Seahorse between one breath and the next, Lerendar struggled to get his bearings. Counted heads, finding Beatriz, Zara, his aunt Meliara, Alfea, little Bean and his brother’s bodyguard, Cinda.


    There were others, as well; four Arvendahls, a woodling female and even a screeching red hawk. One of the strangers edged over to Lerendar, moving carefully, so as not to jostle the tightly packed others. Dressed in a torn, bloodied uniform, he’d pulled himself from the arms of his woman, who laughed and wept uncontrollably. He was bony of face, with bright blue eyes and lashing black hair. That flame-colored hawk was perched on his shoulder; talons dug into cloth and wings outspread for balance.


    “Tormun Arvendahl ob Vestryn, late of the Deathstroke,” he shouted, over howling wind and wild lightning. Clasped a hand to Lerendar’s shoulder in greeting.


    “Lerendar Tarandahl ob Keldaran, of Ilirian, second heir… maybe. Still worth it, if not,” called back the tall elf-lord, adding, “Any idea what’s happened?”


    Another snapping, grisly mouth launched itself out of the cloudbank on the end of a muscular, rubbery stalk. Both elves were armed, and both attacked the monster at once. Swords flashed in unison, slashing that hissing dark head from its stalk. Tormun booted it over the side, accidentally causing three feet of cliff to sheer off.


    “Not the first clue,” he shouted, hauling Lerendar out of the way of a lightning bolt. “I was thrown from my ship for resigning command… think I died… now this. Where are we?”


    Not one of the hells, surely, or the little ones wouldn’t have been there. In any case, it was too dark, too chaotic and violent to guess at location. Lerendar shook his head, stepping back into Bea as more of their pillar crumbled away.


    “Not sure. Let’s get the females and children as far in as possible. Form a defensive circle around them.”


    Tormun nodded agreement, but Beatriz would not move to the center. Would not be protected.


    “I can fight too, Ren!” she objected, battling to raise her voice over tempest and hissing attack. His wife never went anywhere without her potion-belt and would not let him face danger alone. Not ever again.


    It got worse after that, because Cinda and Meliara were not inclined to obedience, either. Aunt Melly had spells and future-sight, Cinda her bow and a dagger that froze whatever it touched. And they, too, could fight.


    Bean was shoved into Zara’s arms then packed in with Lady Faleena as the rest… Tarandahl and Arvendahl together… formed a ring facing outward. And that’s when the real trouble started.