Red Tide by Marc Turner

territory. Mander was sixty-five leagues from the capital. No Vamilians had traveled here, and thus there was no reason for Rendale not to stop in the city if he had come this way. But Ebon had been unable to find any word of him. It had been mere desperation that had made Ebon take his search to Mercerie on the shores of the Sabian Sea. In his darker moments, he’d acknowledged his brother’s death as inevitable. Now it seemed his stubbornness would be rewarded.
    There was something in Silvar’s look, though, that told him to keep a check on his relief. Was here, the ambassador had said. “Where is he now?”
    Silvar had finished lacing his trousers. He took a breath as if gathering his resolve. “There is no easy way to say this, Your Maj—Your Highness…” Another pause, and Ebon had to resist an urge to grab him by the throat and shake the words loose. “Your brother left Mercerie nearly two weeks ago—on a ship to take part in the Dragon Hunt.”
    Ebon stared at the ambassador, hardly able to comprehend what he was being told. In Mander he’d heard stories of what had happened on Dragon Day. Stories of treachery at the heart of the Storm Lord empire, and of dragons on the loose in the Sabian Sea. Each tale had been more outlandish than the last, but there had been one thing on which they had all agreed: the Hunt had been routed, the ships smashed or scattered. Ebon’s thoughts were a whirr. But the Hunt took place at the Dragon Gate, many leagues to the south and east. Rendale shouldn’t be there. He’d come to Mercerie as a refugee, and he would have known well enough to keep his head down in what was tantamount to enemy territory. He had no ship, no crew, and no reason to go looking for either. Silvar had to be mistaken.
    When Ebon met the ambassador’s gaze, though, there was no doubt in his eyes. Just disquiet … and something else the prince couldn’t place.
    Ebon suddenly felt his exhaustion. Moments ago he’d been offered a glimpse of hope, but now it was snatched away again. His legs wavered. How long had it been since he’d last slept? Two days? Three? He sat down on a divan and looked across at Vale. There was no comfort to be drawn from the Endorian’s expression, but when was there ever? He ran a hand over his shaved head.
    â€œTell me everything,” he said to Silvar.
    The ambassador collected his thoughts. “Your brother arrived here twelve, maybe thirteen days ago. Unlike you, he didn’t think to approach me privately. He came to the embassy.” From the censure in Silvar’s voice, it was plain he considered that to be the cause of everything that came after. “He hadn’t eaten for days. And he told me stories about undead armies that I confess I had trouble believing…” He left the statement hanging as if inviting Ebon to confirm or deny the truth of those stories. But the prince kept his silence, and so Silvar continued, “He said he managed to find a boat before Majack fell. Once he was clear of the city, he tried to disembark, but there were others on the boat with him, and they wouldn’t stop. Eventually they reached Mander and tried to go ashore there. But they arrived in the dead of night, and no one answered their calls for help. One man tried to swim for shore, only for the current to take him. No one else risked it after that. And once past Mander, the country is practically a wasteland, so they let the river bring them to Mercerie.”
    â€œWas anyone with him when he came to the embassy?”
    â€œJust some woman with a twisted leg. Miela, I think he called her.”
    Miela? Either Silvar had mistaken her name, or Rendale had deliberately given a false one. That surge of relief was back in Ebon, but it quickly faded. An image came to him of Lamella aboard a ship, a dragon bearing down on her. It felt as if a weight had lodged in his chest. “Where is