Shadow Born

by Martin Frowd

  On closer inspection, Zarynn realised, the seat of the chair was covered in some sort of hide, or perhaps scale was a more accurate term. Black as night, it proved to be warm to the touch and flexed slightly beneath his hand.

  Like most of the People of the Bear, Zarynn had never been privileged to sit in a chair before, but that life was behind him now. After all that had befallen him, and might befall him yet, Zarynn reasoned, he most surely could not cause himself any further ill by sitting in the chair. Even if it were a Druid’s chair – and Zarynn could not imagine who else might own it, situated here as it was, beneath a cave in the silent vale. And he was so weary, after all that had transpired today, and indeed ever since the murder of his parents had flung his life into upheaval. And the chair looked soft and comfortable, certainly more so than the only other chair he had ever seen before. His mind made up, Zarynn crossed the gleaming black floor, turned around and carefully sat down in the chair, grasping its arms. The hide or scale felt warm beneath him. The chair was clearly made for a man, not a boy, and a tall man at that, Zarynn realised as his feet did not touch the stone floor. Warmth spread through him, starting in the small of his back and radiating through every part of his body, and his aches, pains, bruises and grazes began to fade. Dimly, as he looked down at himself, he realised the angry red marks left on his wrists by the ropes were fading.

  And then he drifted off into a sound and peaceful sleep.

  NINE: PROMISES

  The ship’s mess was crowded and noisy by the time Anjali and Kitithraza arrived hand in hand. Most of the crew, and all the other passengers currently on board, were already seated around the single long oak table. As the newcomers stood framed in the doorway, the ship’s central gangway at their back, Anjali cast her eyes over the assembly. Maarek the captain, often called Glittergrin, sat at the head of the table, in the furthest position from the door. The light of the candles on the table reflected from his smooth, shaven, mahogany-dark head, and as he laughed at something Rathgar, seated to his right, had just said, the several gold teeth that gave him his nickname glinted in the light, as did the large gold hoops set in both his ears.

  To the captain’s left, across the table from the dwarf, Jelek the second mate and steersman bit a chunk from a bird leg and brandished the bone at Rathgar, as if to ward off bad luck or evil spirits. The effect was undermined by all the other sailors howling with laughter. Anjali counted seven of them seated along the oaken bench beside the second mate, so the other two must be on watch above deck, as was normal at mealtimes. No matter how skilfully woven her veil of illusion might be, Captain Maarek would not leave the ship blind to potential foes approaching – or the Master’s return, which might come at any hour – and Anjali agreed with the man’s caution.

  Along the bench on the opposite side, her gaze passed over the pot-bellied and grey-haired quartermaster and cook, Marag, named like so many for the long-dead founder of their nation, seated next to the dwarven first mate. The man was short and wide, almost like a dwarf himself, and his leather apron had a few stains upon it, but his pudgy fingers did not seem to hinder him in keeping accurate records of the ship’s provisions, and by all that was holy and unholy, he could cook. Anjali could forgive much for the man’s skill in the galley that had prevented every meal on this long voyage from becoming torture rather than pleasure. Next to him, the skinny youth Aldrek, ship’s mistweaver or weather mage – and captain’s nephew – seemed almost lost in his pale blue robes, like a child dressing in his elders’ finery for all that he was a few years older than Anjali herself. But for all his boyishness, the mahogany-skinned young mistweaver had the Gift of Weather that had propelled the ship across the ocean thrice as rapidly as mundane winds alone would ever allow, and Anjali respected his talent.

  On Aldrek’s right sat Farouk. Anjali continued to affect a pleasant smile and tried to keep her mood from souring as she glanced at her fellow apprentice. Farouk had been in conversation with Aldrek, but on noticing her in the doorway, his eyes lit up and the mistweaver clearly no longer had his full attention.

  “Move along, youngsters,” Farouk commanded haughtily, waving a hand to accompany his words. By the curl of his lip it was obvious to Anjali that the word he really meant to say was brats. “Make space for your betters.”

  “That’s really not necessary,” Anjali countered Farouk’s arrogance with a charming smile at the six children seated along the bench to the necromancer’s right. “We came in late. We can just sit at the end.” She and Kitithraza walked only as far as the foot of the long table, and finally unclasped hands to take seats on opposite sides, the felis with her fellow sailors and Anjali with the youngsters. Anjali flashed a further smile at the children whom she and the Master had gathered thus far from the lands of the tribes. “Good evening Zaryk, Zorn, Zonn, Zoss, Zovyn, Zonna,” she greeted each one in turn, in the language of her people – not theirs – finishing with the only girl among them.

  “Good evening, Miss Anjali,” each of the six responded in turn, in the language of her homeland. Some were clearly more fluent - and confident – after the scant few days, tendays at most, of instruction they had received thus far. Farouk glowered again as she paid more attention to the younglings than to her fellow apprentice, and especially when she chose to sit at the end of the table, with young Zonna, rather than with him. Anjali suspected he had not even bothered to memorise which of the five boys was which, or even noticed that two of them were twin brothers.

  “Did you have a pheasant afternoon, Miss Anjali?” Zorn, one of the twins, dared to ask her as one of the sailors – Varzag, with the anchor tattoo on his left cheek – passed dishes down the table to her and Kitithraza from which to fill their wooden platters. Farouk snorted, and one or two of the sailors snickered, but Anjali ignored them.

  “The word you want is ‘pleasant’, Zorn dear,” she explained, correcting the boy gently. “Not pheasant, which is a bird that lives far away, across the sea. But your pronunciation is perfect! Well done. And yes, I did, thank you.”

  “I knew it was pleasant,” declared Zonna.

  “Ach, yer a smart wee thing, aye lassie?” Rathgar beamed at her.

  The young girl blushed at the praise, her green eyes – most unusual for the tribes, where black or brown were the norm – almost aglow, and turned to regard Kitithraza, across the table. “Did you have a pleasant afternoon too, Miss Kitithraza?” she asked the felis, emphasising the word, with a smile for Zorn.

  “Did. Was mating.” Kitithraza’s reply was both succinct and unhindered by euphemism. Zonna giggled. The common sailors grinned, and Captain Maarek and the boys guffawed, but Farouk grimaced. At the other end of the table, Rathgar the dwarven first mate groaned and clutched at his red beard.

  “Gods up and down, Kitithraza lassie, d’ye just say whate’er pops intae yer heid? Nae filter at all?”

  “Yes. Is easier.”

  The mess erupted in laughter. Farouk stayed silent, but all of the crew bar Rathgar were too full of mirth to hide it, and even the dwarf reluctantly chuckled. The children instinctively joined in the laughter, even without fully understanding the reason for it, which only added to the apprentice necromancer’s scowl.

  Anjali smiled and turned her attention to her platter. Across the table from her, Kitithraza was attacking her dinner with gusto. Whatever birds were the centrepiece of tonight’s meal – she suspected gulls of some sort, certainly the meat was plumper and tenderer than the tough, chewy hookbeaks that were so ubiquitous to these lands – had been expertly glazed and grilled, and the sticky rice had just the right combination of sweetness and bite to it.

  “My compliments to the cook on another fine dinner,” she bestowed a purple-lipped smile on Marag, who beamed at her in return.

  “Aye, let’s hear it for our cook, eh lads?” Rathgar grinned and raised his tankard in a toast. Captain Maarek and the rest of the crew present – humans and their one felis alike – cheered, or in Kitithraza’s case hissed, and bang
ed their tankards on the table, while Anjali and Farouk raised their more elegant, and delicate, glasses of deep blue wine in salute. The children had plain wooden goblets of water, rather than the heavy, battered metal tankards of the crew or the expensive glassware reserved for the apprentices and the absent Master Glaraz, and raised them, somewhat haphazardly, in response to the dwarf’s toast. Anjali smiled, seeing that Zonna was the first to correctly react.

  “Miss Anjali?” the young green-eyed girl of the tribes plucked at the sleeve of her robe as she dared to pose another question. “Will we be sailing soon?”

  “Not soon enough,” Farouk muttered sourly.

  “I hope so, Zonna dear,” Anjali did her best to ignore her fellow apprentice and smiled at the girl. “But the Master isn’t back yet – you remember he went out to rescue one more of you? Once he comes back, with the last of your group, we will sail across the sea. And then you’ll get to see your new home at last!”

  “Tell us more of Maraport, Miss Anjali,” Zovyn, the boy seated next to Zonna, requested, still speaking her language with a much stronger accent, and more tentatively, than Zonna. “Do yurts stay in same place all time?”

  “Not yurts,” Zonna objected. “Miss Anjali said.”

  “That’s right,” Anjali nodded at her young charges in between mouthfuls of food. “Does anyone remember what we call them?”

  “Houses,” said Zaryk softly, the boy seated at the other end of the group of young rescuees, next to Farouk. “Of stone. Like caves, but made, not grown.”

  The other children still looked dubious, Anjali noted.

  “Think of this ship,” she suggested. “You’ve been here some days now – a tenday or more, some of you. The walls haven’t moved, have they?”

  “Not stone,” Zaryk observed.

  “Tree,” Zovyn asserted. “Like jungles. Like forests too. What is word, Miss Anjali? Trees, they are made of?”

  “I know it,” Zonna declared proudly. “Wood. The word is wood.”

  “Very good, Zonna. Yes, trees are made of wood, and this ship is made of wood. Not cloth, like yurts, and not stone, like caves – or houses.”

  “If ship stone, ship sink,” Kitithraza helpfully noted.

  “Thank you, my Kitiyeh,” Anjali laughed, and noticed the endearment was not lost on Farouk, who grimaced again. “Yes, houses stay in the same place.”

  “And the tall ones, Miss Anjali, they are really taller than hills?”

  “We call them towers, Zonna. Yes, some are taller than your hills.”

  “And no Druids?” another boy spoke up.

  “That’s right, Zoss. There are no Druids of Kelnaaros in Maraport. You can worship any God you choose – or more than one God, or no God at all, if you choose to. Only priests must worship just one.”

  “Druids kill you if not worship,” Zaryk protested.

  “Said no demon-priest Druids. Are no demon-priest Druids. Anjali not lie.”

  “Thank you, my Kitiyeh,” Anjali bestowed a charming smile on her lover for the endorsement. She pushed aside her empty platter and lit a cigarette, sucking in the smoke and concentrating for a moment before slowly exhaling it in a long silvery-blue cloud. As the children watched, the smoke rippled and shaped itself into the form of a long, single-masted ship, sailing through a sea of empty air. The six children gaped, all agog, as the smoke-ship glided serenely through the air above their heads. Anjali took another long drag and blew out more smoke, which hung in the air for a moment before beginning to take shape. Structures emerged from the smoke, some blocky, others rounded or angular, with domes, fluted minarets and tall steeples strange and foreign to the children. But the ship’s crew grinned and applauded, recognising the skyline of their home port rendered in the smoke. The smoke-ship glided in an arc through the air and gradually came to rest in a smoky harbour, against a backdrop of hazy buildings.

  “This is Maraport,” Anjali pointed one long gold-painted fingernail at the image wavering in the smoke. “Our home, and soon to be your home too. See the streets running off from the harbour?” she indicated several points along the image as it rippled. “This one here, the great Harbour Avenue, leads to Arcane Plaza, where the Black Skull School stands. When we arrive in harbour, this is the route we will take, through the Dolphin Gate, up the hill and along the avenue to the plaza and the School.”

  The image rippled and gradually dispersed into wisps of smoke.

  “When sail we, Miss Anjali?”

  “Miss Anjali already said, Zovyn,” Zonna scolded her fellow youngling before Anjali could respond. “When the Master comes back, with the last one of us, then we sail.”

  “How long will it take to sail, Miss Anjali?”

  “Miss Anjali said yesterday, Zoss,” Zonna responded once again. “It will take a whole Jademoon, with good winds.”

  “Zoss has good winds,” his neighbour Zonn, Zorn’s twin brother, piped up with a grin, making Zonna giggle and the other boys, Zoss among them, snigger, along with the crew. Anjali hid a smile behind another drag on her cigarette. Farouk tutted in disapproval, clearly pained by such unrefined behaviour.

  “Two-legged puppy not make wind jokes when little?” Kitithraza snorted at Farouk. “Thought all males did.” That promptly set most of the crew off again and the mess echoed with laughter.

  “You have a good memory, Zonna dear,” Anjali praised the young girl, still smiling and taking another drag on her cigarette. “Yes, the voyage across the sea should take us roughly a whole Jademoon –thirty-two days – once we set sail. That’s because Aldrek has the Gift of Weather, to blow more wind into the sails – no, not that kind of wind, Zonn.” More sniggers. “We’re very lucky to have Aldrek, children. The journey could have taken us thrice as long – each way – without his weather magic to speed the ship.”

  “Can we learn weather magic too, Miss Anjali?”

  “Perhaps, Zonna.” Anjali smiled at her most attentive pupil so far. “When we arrive at the School, you’ll all be properly tested. You each have at least one natural Gift already, of course, otherwise you wouldn’t be here now – otherwise the Master’s own Sensing Gift wouldn’t have found you. Testing will show if any of you have more inborn Gifts, or if you might be able to develop more one day.” She paused, seeing the yawns on some of the boys’ faces. “But that’s enough for one night. It’s time you were in your bunks now.”

  “I suppose you want me to take them,” Farouk said sourly.

  “Two-legged puppy being helpful! Make note in calendar,” Kitithraza smirked, showing her fangs. The apprentice necromancer glared at the felis.

  “Peace, you two.” Anjali sighed. “I can take them. Come along, children.”

  “I help. Is quicker.” Kitithraza smoothly, silently rose to her feet. Anjali likewise got up from the bench, marshalled the six children into a line, and guided them out of the mess, along the darkened gangway toward the cabins.

  The five boys took little time or effort to herd into their shared cabin, and all five clambered into their triple bunks obediently enough, with one still left vacant awaiting the last of their number, when he arrived with the Master. Anjali appreciated that even such basic things as bunks were still a novelty to these children of the nomadic plains tribes, raised with tents and bedrolls, and as such, still a source of some excitement. Hopefully, exposure to everything her home city had to offer would not be too much culture shock all at once.

  As Anjali exited the boys’ cabin and passed by the open doorway of the opposite cabin, housing only Zonna, she overheard the young girl talking to Kitithraza.

  “I wish I was as pretty as you, Miss Kitithraza.”

  “Hmph,” the felis snorted. “Foolish kitten. You are human. I am I. Not less. Not more. Different only.”

  “Miss Anjali is really pretty too,” Zonna ventured.

  “Is. Has much beauty, for human. Is mate. Now sleep, kitten.”

  Kitithraza glided soundlessly out of the girl’s cabin and joined Anjali in the gangwa
y, where the latter was almost shaking with laughter.

  “’Much beauty for human’?” she quoted.

  “You are my mate,” the felis shrugged. “What else should I say?”

  Anjali rolled her eyes, but said nothing else, taking the felis’ silky-furred hand in hers.

  By the time the lovers reached the mess again, most of the crew had left, either for their bunks or about their duties. Only the captain, the first and second mates, Marag the quartermaster, Aldrek the mistweaver, and Farouk remained, still drinking and conversing. The platters and tankards were gone now, replaced by smaller shot glasses, and a bottle of whisky from Rathgar’s personal stash stood on the table. Anjali had expected as much, as most recent nights had followed a similar pattern.

  With more space at the table now, the pair slid side by side onto the bench beside Jelek the second mate, to Captain Maarek’s left and facing the rest of the company, ignoring Farouk patting the bench beside him invitingly. Opposite Jelek, Rathgar grinned, unscrewing the whisky bottle, pouring two more glasses and sliding them across the table to the new arrivals. Anjali bestowed a dazzling smile upon the dwarf as she reached into a pocket of her robe, extracting two of her long cigarettes. She lit both with a single flame from her fingertip, before passing one to Kitithraza and taking a slow drag on the other.

  “Bairns all settled, lassies?” Rathgar enquired after pouring their drinks.

  “Younglings are well trained,” Kitithraza blew smoke as she answered the dwarf. “Give command, they obey. Good example they set.”

  “They’re well-used to authority,” Anjali nodded as she sipped her whisky. “Who in the tribes isn’t? They’re not exactly merciful to dissenters. The women and children obey the men, the men obey the chiefs, the chiefs grovel to the Druids, and even the Druids have their own hierarchy.”

  “Hmph. Only good demon-priest is dead demon-priest.”

  “You’ll get no argument from me, my Kitiyeh,” Anjali smiled at the felis. “The way they treat their women – ugh.” She shuddered. “Not to mention what they do to the Gifted, if they catch them too late to mould them into obedient little Druid Novices. Or if they happen to dare to be born female.”