by K. C. Julius
“Well,” Whit said. “It’s a good thing you’re tall for your age.”
Fynn ran his hands over his cheeks, but everything felt the same.
“Your features haven’t actually been transformed any more than mine have,” Whit assured him. “My spell only alters what others see when they look at you.”
“So he hasn’t really lost his hair and grown that long white beard?” Wren said.
Fynn laughed. “Is that how you see me?”
“That’s how everyone will see you,” said Whit. “As long as no one comes close enough to touch you, the illusion will fool them.”
Whit pulled a shard of mirror from one of the many pockets of his cloak and handed it over. Fynn found himself looking into the whiskery face of an old, bald man.
“Amazing! How long will the illusion last?”
“Ah.”
Fynn’s stomach did a small flip, for he’d learned that Whit’s “ah” usually meant the wizard was unsure how to respond. “The truth is, I’ve only ever tried this bit of magic on myself. As long as I stay focused, I can keep up the illusion indefinitely. I’m not exactly sure how long it will work on you.”
Wren’s eyebrows shot up. “You mean, he might be stuck like that forever?”
“No, of course not!”
But Fynn thought he heard a note of doubt in Whit’s voice. And he definitely wasn’t reassured when the wizard clapped his hands in a hearty show of enthusiasm and declared, “There’s no time to waste! Let’s cast off, shall we?”
The wizard busied himself poling away from the shore, and Fynn took up his sweep.
The Kerl was wider here and the current no longer so swift, but there were still rapids around which to maneuver. For most of the morning, Fynn was occupied with keeping the batteau on an even keel, which spared him from dwelling on what lay ahead. Around midday, the batteau slipped into the Hysoss, the main waterway they would follow to the Ortinoch River near the border with Langmerdor. The waters of the Kerl had been deep green, but this placid river reminded Fynn of the dark mossy tea Mamma had concocted whenever he’d had a fever. Instead of smelling like cinnamon, though, the water gave off a pungent, fishy odor.
For the first time since they’d taken to the water, they began to pass boats traveling upriver. Most folks called out greetings, but on a few occasions, Fynn was aware of being scrutinized. Perhaps it’s because I look too old to be manning the oar. After that, he was careful to keep his shoulders hunched to support the illusion of advanced age.
In the late afternoon, they rounded a bend and the towers and spires of Sinarium came into view. He saw why the capital of Karan-Rhad was called the White City. Perched atop a cliff rising straight up from the river, its stately castle was constructed from pale limestone. Whit had told Fynn that many of Drinnglennin’s greatest scholars, including Whit’s own former tutor, had been born here, and that it was known as Drinnglennin’s most prominent seat of learning.
Fynn supposed he should be impressed. But like other boys growing up in Restaria, he’d never had a formal teacher; instead he’d learned the skills most valued by Helgrins—how to handle a boat, to fish and hunt and fight—from his father, or from Jered and his friends. His mother had taught him rune-reading and writing in both Helgric and Drinn, and a little history of the Known World. He’d learned still more Helgrin lore from Old Snorri’s stories and songs, and Mamma laughed when he told her he preferred the taleweaver’s lessons to hers.
The boat traffic increased as they neared the city docks, and soon their batteau was jostling against others in the queue making their way under the city’s bridges. To either side, the cries of vendors touting wares from their boats rose above the churning of millwheels and the rumble of wagons. A pack of dogs ran past on the right bank, pursued by a dozen or so boys around Fynn’s age. He tried to remember what it felt like to be dashing about with Einar. It seemed another life ago, and he felt a pang of regret, knowing those times were lost to him forever.
As their boat edged under the last bridge, a shout of anger rang out to port.
“Keep your eyes straight ahead, both of you,” Whit said quietly. “Someone has taken an interest in us.”
The batteau was hemmed in by boats on either side. Whit cursed under his breath as he tried unsuccessfully to pole past them. More shouts rose from behind, and Fynn, unable to resist a quick sidelong glance, caught a glimpse of someone wearing a cowl jumping from boat to boat. The boatmen’s objections were directed at this man, who was using their crafts as stepping stones as he headed straight for the batteau.
Whit abandoned his pole for his staff, and Fynn was wondering whether the wizard anticipated a fight when cries rose up from the docks on the starboard side. Shiny golden fountains of coins had begun spilling from the split seams of a half dozen sacks piled on one of the wagons. Another cry, this one to port, revealed that a row of tuns lining the wharf were also disgorging money onto the ground.
Chaos ensued as people raced to garner a share of the growing piles of unguarded wealth. Even those on the river, determined not to be left out, frantically poled, rowed, and paddled toward the docks, leaving the waterway ahead clear. Free at last, the batteau streamed out from under the shadow of the bridge.
Fynn looked around for the cowled man, but he seemed to have disappeared in the scramble.
Nobody spoke until the last of Sinarium’s towers disappeared behind the trees to the west. Even then Wren kept his voice low. “Do you think whoever was leaping among the boats was trying to board us? That he knew who we were?”
“How could he?” Whit said. “Our illusions are still in place. Unless he recognized you.”
“I kept my hood low,” Wren protested. “Maybe the fellow was a wizard, and could see through your magic. Quick thinking with the coins though. How did you know they were in there?”
Whit smirked. “There were no coins.”
Fynn grinned. “You mean those sacks were filled with something else, and you just made it appear to be gold?”
“Exactly.” Whit ran his hand over his face, lifting the illusion. He looked himself again, if a little pale.
“Can you change me back too?” Fynn said.
Whit made a similar pass over his features, then frowned. “Ah. Well… It seems your illusion will take a bit longer to wear off.”
Fynn wasn’t reassured by his tense smile, but there was no use in complaining. In any case, it was probably best he remain disguised until they reached Thraven. He just hoped he wouldn’t have to wait a half century before growing into the face he now showed the world.
* * *
The Hysoss meandered along toward the Ortinoch River, which would take them east into Langmerdor and onward toward the southern coast. Whit grumbled that they could walk to Thraven faster than the river was carrying them, but at least the Hysoss was wide enough now so that they could steer clear of any boats that might approach, but the only other craft they passed was a half-sunken dinghy.
Nearing Thraven, Whit tried again to remove Fynn’s illusionary face, which, to Fynn’s dismay, seemed to involve a lot of trial and error. When they forked left into the Ortinoch, Whit had managed to make Fynn’s dark hair visible once more, but he still had his snowy beard. The wizard clearly took this as a personal affront, and from time to time could be heard muttering to himself in frustration.
The water was carrying them closer and closer to the family of Fynn’s mother. And the nearer they drew, the more he just wanted it over with. Whatever “it” might turn out to be. It was possible that his grandparents had already made the Leap. And since, according to Wren, Georgiana Fitz-Pole had been an only child, that would mean Bodiaer would have passed to another family—a new lord and lady in residence, with no one left to remember the girl who had disappeared over a decade ago.
Fynn longed for something to keep his mind occupied, but the slow-flo
wing river barely required him to use his sweep. Inspiration came when he saw both Whit and Wren yawning at the same time.
“Why don’t I take the stern sweep while you two get some rest? You won’t let me do the night watch, but there’s no danger if you sleep while we’re moving on the river. We haven’t seen another boat for ages, and I’ll wake you if one comes along.”
When they both agreed, Fynn happily manned the helm while his friends rested. The batteau drifted along, and he soon found himself falling under the spell of Langmerdor in springtime. There was something magical about the light playing on the young leaves, making the groves of trees they drifted past appear softly blurred, their green furls rustling to silver in the breeze. Wide swaths of bluebells carpeted the banks, lending their perfume to the mossy undertones. The morning hours were measured by trills of birdsong, punctuated from time to time by the solitary rat-a-tat-tat of a hidden woodpecker.
At midday, the river narrowed and veered south, the woodlands giving way to rolling meadows. Now the drone of bees and the chirr of crickets kept Fynn company, and when he caught the faint briny scent of the sea, it evoked such a strong homesickness, he had to blink away tears.
Restaria is gone, he reminded himself, and your past with it.
When he spied ripples on the water, he pivoted his oar to avoid the suspicious area. Out of the corner of his eye, he thought he saw something shift on the near bank, but when he turned toward it, there was nothing there. A few moments later, it happened again—and this time he saw a dark form moving low through the tall grass.
A wild pig, he told himself. Or maybe a feral dog.
He didn’t bother to wake the others, sound asleep under the shade of the tarp. Even if it turned out to be human, the batteau was too far from the bank to be boarded. For a while he watched for whatever it was to show itself again, but when it didn’t, he promptly forgot about it.
The day meandered on with the river, and in the still, warm air, Fynn’s eyelids grew heavy. He donned a floppy hat, then leaned back to watch the towers of high cloud drift by. The banks to either side were hidden now by dense reeds rising up from the shallows, their rustling whispers reminding him of the time he’d pressed his ear to Wurl and heard the great tree’s voice. In his mind’s eye, he sat beside Einar at Old Snorri’s feet, breathing in the deep green scent of the Grove as the taleweaver spun them a story…
A terrible grating sound jerked Fynn out of his dream, and the Petra lurched to a standstill. Wren and Whit were still staggering up from under the tarp as Fynn dropped over the gunnel and into the shallows.
The bow of the batteau was wedged in thick mud. Fynn tried and failed to push the boat out of the mire, then looked around for something to serve as a lever. A long pole poking out of the cattails caught his eye, and he sloshed over to retrieve it. But when he grabbed hold of the pole, he met with resistance. He pushed deeper into the reeds to find out why, and a hand clapped hard over his mouth.
“What’ve ye done wit’ them what was on yonder boat, ol’ man?” a low voice hissed in his ear. “Answer quick and quiet when I take away me hand, else I’ll bleed ye!”
A bubble of laughter welled up inside Fynn that not even the knife at his throat could contain. “It’s me,” he cried. “Grinner, it’s me!”
Chapter 6
Maura
It took six bone-chilling nights of flight for Ilyria to cross over the central forests of Helgrinia. Through the daylight hours they sheltered, hiding in those dark, ominous woods, and even as she slept Maura carried with her the fear of Ilyria’s brothers, who were hunting them down, and she had the sense of being watched, as if the very trees were spying on them.
The dragoness had tried to reassure Maura that the drakes were likely focusing their search on Drinnglennin, but she couldn’t help wondering how long it would be before they widened their scope.
On the seventh night after leaving Dogg Island, they stopped in mountainous country, and for the first time since they’d crossed over the Erolin Sea, they slept exposed to the sky, for they were far above the tree line. Ilyria was quiet—too quiet for Maura’s liking. The long night flights, combined with their uncertainty over the extent of her siblings’ betrayal, were clearly taking their toll on the bronzewing.
It seemed to Maura that it might help to talk about this, so she broached the painful subject. “It might be only Zal, Aed, and Gryffyn who are against you, Ilyria.”
A shadow flitted across the dragon’s face.
Maura rocked back on her heels. “You saw something in the fire that you haven’t told me.”
Ilyria raised her great head. “Yes.”
Maura steeled herself for bad tidings.
“I saw Leif in Belestar, surrounded by fire. And then he was gone. I cannot find him anywhere.”
Maura felt as though a knife had been driven into her heart. She choked back a sob. Leif—as dear to her as her own brother. He couldn’t have joined Dal across the Abyss. “Surely your siblings wouldn’t…?”
“I saw them all advancing on him before the vision faded.”
Maura pressed close against the dragon’s heart, tears spilling down her cheeks over the loss of her brave, fun-loving friend. “And what has become of Rhiandra?” she asked softly.
She felt the dragoness’s heartbeat quicken.
“My sister still lives. She was there.”
“But then…?
“That is all I saw.” Ilyria lowered her wing over Maura. “I must sleep now, child, as should you. We may know the full story one day, but for now, this is all I have been shown.”
Maura’s heartache was almost too great to bear. Ilyria was all she had left in the world now—and the dragoness was determined that they too must soon part.
She tried once more to change the bronzewing’s mind. “We should stay together, Ilyria. You showing up alone in Belestar will only signal to your siblings that our bond isn’t valued by either of us. If we go together, we can prove them wrong. Perhaps if I spoke with the dragons, I could—”
“No, Maura.”
“But why?”
“After what happened to Leif?” Ilyria snorted. “No, you shall not come to Belestar with me.”
“But why must you go? You said it’s possible the other dragons have declared war on all mankind. If that’s true, then now that you’re bound to me, you’ll be considered one of the enemy!”
“I am going because, as you said, it’s not certain that all my siblings have turned against the world. If they’re still debating this, I must try to convince them to keep peace with mankind.”
And if they’ve already decided against us, thought Maura, they’ll kill you.
And so they flew on, day after day, closing the distance to Olquaria, where Ilyria intended to leave Maura in the care of the descendants of her mate’s dragonfast.
On the far side of the eastern mountains, they veered south to cross the vast central flatlands. It would take them two more nights of flying to get back to the relative safety of mountains, and until then, it would be difficult to find a secluded hiding place to rest during the day. The pre-dawn gloom revealed only an unbroken plain stretching to the hazy horizon. Having grown up in the mountains of Branley Tor, Maura felt eerily exposed and vulnerable in such sprawling, barren country.
Just before sunrise, Ilyria made a shooting descent that snatched the breath from Maura’s lungs, and they came to earth in a sea of marshy grasses beside a narrow stream. As usual, the dragoness was ravenous after the strenuous flight, and treated Maura to the alarming sight of her sinuous tongue reeling in the fat bullfrogs that abounded here.
When Ilyria was sated, she settled to rest. The slit of the dragon’s golden eyes gave the impression that she was still on her guard, but before long her slow, steady breaths signaled she had slipped deep into her dreams.
Maura was weary herself, but ke
pt watch from astride Ilyria’s back, where she’d been driven by the plump, protesting frogs leaping around them. The gathering clouds foretold rain, as did the brisk wind that sprang up. Maura tugged her magical cloak closer. She’d learned that she could envision anything she wanted in its pockets, but only one single thing at a time—a carrot, for example, but not a bowl of lamb stew with carrots in it. So far, she’d been careful not to wish for things too often, recalling that in the faery stories her papa had told her, this always ended in woe.
At the thought of her papa, a dull ache pulsed in the region of her heart. She would never again be in the comforting circle of his arms, or hear his fond laughter. She hoped by now he’d learned the truth—that she wasn’t really his daughter—so that he would be spared the grief that had brought him so low when Dal disappeared.
She had just closed her eyes when Ilyria jolted awake beneath her and unfurled her wings, nearly toppling Maura from her back.
“We must fly!” the bronzewing cried.
They lurched into the air just as soft, pattering drops began to fall and thunder rolled over the plains.
Ilyria ascended sharply, racing toward the cloud cover as if Blearc’s hounds nipped at her tail, then plunged deep into the thunderheads and a curtain of icy water. Jagged bolts of lightning lit the thunder-clapped skies, and Maura held on for dear life as they were buffeted about like a toy boat on an ocean of unstable air. The rain turned to hail, striking her head and shoulders as Ilyria zigzagged between the blinding spears of lightning. The air smelled singed, and hailstones pummeled Maura’s back. If she could have wished for a steel helm, she would have, but only objects that fit in her cloak pocket could be found there. Besides, to let go of Ilyria for even an instant would be perilous, for Maura was under no illusions as to why the dragoness had bolted up from her sleep. Ilyria might be able to catch her if she fell, but once out of the clouds, they would be exposed.
And Ilyria’s brothers were very close.
