by K. C. Julius
Fynn twisted toward his captor, then brought his knee up hard in the man’s groin. The Helgrin doubled over with a groan, and the boy wrenched himself free. Before anyone could stop him, he vaulted past Whit onto the gunwale and dropped into the sea.
Whit hurtled after him, swinging himself over the ship’s rail, followed by the angry shouts of the Helgrins.
He hit the black sea with a splash. It felt even colder than before as he fought his way back the surface, then shook the water from his eyes. There was no sign of Fynn, and he wondered if the boy could even swim.
Something pierced the sea an arm’s length away. Whit looked up to see Aksel notching an arrow into a longbow.
He dove under the water, the twang of the bowstring ringing in his ears, but no arrow punched into him. Had it found Fynn instead?
When he surfaced once more, he had a spell already on his lips. Tynwych y dŵra thoil dagat! Water, spin if it please you.
The sea began to churn around him, and he propelled himself in the direction of the shore, willing the water behind him to rise, holding the vision of a swirling funnel in his mind. The men on the flagship leapt to their oars, frantically attempting to row out of the emerging waterspout’s path, and the Ydlyia’s sail was hoisted amidst shouts and curses. It rippled and filled, rocking the longboat slowly westward. Her seven sisters already plowed the waves ahead of her, for they hadn’t been hindered by Whit’s magical fog.
A dark head bobbed up suddenly to Whit’s left and just as abruptly disappeared again below the surface. The stark look of terror on the boy’s face sent an echoing jolt through Whit’s chest, and he flung himself over the waves to reach him.
Whit plunged down after Fynn, but he could see nothing in the dark sea. Still he dove, again and again, rising each time only when his lungs felt close to bursting. The fourth time he broke the surface, he was numb and lightheaded, and his chest ached as though he’d been stabbed in the lungs. The cold would soon overcome him.
He suddenly remembered a retrieving spell he had learn from Egydd. He released the windfunnel, for the longboats were already moving away across the bay, and cast the new spell.
Domsar tui min!
This time when he dove, he saw something shooting toward him from the depths, and Fynn collided with him in a tangle of flailing limbs. A flash of white pain exploded behind Whit’s eyes as a kick caught his wounded thigh. Fighting to stay conscious, he grabbed hold of Fynn and hauled him upward. As they broke the surface, Whit’s burning lungs filled with air, and he felt like weeping with gratitude.
But one look at the limp boy in his grasp swept that emotion aside. Fynn’s eyes were glazed over, and the breaths from between his purple lips were shallow. If the cold had reached the core of his bones, he was a whisper away from death.
Whit wrapped one arm tightly around him and gathered his energy for another spell.
Thamal, den à dul qywlh y dal!
The spell was inexact, he knew, but his powers of concentration were fading fast. Wave, carry me to the shore, if it please you. He imagined the two of them atop the white crest, riding the surf to the beach.
They were lifted toward the shoreline, and Whit breathed a sigh of relief, a feeling that lasted no more than a second as his foggy brain wrestled with a new problem: how to slow the wave. It rose higher and higher, picking up speed, and Whit’s gut twisted as he looked down from its crest, that now towered over the stony shoreline. From this height, they would be smashed like earthenware jugs on impact.
Whit’s mind screamed for inspiration even as his thoughts grew more muddled.
Soft! What is soft?
An image of Maeve flashed through his mind, her alabaster arms stretched above her head as she writhed beneath him. With horror, he pushed the vision away, only to have Maura replace her, wrapped in her scarlet shawl.
The wave curled and began its descent. Whit tightened his hold on the lifeless boy as the grey beach rushed toward them, and cried out one last desperate spell.
Chapter 25
Borne
Borne gazed out over the great inland sea separating Olquaria from Delnogoth. Shreds of vapor swirled beneath a tentative sun, and in the shifting light, Lake Mazarine reddened from rich blue to deep magenta. It was yet another wonder along the way east.
The scent of roses mingled with the dank smell of the boggy wetlands. The late spring wind lifted Borne’s hair, which had grown shaggy in the two months since his departure from Gral. He supposed he’d have to trim it before he came into Zlatan Basileus’s august presence.
A sudden thrashing in the water warned Borne to retreat, and Magnus gamboled out of the shallows, spraying water in all directions. He grabbed the dog by the nape of his sopping neck and gave him an affectionate shake. “You great loon,” he laughed, “you’re still a pup at heart, aren’t you?”
“Ah, Borne! There you are!”
Comte Balfou strolled up, keeping a prudent distance from the dripping hound. “Good news—I’ve received confirmation that we can sail today. If we’d come a few weeks later, it would have been too risky to attempt a crossing.”
Ejder, their local guide, had already explained to Borne how in midsummer the winds sweeping the lake changed direction, bringing the burzani in from the west. When these hot, dry gales roared down from the Delnogoth steppes, they raised spinning funnels of water that swallowed everything in their path. In this season, even the Mazarinei stayed ashore.
The comte drew a deep breath. “No matter how many times I pass this way, the lake air never fails to delight!”
“It carries the promise of summer,” Borne agreed. “While we were crossing the Valmoinnes, I confess I wasn’t sure we’d survive to enjoy another.”
Balfou gave a slight shudder. “Indeed. Particularly after Nagoret brought down that snow slide with his abominable singing. I remain convinced the gods were intent on silencing him once and for all.”
Borne laughed, although at the time, it hadn’t been at all funny. They’d escaped a frozen burial only because the slide started high enough above them that they’d had time to run out of the avalanche’s path. All the men were spared, but two ponies had not been so fortunate. Luckily, they were not the beasts bearing gifts from King Crenel to the Imperial Basileus.
Glancing over at the leader of their delegation, it once again confounded Borne that, despite the weeks of hard travel, the comte’s auburn hair remained sleekly groomed and neatly bound, and his attire impeccable. Today, Balfou wore a snowy white tunic and spotless hose, while over his broad shoulders lay a spectacular seraser cloak, interwoven with threads of gold and silver, a gift to the ambassador from Zlatan Basileus himself. Borne pitied Gaétan, the comte’s diligent squire, who must surely labor long into the night, brushing and pressing his lordship’s clothes to maintain their pristine condition.
It was Balfou’s pride in his appearance that had caused Borne, at the beginning of their journey east, to mistakenly assume the comte was just another decadent fop of the Gralian court. But he’d quickly come to respect the man. In addition to being an authority on Olquarian society, Balfou had proven himself an experienced guide. He’d known which trails along their way would remain passable in the early winter snows, and apart from that one close call, he’d brought the company over the treacherous mountains safely.
“If we’re about to sail, my lord,” Borne said, “then I must excuse myself. The men must prepare for boarding.”
Receiving Balfou’s gracious nod, he made his way toward the long cedar piers jutting out into the lake. His troop was already assembled there, their belongings and weapons securely packed and shouldered. Borne suppressed a grin as D’Avencote, his aide-de-camp, planted a kiss on the forehead of his sturdy mountain pony, Aurelie, who had carried the Gralian over the treacherous passes of lower Delnogoth.
“Farewell, sweet Aurelie,” D’Avencote crooned. He
stroked the beast’s muzzle gently before reluctantly releasing her to the trader.
They’d sold all the horses here in the lake port of Merthol, since Balfou had assured Borne that the Basileus would provide them with alternate transport from Rizo to Tell-Uyuk. In any event, Borne doubted that the vessels set to convey the embassy across the lake were suitable for the animals. The joltoras, as the boats were called, were woven from the giant sedge curtaining much of the Mazarin, and they were sealed with the sticky tar found in the ancient pits dotting the landscape. To Borne, they looked concerningly fragile.
The thirty men of the Gralian party required two joltoras. Boarding was accomplished without incident, save for one misstep that landed Nargoret—a florid, thick-set man with flaming red hair—in the reeking mire. His fellow passengers refused to let him embark until he’d stripped off his muddy clothes and rinsed them in the lake.
Once they had cast off, Borne settled beside Ejder and studied the joltora’s craftsmanship more closely. Although primitive, it was strangely beautiful. The prow and stern rose gracefully, like a crescent moon on its back. The figurehead of the Naza, Borne’s ship, was a water lizard with luminous green eyes; the Pelin, alongside them, bore the head of a kabaga, the giant turtle who swam in the depths of the Mazarine and basked on the ulas, the man-made floating isles of reeds scattered across the lake.
The Naza’s captain was a wiry, wizened fellow with short, tightly wound grey curls. Like his crew, he was slender and long-limbed, with bright, almond-shaped eyes and sun-kissed skin. From his place at the rudder, he called out melodious instructions to his crew as they wielded their broad-bladed paddles to the soft cadence of their songs. Borne had already picked up a smattering of Mazarini, but wished he knew more. He would have liked to record their lyrics in his journal. These days he no longer composed or read poetry, for it gave him no pleasure, but he still carried his old diaries, along with a few volumes on military strategy, a bundle of maps, and an anthology of the Olquarian sages.
When they were well off the shore, Naza’s single sail was hoisted, belling in the stirring breeze. The paddles were stowed as the captain set a westerly course to skirt the dangerous shoals on the lake’s eastern shoreline. The joltora picked up surprising speed, skimming over the glassy water like the black terns dotting the lake.
Ejder pointed to a thatched watchtower on one of the ulas as they glided past. “My grandfather built that lookout,” he proclaimed proudly. “It was his duty, and my father’s after him, to warn our people when the Hanamah came raiding.”
The Hanamah, a tribe inhabiting the vertiginous slopes to the east of the great lake, had once been the Mazarinei’s inveterate enemies. As a result of generations of capturing each other’s women, over time the two tribes had become deeply interbred. The year Ejder had been born, a truce was declared, and since then their exchanges had consisted of wares rather than wives.
The captain signaled to Ejder, who touched his heart politely before answering the summons. Balfou took the Mazarinei’s place at Borne’s side. “If this wind holds,” the comte said, “we could reach Tamanti before nightfall. Otherwise we’ll heave to and shelter by one of the ulas along the way.”
Tamanti was one of the few natural islands on the lake, and lay about a quarter of the way to their destination. If they were to achieve such a distance in one day, they would arrive at Rizo within the week. It had taken them three to cover the same ground while crossing the rugged Valmoinnes.
“What should I know about Rizo?” Borne asked the comte, “other than that it’s the guardian city of the Contara Straits?”
Borne knew Balfou needed no encouragement to speak of his adopted land; he’d served as Gral’s ambassador to Olquaria for over half his life, and it was clear he’d grown to love it. His dark blue eyes sparkled with passion whenever he spoke of the eastern empire.
“Rizo? Why, it’s the busiest port in the world, set at the crossroads between East and West. Her ships carry goods through the straits down to the Middle Sea, then on from there all along the coast. Rizo was the birthplace of Al Douwal, whom you well know was the father of mathematics, and of Gorgani Kazim, whose maps are still used today, as well as Bektash Kadari, the brilliant astronomer, and Rushdi Santai, the renowned poet of love. The city is four times the size of Segavia, a sleepy village by comparison.” Balfou gave a dismissive wave of his hand. “But we won’t be lingering in Rizo. The Basileus has requested we proceed with all haste to the capital. And while his northern port city is impressive, no metropolis can hope to match the magnificence of Tell-Uyuk!”
Borne recalled the priceless Kazim map with vignette borders and decorative cartouches that adorned one wall of Windend’s library. Lord Heptorious acquired the ancient artifact during his campaigns with King Urlion on the continent. As boys, Borne and Cole spent hours studying that map, and had pestered their tutors mercilessly for tales of the places depicted on it. Had it been Master Dunford or Master Orlick who’d told them about the splendorous Tell-Uyuk, City of Seven Hills, with its gleaming white towers and wide avenues, all leading to the Golden Palace of the Basileus? Borne felt a dull ache in his heart as he remembered a time when Cole and Lord Heptorious had still been a part of his life.
“We must see that you experience this as soon as possible. What do you say?” Borne blinked. Balfou was looking at him expectantly.
“I’m sorry, my lord. What do I say to…?”
“To joining me for the annual exhibition of yaraket? It’s really quite a thrilling event. I have a box in the Censibas just below that of the Basileus, and it offers an excellent view of the course.”
It took Borne several seconds to recall that the Censibas was where the famous eniyara, the free runners, performed their yaraket. These artists of movement tested the limits of their athleticism through climbing, jumping, balancing, and running. While they normally practiced these feats out in the world, the eniyara held a yearly exhibition in the Censibas, an arena so vast it could accommodate the entire population of the free peoples of Tell-Uyuk, as well as the slaves they required to attend to them.
“I’d like that very much, my lord,” Borne replied.
“Excellent!” Balfou rubbed his hands together in anticipation. “It’s just one of many things you’re bound to enjoy in the capital.”
“I’m not sure how much time I’ll have for leisure, what with training the Basileus’s army in arms, and campaigning with them when required.”
“Yes, yes,” said Balfou, with another wave of his expressive hands, “but your eyes and ears can also serve Gral while in attendance at social engagements. A highly presentable young lord like yourself will surely find favor with the court.”
Privately, Borne didn’t know that he cared to find favor. He was still adjusting to his unexpected change of status from mercenary under Latour’s command to herald serving the Gralian king. Of course, he couldn’t have refused the honor bestowed upon him by King Crenel without giving offense, and Latour had clearly wanted this for him, convinced as the marechal was that linking Borne’s fortunes with Gral in this way would prove to be beneficial to both Borne and the realm.
Besides, if Olquaria was all Latour and Balfou claimed it to be, there could be worse places for him to put down new roots. Time would tell.
Balfou seemed to be reading his thoughts. “Should the rumors prove to be true, regarding the shifting sands of allegiances on both sides of the Erolin Sea, you’ll be well out of it here. The Basileus is sure to remain neutral, unless his hand is forced, and that is highly unlikely. Zlatan is a master of survival, as one must be to rule the infamous Imperial Court.” He paused before adding, “May I speak frankly, my lord?”
Borne doubted the comte spoke any other way. “By all means.”
“The prospect of conflict in the west is looming. Latour assured me that should Drinnglennin go to war, you won’t abandon your post here and rush home to jo
in it.”
Borne met his searching gaze evenly. “I wouldn’t have accepted this commission if I didn’t intend to honor it, sir.”
“Yes, yes, of course. I had no doubt!” Balfou’s flushed cheeks suggested he was sorry he’d implied otherwise.
A sudden flapping drew their eyes to the sail, which had momentarily emptied of wind. As the crew scrambled for their paddles, the canvas fluttered and the joltora began a slow spiral in the indigo water. Shouts rang out from the sailors, and the previously placid captain leapt from his perch, shouting orders Borne didn’t need to understand to discern their urgency. The men’s paddles rose and fell, but the Naza’s bow continued to swing inexorably east.
Far off on the horizon, a massive cloud bank was rolling in, its base dark and flat as a griddlecake above the lake. The water beneath it had turned slate grey, and a blurred sheet of rain fell like a curtain between sky and sea. Racing ahead of the rain, a flock of winged black creatures flew in formation, and for a moment, Borne thought they were young dragons. But as they swooped overhead, he saw that they were swans, only three times the size of any he’d ever seen.
Borne’s pulse quickened as a finger of water slowly snaked from the cloud to touch down on the lake’s surface. The coil of water resembled a huge whirling top, like the ones Borne had played with as a child at Fernsehn.
It began to gyrate in their direction, the spout thickening and sending out steam as it picked up speed, trailing a visible wake.
“It’s the burzani!” Balfou cried.
The crew gave up trying to row against the wind, and Borne leapt to help them reef the now buffeting sail while the captain wrestled with the rudder. The joltoras lurched into motion once more and raced across the lake, just ahead of what was now a blinding squall. Cresting waves crowned the lake with white foam that spilled over the gunwales.
