Summer's Fall

by Carol E. Leever

  The man shook his head. "No, my lady," he replied. "Sailed these waters for years. Never seen the sea like this in summer. Smells more like an autumn wind. It's just with all the talk of the Widow Maker, we're all afeared — jumping as if we had the Night Fleet itself at our stern." Haptis shuddered and gripped a silver medallion hanging around his neck. Shalonie recognized the symbol of Lethune, the sea god revered on the Corsair Isles, carved into the medallion's surface.

  He doesn't look confident, Shalonie noted as a cold shiver moved down her spine.

  "Oh, looky! He is having a concertina!" Tormy exclaimed excitedly. He scrambled to all four paws. "I is loving concertinas! I is dancing!"

  As the large cat went galumphing down the stairs to the lower deck, fluffy orange tail barely missing Dev's face as he ducked to avoid the furry menace, Shalonie frowned down at the maps. The small wooden pipe had moved a bit farther along the surface of the vellum, holding steadily to the course the navigator had mapped out.

  The summer path is peaceful, she reminded herself, whitecaps not withstanding.

  Chapter 11: Galley

  OMEN

  "Everyone has to have a job on the ship, Kyr," Omen responded to Kyr's quiet grumbles.

  "That's Kadana's rule. Even nobles," the ship's chef Mégeira explained. "And we're short crew this trip."

  Omen flicked the wooden spoon he held in his hand, agreeing with her. "Grandma Kadana said we have to earn our keep while we're on board. Liethan is a deckhand for the length of the trip." Omen turned from stirring the giant pot of fragrant Melian fish stew. "And she wants you and me in the galley."

  The gimbaled stove rolled a tiny distance to the side as the force of the waves increased, allowing several heated pots and pans to ride out the movement.

  "Better than mending sails like Dev." Omen adjusted the cast iron cauldron, careful not to touch the small sunstone burning its heat in one of the stovetop's round openings.

  Of course, Shalonie gets to work with the navigator.

  The long row of carved wooden storage cabinets rattled as kitchen requisites bounced along in concert with the waves below. Carved sigils covered every inch of the cabinets, the binding magic keeping the insides cool with the help of tiny ice elementals. Omen wondered if the creatures would try to escape their confines if the rough, bouncing sea provided an opportunity.

  Never know with children of the elements . . . Kadana has no dearth of magic onboard, that's for sure.

  Kyr sneezed and looked up at him from a hunched-over crouch; the boy picked at a brown potato with a long knife. "But the cabinets are talking. And these eyes are looking at me. Makes my nose tickle."

  "Peeling potatoes is like writing poetry. After your first million spuds, you get it down." Mégeira laughed. "It'll teach you to not joke about hardtack and fish fat."

  Omen eyed the older woman. Mégeira was queen of the kitchen, and the galley was her realm. The Golden Voyage's cook didn't strike Omen as a poet, however. He noted her dark, silver-streaked braids and her large dark eyes, surrounded by hairline cracks that were beginning to mar her smooth olive skin.

  She's from the Corsair Isles. He revised his initial impression. They eat, drink and breathe poetry. Of course she knows poetry!

  "Spuds notwithstanding, I didn't joke about the food," Omen reminded the woman. "Templar did."

  "And your friend Templar has been impressed into fishing duty." Mégeira stuck a spoon in the broth and tasted with her eyes closed. "Delicious. Perfect amount of saffron. The leeks are bold, but I like what they do." She carefully considered. "The captain was right. Omen Daenoth, you are a master of Melian cuisine. Well done, boy."

  "Look at all these potatoes!" Kyr exclaimed as if seeing the mountain of yet-to-be-peeled potatoes for the first time. His eyes grew wide as saucers as if a thought had just occurred to him. "Can I eat them, Omen?"

  "All of them?" Omen teased.

  Kyr nodded solemnly. "Sometimes I get hungry and there's nothing but rocks to eat. I don't like rocks. Potatoes are better."

  Sadness tugged down the corners of Omen's smile. My poor brother.

  Kyr paused in mid-thought, a frown crossing his brow. "How will they fish? The boat goes far too fast to cast a line. And this ship isn't a fishing vessel. Are there even nets? How will they fish?" Panic caught in Kyr's throat. "Tyrin could fall in and drown. Deep in the dark of the sea. There is no mercy. Only cold, cold, cold and dark, dark, dark."

  As Kyr's tone rose in intensity, Mégeira turned and stared at him, her teeth grinding together as the muscles of her jaw worked. Omen saw the furtive movement as she pinched a small bit of salt and threw it over her shoulder.

  Warding off evil.

  "The captain makes her own luck." Mégeira sounded rattled by Kyr's outburst. "The cold cabinets keep food fresh, but supplies last only about a week with a full crew. We used to live on hardtack, salted beef and brown ale for the rest of our journeys. But the captain makes her own luck. You should go see." She seemed suddenly eager to dismiss the brothers from her kitchen. "I imagine that's where your friend and your cats are right now. Young master Liethan won't be far." She cleared her throat. "You should go."

  Changed her tune. All of a sudden she can't wait to get rid of us.

  "Are you sure you don't want us helping with the rest of the meal prep?" Omen asked, slightly dispirited. Kyr's words really bothered her.

  "What about the rest of the potatoes?" Kyr asked, unaware.

  "I have an idea," Omen said before Mégeira could answer. "Let me try something." He didn't want to leave the job unfinished.

  He focused his thoughts on the potatoes, picturing the whiteness that lay beneath the thick skins. He imagined removing the skins like one would remove a coat. A familiar musical tune filled his mind, instantly bringing forth the psionic pattern that triggered his mental power. A tiny thump hammered against the back of his skull, just behind his ears. He ignored it.

  On his prompting, one potato rolled from the stack, freshly peeled and gleaming with moisture, its skin in a crumpled heap.

  Many, Omen thought and repeated the procedure, the music swelling in his thoughts.

  Thump. Thump. Thump. He ignored it.

  The mountain of potatoes shifted slightly and wobbled into perfect stacks, peeled and ready to be cooked.

  An audible gasp came from Mégeira. "Salt and sea protect us."

  "Omen," Kyr sang out with delight. "You used your psionics to peel the potatoes. That's genius! 7 would love that!"

  Omen was sure his father wouldn't approve of using psionics as a kitchen shortcut, especially since he felt ragged with exhaustion as soon as he unchained his mind from peeling the spuds.

  A cantrip probably would have been easier.

  "Maybe we'll keep this to ourselves," Omen suggested. "Though it gives me another idea . . ."

  "Off with the two of you," Mégeira shooed them out, her voice ringing of false bravado. She cast a sideways look at Omen and Kyr in turn. "Send the cabin boy to serve, and tell the captain that dinner will be on in half an hour, an hour for the crew."

  "Come on Kyr," Omen said with a cheerfulness he didn't feel. "Let's see what Tormy and Tyrin are up to." At least she's as bothered by me as she is by Kyr now.

  The boy returned the long kitchen knife to a wooden butcher block nailed to the counter. He smiled at Mégeira. "I'm sorry about the whispering. The elements don't like to be imprisoned."

  Omen ushered his brother out of the galley before he could speak again.

  Even from below deck, Omen could hear Kadana's lively laughter up above, accompanied by a rousing round of applause and . . .

  Is that a concertina?

  Omen and Kyr emerged on deck to a most curious sight. Tormy floated five inches above the wooden planks. He hopped midair from side to side in an impressively rhythmical jig fueled by the comical concertina stylings of a stocking-capped sailor. The man's silver curls bounced merrily, and his aged fingers scrunched and elongated the odd little ins
trument.

  Tormy's paws never touched the deck.

  Omen could feel the warm tingle of magic emanating from his cat. He'd never sensed Tormy actively manipulating the energies around him before.

  I had no idea he could do that. Since when can my cat use magic?

  "Tormy!" Omen yelled out, his surprise bubbling up in an uncharacteristically high-pitched squeak. Excitement swelled through him at the realization. My cat can do magic! My cat can fly!

  "Omy! Omy! Omy!" The giant cat yipped. "Kadana is saying I is stomping like a dragon. I is saying I is floating like a feather. Then I is floating!"

  "Your cat . . ." Kadana spat out between gales of laughter. "Arp was playing. Your cat started dancing . . . Almost put holes in the planks. I told Tormy to get his twinkle toes off my ship. And he did." Kadana failed to gather her mirth. She'd turned red in the face and sputtered incoherently.

  "This is being funnessnessness," Tormy hollered and sprang over three startled sailors' heads to softly land at Omen's feet. "I is flying like the little skiffs."

  "Skiffs?" Omen asked, more confused than ever.

  "The fishing skiffs." Tormy nosed toward the open sea. "Templar is catching fishies for dinners."

  At a considerable distance, two small wooden skiffs hung over the water as if suspended by ropes. Strung between them, like a hammock, a bulky net swayed in the breeze, its wiggling bounty providing counter to ever-increasing gusts.

  "Feeeeeeeeesh!" Tormy exclaimed in ecstasy.

  Omen strained against the intense reflection of sunlight on the water. He could barely make out Templar's mop of long black hair whipping against his billowing white shirt.

  Adroitly Templar helped the other sailor in his skiff tighten the ends of the net and scoop up the sides so there'd be no escape for their catch. The other skiff mirrored the action. Both skiffs turned toward the Golden Voyage in harmonious unison and started a rapid approach.

  Omen stood dumbfounded. "Your little skiffs fly?" he asked. "How?"

  "You're honestly asking how Kadana acquired yet another piece of jaw-dropping magic?" Shalonie joined them at the rail.

  "Seemed practical," Kadana said and wiped the last tears of laughter from her eyes. "The fishing's good out here. The skiffs are easy to control if you have a little magic talent, which your friend has in spades. Templar can ride them like a goblin rides a moor pony."

  Not that I've ever seen a goblin, or a moor pony for that matter.

  "The skiffs talk like the cupboards," Kyr mused. "Even over a distance."

  More elementals?

  "Where's Tyrin?" Shalonie said out of nowhere. "I thought he was with you in the galley."

  "Tyrin!" Kyr gasped and slammed against the railing so hard Omen thought the boy's thin body would topple overboard.

  As the skiffs raced toward the ship, Omen spotted a small orange dot against Templar's white shirt. He realized the kitten had been balancing on Templar's shoulder, but at that very moment the little creature began a clawed descent down Templar's sleeve.

  "He's going for the fish!" Omen shouted. "Templar! Templar!"

  * Templar! Grab Tyrin! * But even the psionically sent warning came too late. They all watched in paralyzed horror as Tyrin swiped at the ropes, missed and tumbled, snout first, toward the waves below.

  Omen blasted a psionic shield under the tiny cat but the waves crushed his erratic energy, sending a blast of agony back at Omen. He collapsed to his knees in time to see his giant orange Tormy hurtle the rail and jump into the waters below.

  "No!" Omen's mouth tried but failed to form the word. His head felt like it would burst as the pain of the returned psionic blast ricocheted around his skull. Far away, he heard Kyr wailing a long string of Kahdess words. His voice sounded raw.

  "Kadana! Do something!" Shalonie shrieked.

  Kadana's strong hands lifted Omen. "Breathe, boy. Breathe! And open your eyes."

  She held him up against her strong body, trapping him against the railing.

  He watched, helpless, as Tormy bounced over the sea foam crests of the wild ocean waters. The cat's paws never touched the surface.

  "Tormy's nearly there," Kadana murmured, her words barely gilding over the concern in her tone.

  Like an enormous hawk, Tormy swooped down on the tiny orange speck making its way toward the top of a violent wave. The water reached up and pulled the small cat under. Tormy scooped his paw down, the pads squeezing together to form a leathery ladle. He completed the arc of the swipe, depositing what appeared like a tiny sopping ball of dark orange yarn back into the skiff.

  "He's got him!" Omen blurted out and fell back against his grandmother. The agony of the returned psionic blast had folded in on itself, leaving only a dull ache. He felt as if his body and mind were wrapped in itchy, wet wool. His eyelids ceased to obey and fluttered closed.

  It's all the potatoes fault!

  He was only vaguely aware of a large furry form settling down beside him.

  "Omen!" Kadana said his name sharply. "Omen! Wake up!" Two quick slaps sparked across his cheeks. He opened his eyes to see Kadana smiling at him.

  "There you are, my boy!" She helped him to his feet. "Can't say I've had many of my grandsons faint on me. Granddaughters maybe." She chuckled lightly. "You'll be fine."

  Omen squeezed her hand. "Thanks . . . Did Tormy really fly?"

  "Yup, saved the little one," Kadana said, sounding impressed.

  Tormy lay in a side crescent a few feet away, licking at his wet front paws with great care. Omen crouched down beside him and wound his fingers through Tormy's damp ruff. The big cat purred softly. "You saved your brother. You're a hero."

  "I is being a great adventuring cat," Tormy agreed. "I is flying, but I is not being a bird. I is not having wings. Maybe I is being a wizard. I probably is needing a hat."

  Omen nodded. "You can have all the hats you want." The cat's innocent pondering warmed his heart.

  "You frightened me!" Kyr shrilled from a few feet away, still sounding horrified. "Kyr will be alone if all the green is gone; there is only dust and shadows that scream and claw."

  Omen frowned as he pushed through the circle gathered around Kyr. The boy was holding a sopping wet orange kitten in his hands.

  It's bad when he starts referring to himself by name.

  "It's fine, Kyr," he told his brother gently and placed a hand on the boy's frail shoulder, trying to calm him. Residual fear made Omen's heart pound with the beat of a military march.

  Don't know how calming I can possibly be. I'm still sweating like a hog in summer. He snatched back his hand. "Everything's fine." He tried to sound confident.

  "Yes, Omen's right," Shalonie echoed the sentiment and clapped Omen on the back soundly.

  Omen could see in Shalonie's eyes that she too was merely playacting for Kyr's benefit as Omen repeated, "Everything is fine."

  "Fine!" Templar snarled as he climbed aboard the ship. "My stars!" He staggered to the deck and sank down against the railing. Weakly, he watched as the sailors started to pull the tangle of filled nets on board. "Sure, everything is fine," he spat and glared up at Omen. "If you don't count the fact that my brain is bleeding. Bit loud there, Oh Psionic Master! I thought Lilyth was bluffing when she said you Daenoths could rip through a psionic shield. Do you have to be so bloody loud about it?"

  Oops, Omen thought. My father did warn me not to try that with someone else. I should know better! He and his family frequently communicated telepathically. 7, Lilyth and Omen could do so with ease, having trained together for years. He and Templar had never practiced the skill. I'm lucky he didn't lash out at me. We both could have ended up hurt.

  "I was trying to get you to help Tyrin," Omen said apologetically. "I didn't think you saw him going in."

  "I didn't," Templar admitted. "But I couldn't do anything to help him after you shouted like a mad beast. You stunned me. Blasted right through all my defenses. Why on earth does anyone need psionics that powerful?"

 
; "Potatoes," Kyr answered earnestly, still clutching Tyrin to his chest, even though the little cat was wiggling in an effort to shake the water from his fur.

  "Right — sorry Templar," Omen cut in before Kyr could elaborate.

  Let's not spread the potato story around.

  Omen stepped around Tormy to help his friend back to his feet. Despite Templar's claim that his brain was bleeding, he appeared to be recovering swiftly.

  "I should hope you're sorry! There's something very wrong with you, Omen Daenoth," Templar huffed, though Omen could see that he was not really angry.

  "There I am," Templar lamented for Omen's benefit, "out on the water, trying to catch fish for your cats—"

  "I is catching them too!" Tyrin piped up, still squirming in Kyr's tight hold. "I almost had that little &*^#%@!"

  Templar laughed at that. "It was a swordfish, Tyrin. It would have pulled you under."

  "Fish have swords?" Kyr exclaimed, eyes widening.

  "Not those kind of swords," Omen assured him. "Tyrin, you almost drowned!"

  "I is catching dinner!" the little cat protested. He looked suddenly horrified and turned his amber gaze toward Kyr. "We is still liking dinner, right?"

  Kyr nodded. "And lunch too," he assured the cat. "But I like the green better. I will eat rocks if the green stays."

  Wondering if his brother would ever get out of the habit of calling the people in his life "the green," Omen smiled assuredly. "No one is going anywhere, Kyr. Tyrin's fine. Tormy's fine. I'm fine. Everyone's fine."

  Kyr nodded, but his face was pinched with worry. "Is everyone real?"

  While his question sparked looks of confusion from everyone around them, Omen understood what he was asking. "Yes, Kyr. Everyone is real."

  "Even the people in the water?" the boy asked, gazing back out at the ocean waves. "They're very loud and they didn't help when I called to them."

  Kadana frowned. She looked to the sea, then to the two skiffs tightly secured to the deck. "Everyone made it back in," she stated, self-assured, though Omen could see her doing a swift head count of the sailors on deck.