by Aderyn Wood
The winds were slow, and the return journey would take them longer. Fights broke out between Drakian and Zraemian. Fights between Drakian and Drakian grew more common too, and Sargan’s father had to hold a kind of court every few days when the winds were low to enforce his discipline. Sargan was called upon to act as translator. In one case, swords had been brandished and the two men involved were forced to walk the plank. That was a grim day, and the Drakians learned what the Zraemian soldiers already knew – the king of Azzuri enforced a firm and swift kind of justice.
The judgement had calmed Drakian and Zraemian alike for a time, but last night another brawl had broken out on a ship when two men, one Drakian, one Zraemian, had opened a cask of ale and quietly drunk themselves stupid. They’d been sentenced to forgoing all rations for two days and scrubbing the deck of their ship. The men had looked shame-faced. But Sargan noted the way they sneaked a knowing smirk between the two of them, and Sargan had smiled too. Not all the soldiers were hostile toward their new recruits. New friendships were forming, even if it was over an ill-gained cask of ale. Something about it warmed Sargan’s heart, and had even settled his stomach for a short while.
“Sargan.”
Sargan turned to see Yana staring at him, her mouth agape.
“What’s wrong?”
She stepped right beside him, and he could feel the warmth of her through his tunic. “I don't like those cousins of yours. I don’t like the way they look at me. And I don't like the way they look at my ducks either.”
Sargan opened his mouth to speak, but closed it again, not quite knowing what to say. He didn’t like his royal cousins either. “Stay with me, Yana. They won’t hurt you. You have my father’s protection.” He hoped it was true. His whole life he was supposed to have his father’s protection, but it never seemed good for much. Sargan lifted his chin. “You have my protection also.”
Yana gave him a worried glance before staring out to the horizon. “How much longer before we get to your homeland?”
“We should arrive in Praeta before the next moon. Then it will take another few days to get to Azzuri.”
She nodded. “I’m going to see to the ducks.” She turned and left him, disappearing down the steps beneath the deck.
Sargan sighed. He should have a word with his father. And possibly Danael. Danael would keep an eye out for her. Yana wasn’t the only female on board. There were several other Drakian women, but they were all experienced warriors with their own weapons. They could look after themselves if any of the Zraemian men grew too fascinated with them. Yana was different. She was little, almost childlike in her appearance. Though her attitude and demeanor was more that of a lioness than a delicate flower.
Near sunset, the cook fires gave off their smoky stench and the aroma of more burnt barley mixed with hog fat was enough to make Sargan want to retch over the gunwale again. But he had nothing left to bring up.
That morning, their rations had been reduced to two meals a day. A bowl of burnt barley in the morning with a cup of thick beer, and more burnt barley mixed with hog lard in the evenings, and yet more thickened beer. No wonder the fights had broken out.
Sargan lined up with his band to collect his rations when a commotion came from beneath. Someone screamed. Yana.
Sargan raced beneath to his cabin and found Yana crouched on the ground, crying. “Yana, what?”
She pointed at the cages. “My ducks—”
Sargan looked at the crates. The ducks were there, safe enough. “Yana? Tell me, did someone do something to your ducks?”
“P-P—” Yana tried to talk but a glut of tears and sobs stopped her.
A sickening realisation swelled in Sargan’s stomach and he looked to the one empty crate. “Where’s Patch?”
Yana sniffed. “Ushtan grabbed her, and took her away.”
Sargan was on his feet, striding out the cabin and up the steps to the deck and the cooking quarters. And there he found Patch, her head cut from her body resting on the bloody floor, her blue eyes open and still. Her headless body hung on a hook, still dripping blood.
Jusuran sharpened a knife, and wore a broad grin. “Phadite’s teats, I’ve had enough of hog fat, Prince Hog. We'll eat well tonight after all.”
Sargan's blood boiled. In the corner rested a freshly-bloodied cleaver, so big it resembled an axe. Sargan grabbed it, unthinking, and pushed the blade under Jusuran's throat, pinning his younger cousin to the bench with his strength.
Jusruan's eyes went wide. “Sargan!” His voice squeaked.
Sargan pushed the cleaver closer. A thin line of red ran down Jusuran's neck, but whether it was his blood, or Patch's, was not clear. Not that Sargan cared. “I told you not to call me that. I won’t tell you again.”
Jusuaran gave a frantic nod as the red line thickened.
Sargan released him and stepped back, breathing hard. “Get out of my sight.”
Yana
Yana paced the cramped confines of the cabin, glancing at Patch’s empty crate. The tears had stopped but a heavy stone now turned in her stomach.
The door opened and Sargan stepped through. The slouch of his shoulders told her all she needed to know, though she’d known it anyway.
“I'm sorry, Yana.” Sargan’s face was drawn, his mouth curled downwards.
Yana swiped fresh tears from her cheeks. “Patch is dead.” She looked at the other ducks. If they were not so far from their homeland she would take them to the deck and hoist them over the rail. They would have made it back, safe. She should never have brought them. She should have followed Sargan’s pleas for her to escape to the forest and search for her grandmother. She’d been naught but a fool. And so had her mother. Why did Ma insist on obeying the khanax? Why couldn’t Ma be more like Grama and tell Krasto where he could stick it?
“I will go and see my father,” Sargan muttered, nodding toward the crates. “I will tell him what has happened.”
Yana sniffed. “He won't care.”
“I can try. I can—”
“He doesn't listen to you about anything. Why would he listen to you about a duck?” More tears welled and Yana wiped her eyes with an impatient flick of her hand.
“Well this time he will listen.” Sargan lifted his chin, then left her, closing the cabin’s door behind him.
Fatigue clawed at Yana’s body and she flung down on her bedroll. The ducks still panicked much of the time, and Yana spent a lot of her energy calming them through her secret way of communing with them. That and her worries about leaving her mother had taken their toll of energy, and a heaviness settled on her chest from the sad reality that Patch was gone.
She let go a short breath. Patch had been with her through hard times. When the other children used to tease her, Yana would escape to be with Patch, for just a few moments. Patch could make her laugh. And now, those rock-heads had killed her. A waste. It was nothing but a stupid waste. Yana lay down on the mat and in a heartbeat sleep took her.
She woke sometime later and it was dark. She looked for the flint to light the oil lantern, but thought better of it. She could see well enough in the dark, and she needed fresh air anyway.
At this time of night it was quiet on the deck. The stars were shining bright and the wind had slowed even further. The air was warmer too. Sargan’s lands were very hot he’d told her. It was why they wore those curtains for clothes rather than wool or leather.
“Yana, there you are. Come,” Sargan whispered. He stood in the shadows on top of the steps. “My father is waiting. We will talk to him.”
Sargan gave her a look full of concern, and Yana warmed to it. He lacked the cruelty his royal cousins had in infinite quantities. He’d cared for Patch too. He understood.
She nodded and they picked their way over the deck, avoiding sleeping warriors. Near the bow, Sargan paused and whispered, “He only speaks Zraemian.”
Yana nodded. Sargan had been teaching her Zraemian ever since his arrival in Estr Varg. And since their departure she
’d been speaking it more and more. Something had clicked for her once she’d finally mastered her own native Drakian, and now it seemed that any language was easy for her to pick up.
Sargan opened the door to the king’s cabin and led Yana through.
The king sat at a round table. Clay tablets covered with squiggles lay upon it. The king was alone for once. Usually there were a handful of important men with him either on the deck, or below it, but mostly he remained here in his cabin. It was much larger than the cabin Yana shared with Sargan, and the king had a proper bed with linen sheets.
Sargan kissed his father’s ring then stood back with his chin held high.
Yana’s heart melted a little more. She could see how difficult this was for him. He was putting on a brave show. “Father, there is something important you must know.”
The king nodded. “Come sit, son. And Yana—” The king held out his hand, with his ring pointed toward her. It glimmered in the glow of the lanterns. It was a ring of gold with a large blue stone called Lapis Lazuli. Sargan had told her about the blue stone that was mined in great quantities in and around Azzuri and prized by all Zraemians. She could see it’s allure. Especially the way in which fine gold strands wove through its deep blue, like rays of sunshine in the sea.
Yana glanced at Sargan who nodded at the ring, flashing his eyes.
Yana bit her tongue. She didn’t want to kiss it and to admit that he was her new khanax, essentially. To obey him. She’d rather spit on the ring and send the message that she was nothing more than a prisoner on this stupid ship, being held against her will with a mob of duck murderers.
Yet she held her tongue and Sargan’s eyes grew wider as he flashed her another look, pleading for her to kiss his father’s ring. He was doing this for her. She bit her tongue harder. She would kiss the stupid ring, but for Sargan not the king.
She held her hand to hold the king’s and bent to kiss the ring, but when their flesh touched, a swirling sickness made her giddy and images rolled through her mind. It was a foretelling. Yana took a deep breath, and shut her eyes tight as the various images flashed though her mind. The king dying. The king dead.
She kissed the ring quick and let go his hand, and stood back, placing an arm over her stomach.
“Are you well?” the king asked, his eyebrows drawn together.
Yana nodded. But it was hard to focus on his face. She kept seeing the image of him on his death bed. His eyes glassy, and blood trickling from his mouth.
“Sargan, would you sit?” the king turned his attention to his son.
“I prefer to stand, Father.” Sargan’s fists clenched by his side. A look of determination set on his jaw.
The king raised an eyebrow. “Something grieves you?”
Sniggers came from behind and Yana glanced back to see two of Sargan’s royal cousins loitering on the deck outside. A sudden fury gripped her and she imagined the meat they’d eaten would make them sick. She sent a prayer to Vishtna asking the goddess to aid her vengeance, and make the rock-heads vomit their meal up over and over until their very bowels shook with pain. Yana imagined them rolling on their sleeping mats in utter agony. Let it be so, she thought with grim satisfaction.
“Yes, something does grieve me,” Sargan answered, lifting his chin a notch more. “And Yana here.”
“Close my cabin door, Sargan.”
Sargan did so, and the sniggers of the two cousins were muted.
“I am listening,” the king said.
Sargan’s chest heaved with a deep breath. “Jusuran—”
“I might have known you would mention Jusuran.” The king let go a sigh. “In Azzuri, it was always Ilbrit, or Rabi, or Ushtan, and now it’s Jusuran.” He shook his head.
Sargan frowned. “Father—”
“Son, Jusuran, like his brothers, is a fine swordsmen and soldier. It is you who must fight this battle. If I step in you will lose credibility. Not only with your royal cousins, but with all the men. How many times must I—”
“Let me finish, Father,” Sargan shouted, and Yana jumped with the sound of it. His voice deepened and almost seemed as though it was someone else speaking, not Sargan at all. Someone older. It was Sargan the man who now spoke.
The king raised an eyebrow once more. “Very well, I am listening.”
“Jusuran stole one of Yana’s ducks without your permission. An item of your stock, without your permission. Yana had no knowledge it was done until she found Patch’s cage empty.”
“Patch?”
Sargan licked his lips and looked nervous once more. “Patch is – was – Yana's duck.”
Yana clenched her jaw tight and forced her tongue to remain still.
The king's eyes moved to her. “I see. You name your ducks?”
Sargan spoke quickly. “This one duck she named. Patch was her pet, much as our palace cats become pets to us. She was not meant for the table.”
“I see.” The king’s amber eyes continued to stare at Yana. “But our cats serve a purpose. It is they who keep the rodents at bay. I do not understand what function a fowl may serve.”
Yana took a deep breath through her nose and grimaced when her fingernails cut into the palms of the hands.
“Well,” Sargan continued. “Yana is very strict about their breeding. Patch was a special hen, a superior brooder. They’re the female ducks who rear the young.”
Now it was Yana’s turn to raise her eyebrows. Patch was no such thing. If anything she was too small to breed, and she’d never gone broody over a clutch of eggs in her life. She was useless for any purpose other than being Yana’s pet. One she loved. The sadness in her heart gripped tighter and she could not help the tears that now fell along her cheeks, though she did not drop her chin, or slouch her shoulders, and she continued to meet the king’s hard gaze.
“I am sorry this has happened. Though I do not understand your tears for a mere bird. If you are to live with us, Yana you would do well to prioritise that which pains you. Your people are strong. I understand your father was both a respected leader and a warrior. You would do well to review the lessons he taught you. One duck is neither here nor there in the circle of time.”
Yana wiped her cheeks roughly and smoothed the sad curve on her lips. She would hold her tongue no longer. “I've had dreams about you,” she said quietly in flawless Zraemian.
The king's eyes widened and Sargan stepped toward her. “Yana, no. Don’t—”
“Dreams about your death.”
“Yana, this is not—”
“Let her speak, son.”
Yana sniffed. “That is all I have to say.”
The king narrowed his eyes. “What do you know of my death? How is it that I die?”
Yana glanced at Sargan who gave her a subtle nod. “Poison. You die from poison.”
“And who delivers the poison?”
“I didn’t see, but I know one thing about your murderer.”
“Murderer?” The king frowned. “And what is it that you know?”
Yana’s lips curled. “It is someone close to you. Someone you love with all your heart."
Later that night, Yana walked to a quiet section of the deck. She couldn’t sleep, and whenever that happened she went out to watch the stars. But the deck was far from quiet that night. The retching sound of men being sick seemed to fill the very sea. In the darkness, Yana saw clearly who they were and she remembered her curse.
Her eyes narrowed on Jusruran. His usual tanned face seemed a dark shade of green in the starlight. He leaned heavily over the gunwale, as his stomach heaved again and again, and he groaned loudly. He wiped his mouth once and glanced at her.
An ice shiver danced up Yana’s spine. She had done this. Her grama always told her she had the gift, but Yana had no idea she could do such things. The surprise of her discovery was soon replaced by a gleeful sense that Patch had been avenged. She turned her eyes to the stars once more and sent a prayer of thanks to Vishtna.
Part XIX
&n
bsp; Black Eagle Mountain
Summer
Rayna’s cavern
5,846 years ago…
Rayna
It was a long way off leaf-fall, but a light dusting of snow had covered the ground. Rayna forced her feet to move, one in front of the other, through the familiar trails of her mountain home.
She’d used the last of the dragonshade days ago, and she’d travelled solely by foot ever since. But now she was within reach of her little cavern, and the excitement made her feel light and young.
Rhast cawed softly.
“Yes, my friend,” she said quietly. “We’ve made it. Though without Yana.” She shook her head. She’d been furious with herself for bungling everything. Yana had been taken thanks to that damnable khanax, and he now prepared to sink his claws into Ana.
Rayna closed her eyes, thinking of the nightmare she’d left her granddaughter to face. Would Krasto have forced his way to Ana’s bed yet? Hopefully, Ana had given him the amulet to ensure Krasto’s competence in the bed chamber was heavily compromised. He could approach Ana as much as he liked, but as long as he wore the amulet his body would fail him when he attempted to lay with her.
Rayna smirked. “A fitting trick, but I should have delayed, for just one night to cast a stronger hex on that monster, Rhast. Why didn’t I do it?”
Rhast cawed from high up in the canopy before taking flight.
“You’re just a silly old woman, Rayna dear. You’re losing your wits as well as your strength. But, oh…” Rayna stared at the path before her. “That be a sight for weary eyes.”
