XV. CASTING THE LINE

  The days slid one into the other as their fleet sailed past the coastline dotted with farms and vineyards. They were soon to arrive to the Sugian capital of Kinos. Around midday, Asho strode right past Admrilia and stuck his head inside the Conqueror's tent. The Conqueror wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and looked up annoyed. His eyebrows furrowed together as he laid his massive hands on his cedar desk. “Close that and sit.”

  The prince lowered himself onto a wooden stool. The Conqueror’s desk bore a map charting their course for the Triumph. They were currently a day away from Kinosl before they would march North into Iornore Territory. From there they would brave the desert to travel into the heart of Ker, and then sail back across the Semperimar to Pi-Yenja. If everything went according to plan, the triumph was posed to return home next summer with ships of gold, silver, weapons, grain, and tribute.

  Asho glanced up from the map and said with more bravado than he felt. “I’ve come to ask you a question.” The Conqueror waved him onward. “What does it feel like when you tap into the wyrd?” Ever since they had left Thrysne Island some days ago, the prince had thought of nothing else as he stargazed.

  The Conqueror laced his fingers together. “You know how the sky rumbles before it storms?” Asho nodded eagerly. “You will feel that deep beneath your chest.”

  Asho nodded again and then lingered. He sat up straighter. “And how do I accomplish that?”

  The Conqueror shuffled for a piece of blank papyrus and smacked it flat with his palm. He drew a line before Asho and himself in splotchy red ink. ‘This prince is what I call a line.” He said in a moment of wry humor. “It binds my wyrd to yours. It is stronger than my connection to any of the men outside this tent because we are blood. It extends past our flesh and to our lineage. Wyrdlings can sense these lines, these connections to the wyrd. This can be to man, to beasts, or even the dead.

  “It is impossible for a mortal to grasp the wyrd in its entirety.” The Conqueror drew several small lines between them before crossing them out. His calloused knuckle decisively pushed the ink towards Asho. “I can cast deep beneath the wyrd. I sense the wyrd of men. I sense the fears and the parts of our enemies they despise. And once you have this, you can cleave.”

  Asho sat, soaked in sweat as the Conqueror’s pen idled above the page. “I know your wyrd, prince. I know that you have hidden your impropriety from me. I know you despise yourself for your youth and experience, for your stubborn pride, for your mouth you can never keep sealed. I know everything about you down to how badly you hate yourself for your smell. I know, and have always known, that what you fear most in this world is not living up to the legacy of your birthright.”

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  Asho’s spine froze. He was trapped in the endless pits of the Conqueror’s eyes. His throat swelled as if he was drowning. His jaw unhinged, and he took deep, gasping breaths. When words formulated, they were slurred. “I will not fail you.”

  The Conqueror frowned and called in his centori. When he thought the god’s eyes were off him, Asho pinched the cloth that was bunching around his sweaty armpits.

  Centori Tygris entered the tent and stood at attention. Asho suddenly felt self-conscious at Tygris’ hardened expression and confident stance. The Conqueror pressed his palms flat. “Prince, tell me what centori Tygris fears.”

  Asho hungrily thrust his gaze at the guard. Tygris’ forehead was soaked in sweat from the demanding heat. Asho turned his attention to the armored chest plate that covered his sternum, then back to his disinterested brown eyes, then again to his sternum. Where was he even supposed to look? Asho hardened his gaze: like the Conqueror’s; like the Stormlords. He stared at Tygris’ dull expression until a headache was forming at the back of his skull.

  Then he shook his head, failure coating his face red with embarrassment. “He wants to go home.”

  The Conqueror’s expression eas dark and dangerous. “You are dismissed.” Tygris marched out of the tent with enviable dignity. Asho braced himself for the hit. “You are worthless.”

  “Conqueror—”

  “Silence. Even your cousin with her Ker bloodline could grasp this concept. Get out!”

  Asho tore from the tent, pushing past Tygris as he flooded with humiliation. His feet demanded that he bolt, but there was nowhere on the trireme to run. He stilled, suddenly aware of his cousin’s growing curiosity. Asho reached up to his burning cheeks and grit his teeth. He escaped below the decks of the ship until he found an empty storeroom. At least here his fists could bounce off the walls.

  The Conqueror’s condemnation cut through him like a hot knife. You are worthless. The prince released a tiny, vicious laugh and kicked a nearby grain sack. He had been so eager for this moment to finally prove himself to the Conqueror. To step into the destiny that was his by birthright! He had a vow he had sworn to the Stormlord. He had to fulfill it. He had to school his eyes and dig into the chest of every filthy commoner he passed until an inkling of power rumbled in his chest. Because if not—

  Doors slammed on the thought. Asho leaned against the cool hull of the ship and closed his eyes. He remembered the venerating screams as thousand of knuckles were thrust towards him. He remembered the warmth in his chest as Aegtrys screamed his name. He remembered the whispering promises of the stars as he had first held the wyrdstone.

  The Stormlord had spoken to him then.

  For as long as he lived, Asho knew that to be true. He exhaled slowly, letting the frustration release from his nostrils. Inhaling, he steadied himself and pushed off the wall.