by K. C. Julius
Cortenus took one look at him, then ordered a rich fish broth to restore him. Only after Whit had gulped it down and they had retired to their room did Cortenus detail their traveling arrangements.
“We sail on the Herdonza in the morning. If the current wind prevails, we should be in Segavia in five days.” Cortenus eyed Whit critically. “Though I’m not sure that we should embark, considering your current state of health.”
“Of course we’ll sail in the morning,” Whit said, bending to pull off his boots. Any delay might put Halla permanently beyond their reach. But his confident claim failed to silence the challenge that had beleaguered him all day—how they would go about finding his cousin, once in Segavia. He lay back, willing his mind to quiet.
“Whit?” Cortenus’s voice broke through the darkness. “You said you heard the bird call while resting, not scrying. If you’re right about where Halla is, you realize that you may have made a rare transformation?”
“What do you mean?” Whit mumbled.
“Scrying is a wizard’s art, but dreaming of what is and what will be is the gift of a seer. Have you ever before had this sort of dream?”
“No.” Whit was too tired to consider the possibility that he’d developed some sort of prescient powers.
He rolled onto his side, forestalling further discussion on the subject. As he did so, his hand fell on something hard and round. The ring Elvinor had pressed on him right before they departed Mithralyn had tumbled out of the pouch he wore day and night
“Master Morgan left it for you,” the elf king had said. “He said you should wear it. I believe the inscription to be Livårian, but it’s not a tongue I’ve studied.”
In his rush to depart, Whit had dropped the ring into the pouch where he kept their gold . Now he couldn’t help but wonder if it had truly fallen out by accident, or if the ring possessed some power of its own.
Reluctantly, he slipped it on the forefinger of his right hand. Lying in the darkness, his head throbbing, he twisted the silver band idly until exhaustion defeated even his gnawing worries.
* * *
For the first two days of the voyage, Whit slept round the clock. If he dreamt, it was about nothing he could remember upon waking.
On the third day, he emerged from his cramped cabin with a ravenous hunger. The air on deck was warm, and the sound of the water hissing past the prow reminded him of how much he enjoyed being at sea.
Freed at last from the burden of scrying, he began to regain his vigor, and he made himself useful by assisting the crew. He also began entertaining the men with little feats of magic. It was, after all, his last opportunity to practice before arriving on the continent. The sailors, at first wary, soon clamored for more.
“Can ye change Gamel inta a seal?” asked Madox, a tall sailor with spiraling tattoos across his broad chest. “’E ner’er ceases ’is barkin’!”
“Then ye should be ternt inta a whale!” countered Gamel. “Wid yer gree’ blowin’ snores!”
Instead, Whit turned the beer in Gamel’s mug to milk and made a passing rat appear to grow an impressive moustache, at which the men roared their delight.
That evening, before the light faded, Whit read the queer little book Elvinor had given him, which offered a grisly account of the wizards and sorceresses who had been hunted down or forced to flee the continent during the Purge. He forced himself through it only because he needed to brush up on his Albrenian. After dark, he sat with the crew while they sang their ballads and shanties—most of them shockingly bawdy—and listened to their tales of wild weather and wilder women. He then discovered he had rather a knack with cards, and after winning a pile of coins, he was careful to lose it again, for he found he enjoyed the company of these rough, simple men and didn’t wish to lose their good will. Their lives were hard, but not without pleasure.
It wasn’t until he lay under the wheeling stars that his cousin’s fate returned to haunt him. He knew what the life of a young slave girl would entail, regardless of how bold in spirit she might be. In fact, he suspected Halla’s strong character would make it all the worse for her, for he’d read gruesome accounts of how recalcitrant slaves were disciplined with beatings, maiming, and worse.
He had to find her, and he was all too aware that he’d taken a gamble on his portentous dream with the seabirds. There was no certainty that scrying had triggered something that allowed him to see Halla in this way. And if his vision was wrong… it didn’t bear thinking.
He focused his mind and conjured an image of Halla—her braided tresses, her pale skin and luminous green eyes, the way she held herself, confident in her statuesque height. But although he kept his mind in a receptive state, no more visions came.
Frustrated, he rolled up to a seated position to see Cortenus studying him from the railing.
“May I join you?” his tutor asked.
Whit nodded, and Cortenus settled himself on the deck beside him. “The ocean air seems to agree with you, my lord. You almost look like you’re back among the living now.”
Whit gave a small laugh. “I could imagine a life at sea, with no demands beyond those of your captain, tending to the ship and traveling to strange, wondrous lands.”
Cortenus smiled. “If I may remark on it, my lord, you’ve changed.”
“How so? Please, speak freely.”
His tutor looked out across the dark water; he seemed to be choosing his words carefully. “Since Halla went missing, for the first time since I’ve known you—indeed perhaps in your life—you’re devoting your abilities and energy to the benefit of someone else.”
Whit knew he should take offense at this, but he didn’t. “Go on.”
“Don’t mistake me, my lord. A mind such as yours is always occupied, and your passion for learning has never waned; indeed, if anything, I believe it blazes more fiercely than ever. But now that you’ve combined your considerable force of will, your intellect, and your magic in aid of your cousin, I must say it marks a new maturity in you.”
Whit felt a flush of pleasure, then shook his head. “I’m afraid whatever alterations you’ve observed in me won’t make up for the fact that once we make landfall, I’ve no idea where to even begin looking for Halla. I’ve had no more dreams.”
“We’re not without resources,” Cortenus reminded him. “The gold will help—money buys all sorts of information. And Halla’s extraordinary looks will not have passed unnoticed. We shall find her, my lord.”
Whit let out a slow breath. “I hope you’re right.”
He leaned back against the deck and stared once more up at the starry sky. Above, the Huntress hung, bending her spangled bow in the heavens.
He hoped it was a good omen.
* * *
When the Hernaza entered the harbor of Segavia, Cortenus proved to be well versed in the formalities of putting in to port. He explained to Whit that all foreigners were required to present themselves to the harbormaster before seeking suitable accommodations. The master in this instance was one Seor Joanes, a double-chinned functionary who was as short as he was broad. The seor’s greeting would have seemed effusive had Cortenus not forewarned Whit that this manner of speech was customary in Albrenia.
“But you should have given us warning, so that we could prepare a proper reception for you, my lord of Cardenstowe!” the little man cried, his hands pressed to his heart. “The nobles of Segavia would have sent envoys, if they didn’t come to meet your ship themselves! You will think this a very poor welcome!”
They were forced to accept an oversweet wine and many more protestations of apology before they were finally able to extricate themselves from the seor’s office to begin their search for lodgings.
They hadn’t even left the port proper before they were intercepted by a messenger. The man leapt from his horse, then delivered a crisp salute.
“Lord Whit of Cardensto
we?”
“Who wishes to know?” said Cortenus, coming forward to stand at Whit’s shoulder.
“My master, the Marquez Luiz de Selaze, a grandee of Segavia. He asks that his lordship and his party consider the de Selaze palazzo yours to enjoy during your stay in the city. Seor Luiz would be honored if you would accept his invitation and come with me there now.”
Whit raised an amused eyebrow. “My party is as you see before you. A moment.” He drew Cortenus aside. “What do you recommend?”
“I recognize the name—the Marquez de Selaze is a time-honored title of Segavia. I think we should come to no harm in accepting this offer, and a host of high rank might facilitate our search for Halla.”
Whit turned back to the messenger. “We would be most obliged to accept your master’s kind invitation.”
“The palazzo is not far from here, seor. If you will follow?”
They proceeded down a wide shady boulevard. On either side stood gracious residences, their arched windows filigreed with fine metal grilles, their walls decorated with painted frescoes and intricate mosaics depicting the mythology of their gods and goddesses.
The man led them into a grand house that opened up into a charming courtyard. As they entered, a ball of yarn rolled out of an alcove and came to a stop at Whit’s boot. He was amused to see a white kitten scampering after it, pursued by a young girl dressed as if for a ball. The frilled hem of her voluminous petticoats was damp and muddied.
“Rosa!” the child commanded, attempting to collect the small creature as it pounced at the yarn. When it didn’t come to her call, she crossed her arms over her chest and stamped her little foot.
Whit scooped up the kitten and held it out to her. The girl’s glower turned to sunshine as she thanked him prettily. When he replied in her tongue, she cried, “But you are estrangiro! Where do you come from?”
“Drinnglennin,” said Whit. “The lord of this house has graciously invited us to stay here.”
“My father is the marquez.” The girl’s smile faded. “He will scold me for keeping guests waiting in the courtyard!”
No stranger to disapproving fathers, Whit said, “Then we shall say nothing of it.”
Her bright smile reappeared. “I will take them in, Perico,” she declared imperiously to the messenger. She thrust the kitten into the man’s arms. “Take Rosa to Mencia to be brushed and fed.” Turning back to Whit, she offered her small hand. “I am Donita Ysabela Teres Vyrana de Selaze. But you may call me Bel.”
Reluctantly, Whit took her small sticky fingers between his. When she arched her brows, he belatedly bent to brush his lips against her hand. “I am Lord Whit Triffun Alcott of Cardenstowe,” he said, “but you may call me Whit. May I present Master Cortenus, my tutor?”
Bel inclined her head as Cortenus bowed. “I’m pleased to make your acquaintance. Come now, seors, and meet my papa.”
Keeping hold of Whit’s hand, she drew him through a long vaulted hall parallel to the lush gardens. Ignoring the startled guard before the ornate doors at its end, she swept her father’s guests into a grand chamber. Finding it empty, she directed Whit and Cortenus to a low couch before rapping on one of the interior doors.
“Papa!”
The door opened, and an elderly servant with a long, grave face stood aside for Bel to pass.
“No, no!” the child exclaimed impatiently. “I need Papa to come out. His guests have arrived.”
With a stiff bow, the servant retreated from sight. In his place, a slender man with greying temples appeared, his elegant garments leaving Whit in no doubt that this was Bel’s noble papa.
He and Cortenus rose at once. “Forgive us if we are intruding, sir,” said Whit. “Your daughter was quite insistent we come with her.”
“On the contrary, my lord Cardenstowe!” said the marquez de Selaze, coming forward. “It is I who should beg your pardon. I have long dreamed of a day such as this!”
To Whit’s surprise, the fellow grasped his shoulders and planted a kiss on each of his cheeks.
“Ah,” said the marquez, holding him at arm’s length. “I see you don’t know of our connection. Did your father never mention me?”
“My father?”
The marquez laughed. “I suppose my feelings should be hurt, but I recall Lord Jaxe was not a talkative man. A fine soldier, though. I should know—I owe my life to him.”
Whit found himself at a loss for words.
“I have confused you,” said the marquez. “But I forget myself.” He made a deep bow. “I am Luiz de Selaze.”
After introductions were made, Cortenus said, “I presume you have a personal tale to share with my lord. I will leave you to do so in privacy.”
“Most gracious of you,” said Seor Luiz with a smile. He called for a servant to see Cortenus to his chambers, then invited Whit for a stroll through the gardens.
“We are fortunate here in Albrenia,” said the marquez, lifting his fingers to brush a rose in bloom, “that our summers are so long. I imagine in your homeland it’s already harvesting time.” He turned to study Whit’s face. “You are not much like him.”
Whit gave a short laugh. “My father? No, that’s true. I don’t know if you’ve heard, seor, but he made the Leap last spring, while at prayer. It’s believed his heart failed.”
Seor Luiz stopped in his tracks, his expression stricken. “I am so sorry. Lord Jaxe could not have been far past his prime.”
“He was quite well, up until the day it happened.”
“I should have known he’d departed, since you have assumed the title. In my enthusiasm to greet you, I was not attending to the obvious.”
“May I ask, seor, how you learned of my arrival in Segavia?”
The marquez raised his eyebrows. “You wonder? News of any foreign noble visiting our shores travels like wildfire. We Segavians are ever hungry for new entertainments. I have claimed you as mine.”
Whit stiffened, not liking the sound of this.
Seor Luiz patted his arm reassuringly. “No, no… please, don’t misunderstand me. I only meant that others will envy me having a lord of the Isle under my roof.”
When they came to a wide staircase, the marquez said, “Your chambers are just here at the top. I hope you will find them adequate. My man has organized for your belongings to be delivered, but I have taken the liberty of providing you with a few gifts that I hope you will honor me by accepting. We shall meet again at supper. I am sure you wish to hear about your late father’s bravery, but that story can wait until you are settled. And then you will tell me what has brought you to Albrenia.”
Whit faced the man solemnly. “I’m afraid my story can’t wait, seor.”
“I see,” said the marquez. “In that case, my lord, tell me how I can be of service.”
Chapter 29
Once Whit had apprised his host of his reason for coming to Segavia, Seor Luiz wasted no time organizing an escort to the mercado.
“I regret I have another appointment that prevents me from accompanying you,” said the marquez, “but I’ll send out a few of my men to make additional inquiries. My man Matias will take you to the slave market, and if necessary, back to the port to inquire about other ships recently come from the Isle. If your lady cousin has indeed been brought to Segavia, perhaps someone will remember her. But I must warn you: if she was already put up for auction, it will be difficult to trace her. Let us pray she is still at the mercado.”
It was past midday when Whit and Cortenus arrived at the sprawling bazaar. Leaving their horses outside a narrow, canopied lane, they entered the mercado and were met with a horde of hawkers touting their wares. The heat was oppressive, and was made more so by the throngs of people wandering through the labyrinth of stalls. Strains of exotic music drifted from the tented shops, and the steamy air was at one turn fragrant with spices, at the next ripe with a
nimal dung. Whit found it all an assault on his senses.
As he and his tutor shouldered their way through the crowd, Whit despaired of finding Halla in this chaos. And when they arrived at the slavers’ quarter, the news was even worse.
“A slave ship came in last week,” a trader informed them, “but her cargo went within hours.”
“And you’re certain there was no tall, redheaded young woman among them?” Whit asked.
The man shook his head. “I would remember if there had been. Any number of my customers would give a pretty purse for such a girl—especially if she was a virgin.”
Whit itched to slap the avarice and desire off the trader’s face.
Cortenus pulled him aside before he could act on his anger. “Perhaps she wasn’t put up for sale?” he suggested. “Let us return to the port and see if we can trace her from there.”
But at the harbor, they discovered no fresh leads. Seor Joanes had left for his midday meal hours before, and unhelpfully, his underlings didn’t know when he might return. The clerks were not at liberty to release cargo lists. And though Whit dispersed gold liberally along the docks, it seemed no one had seen a fiery-haired young woman disembark in the previous days.
“Is it possible she’s still on board the ship?” Whit wondered aloud.
“If she is,” said the sailor whose pocket he had just lined, “she’ll be halfway to the Lost Lands by now.”
“The Lost Lands? What do you mean? Trade is forbidden with the Jagars.”
The sailor gave an unpleasant laugh, revealing a winking gold tooth, one of the few he still had. “That’s never stopped Palan de Grathiz.”
“Who?”
The sailor held out a dirty palm, into which Whit deposited several more coins. “Seor de Grathiz is High Commander of King Jorgev’s armed forces,” said the man.
