A shiver passed through his body as he carried the girl down the passageway. The shaman had been his teacher, his master. But was it prophecy or madness that drove the blind seer’s last breaths? He had obeyed his teacher’s last words and traveled north of the Blasted Shoals, leaving behind the lean, swift ships of his people for the heavy, swollen-bellied boats of the Archipelago. For over ten winters, he had exiled himself to respect his deathbed promise, growing more bitter as each winter passed without incident.
But now—could this be a sign?
Confused, Kast dismissed these thoughts as he reached the kitchens and pushed through into the heated room. He needed the girl alive. Perhaps answers would come from her lips, answers he had been seeking for a decade since the death of his teacher. He would get his answers!
As he carried the girl into the warmth of the ship’s galley, Kast spotted Gimli, the cook, bent over a bubbling pot, his old cheeks ruddy from the coals, his brown hair sticking straight up from the sweat and steam. Gimli glanced at Kast as he entered, his eyebrows rising as he spied Kast’s burden.
“Whatcha got there?”
Kast kicked aside two stools and laid the girl across an ironwood table. “I need dry blankets, and a cloth soaked in hot water.” He checked to ensure she still breathed. Her chest rose and fell steadily. Relieved, he went and hurriedly gathered blankets from a neighboring cabin.
As he reentered the kitchen area, Gimli was pulling a scrap of cloth from a pot of boiling water. He juggled it over to where Kast was draping the child’s small form in heavy, coarse blankets.
Kast took the steaming cloth. Ignoring its burning heat, he wiped down the girl’s face and upper body. The girl moaned under his touch, her lips moving as if she were speaking, but nothing intelligible came out.
As the cook looked on, Kast finished his ministrations, wrapped the girl from the neck down in blankets, and gently positioned a down-filled pillow under her head.
“Who is she?” Gimli asked.
Kast had no answer and stayed silent. He pulled a stool beside the table and sat on it. He wanted to make sure he was the first to speak to her when she awoke.
The cook shrugged at Kast’s silence and turned back to his duties, armed again with his ladle.
Alone, Kast’s fingers wandered to the green locks of the child’s hair drying on the table’s planks. Gimli had failed to ask the right question. He shouldn’t have asked who the child was—but what.
Kast did know that.
He whispered to the blanket-wrapped figure, naming her heritage: “mer’ai.” He touched her soft cheek. Here lay myth given flesh. “Dragonriders,” he said in a hushed breath.
The ancient slave masters of the Bloodriders.
13
SY-WEN SWAM IN murky dreams.
She pictured men whose mouths were filled with row after row of shark’s teeth . . . She fled from a dragon, torn and bloody . . . She dodged a seabird that clawed at her eyes. She kicked and paddled to escape these horrors. She must flee!
Then her father suddenly came and picked her up in his strong arms, pulling her from the horrors in the sea. He kissed her and carried her to safety. She smiled up at him and found she could finally rest. He would help her. Darkness then swallowed her away—not the cold blackness of death, but the warm embrace of true sleep.
She slept deeply, but over time an urgency slowly grew in her heart. She was forgetting something. No, not something—someone. She moaned as she struggled against the whispers of slumber in her ear. Who had she forgotten? Then a new voice filled her ears, drowning all else away. A harsh voice, coarse and spoken with a thick tongue.
“That girl—spread out on the table like that—looks a mite more appetizing than the cook’s stew, Kast. How about letting my brother and me have a taste of her?”
As the darkness shattered into shards around her, Sy-wen’s eyes opened. She found herself in a narrow room that reeked of salted fish and burning coals. Around her, empty tables were strewn with dirty bowls, cracked spoons, and half-eaten crusts of bread.
Where was she?
As jagged pieces of memory tumbled into place, Sy-wen shrank back from the three men staring down at her. She remembered Conch, captured and bleeding. She remembered the tangling net that had pulled her from the sea and recognized two of the men here as the bearded pair who had caught her. Their leering faces were hard, but not as hard as the third man’s. His features made the others seem like mere babes. Yet the severity in his face was not born of harsh cruelty, like the other two, but was more like rock hardened by the beating of a winter’s surf. His features shone with a proud nobility won through time and deeds rather than birth and circumstance. His black hair was swept back from his face and revealed a red-and-black tattoo of a hawk emblazoned on his cheek and throat.
She knew this man, too. Her eyes were drawn to the curve of a tattooed wing upon his throat, and the panic in her heart subsided slightly. He had saved her. He would protect her.
One of the bearded men spoke up. “Looks like the lass likes my voice. I come a’calling, and she wakes right up.”
“Leave us,” the tattooed man said in a low voice. He did not even turn toward them.
“The galley is a common room, Bloodrider. We have as much right to be here as you.”
The tattooed man tilted his neck to face the speaker. “You’ve had your dinner, Hort. Clear on out.”
“And I suppose you could make us both,” the other answered, menace thick in his throat. His companion stood at his shoulder, supporting the man’s threat.
Sy-wen ignored the growing tension. Her eyes were still fixed upon the man’s tattoo. She could not look away. She stared at the crown of feathers atop the hawk’s head, the sharp points of its clawed talons. With the stranger’s neck bent like this, it seemed the hawk’s red eyes blazed directly at her, digging deep inside her.
As she stared, she suddenly found her heart beating faster. It became difficult to breathe. Unable to stop herself, she wormed an arm free of the wrappings around her and reached out to touch the tattoo.
She had a need.
Her fingers brushed a wing that stretched across the man’s throat. At her touch, the man knocked her hand away, flinching back as if struck by an eel. He reached a hand up and rubbed his tattoo as if trying to erase it from his flesh. “Don’t,” he said coldly, his eyes wide and wary.
She answered, her words coming from deep near her heart. “I have need of you.” She reached out to him, and he backed a step away, out of her reach. “Come,” she insisted.
One of the others laughed nearby. “Looks like the lass likes Bloodriders, Kast. Maybe after you’re done with her, we’ll show her what real men . . .”
Sy-wen did not hear them. She had a need, and the sight of the tattoo had cast a spell over her. It told her to demand what she wanted of this tattooed man. A part of her struggled against these strange compulsions, but it was a whisper before a roar. She could not resist.
Neither could the man. He obeyed her order to come and stepped toward her, his eyes now narrow with fury. It seemed he could not resist the compulsion any more than she could, as if they both danced to some ancient music in their blood, sung and orchestrated by her need.
He leaned toward her, exposing his neck to her.
She reached and covered the tattoo with her palm.
He spasmed under her touch, and his narrowed blue eyes flamed to red, matching the hungry, hunting eyes of the hawk.
As her blood compelled, she named her desire. “Take me from here,” she said. “I must escape.”
“You’re already gone,” he answered in a voice filled with fire. He leaned over and scooped her up.
The bearded men stared at them, jaws hanging open. One of them made the mistake of speaking. “You’re not going anywhere with the girl, Kast.” Then he made the fatal mistake of blocking the tattooed man’s path, a knife raised in threat.
Sy-wen watched, and though her senses were dulled by whateve
r spell had been cast, she still knew the stranger moved far quicker than her eyes could ever follow—even when burdened with her weight.
In a blur of sharpened steel, the man named Kast twirled, a knife appearing in one of his palms. Before either bearded man could speak or raise an alarm, they were clutching throats slashed from ear to ear. Their pig eyes seemed not to know they were already dead. Blood flowed down their stained shirts. They fell in unison to their knees as if in final prayer. One raised a bloody hand in supplication toward the tattooed man, then both fell forward onto their bearded faces.
Inside she screamed at their sudden deaths. She had never seen so much blood. Yet still she did not fight the man’s murderous arms. Instead she spoke to him in encouragement. “I must escape,” she said, repeating her heart’s desire.
He nodded, his red eyes aglow, and lifted her higher in his arms. He stepped over the corpses and carried her toward a portal.
As soon as they left the chamber, Sy-wen smelled the sea in the narrow passageway. The scent of home came from directly ahead. Hurry, she urged silently. Her guardian climbed the stairs at the end of the hall and carried her to the open deck of the boat.
Night had fallen. Below stars as bright as the full moon, the ships’ full sails billowed like drifting clouds on a black sea.
A strong breeze blew through her hair as Sy-wen was carried across the decks. Around her, a scattering of men worked the riggings and sails. A few fishermen saw Kast and raised a hand in welcome. Nearby, a boy with shocking red hair sat and worked at coiling a long rope.
“Kast, whatcha doing with the girl? Is she dead?” The boy dropped his rope and stood up. His eyes were bright with curiosity. The boy now stood between Kast and the starboard rail.
As the man walked directly toward the boy, Sy-wen felt him shift her weight in his arms, freeing one of his hands. She realized what was about to happen. Oh, no! The bloody knife glinted in the starlight.
The boy crinkled his brow, and a small laugh escaped his throat as he saw the blade. “Whatcha doing, Kast?”
No, no, no, she sang to herself. Don’t do this! She could not move or stop what was happening. The spell trapped them both.
Then, whether the man heard her silent wish or obeyed some inner compunction of his own, he hesitated. “Run, Tok . . . Get away,” he said, his voice strained, his words garbled.
The boy had frozen in place, a confused look on his face.
Kast raised the dagger, but his arm trembled. “Go, boy,” he spat between clenched teeth. “Now!”
Suddenly a new man appeared from behind Kast’s shoulder. He stepped between Kast and the boy. He was an older man, all worn edges and sun-wrinkled skin. A scrabble of gray beard marked his chin, but it was the small silver star fastened in his right lobe that caught her eye. Its brightness seemed so out of place on the gray man—yet at the same time also somehow so right.
Kast spoke to him, his voice a gasp as he fought the spell that bound him to Sy-wen. “Flint . . . take the boy . . . Get away.”
“Oh, enough of this nonsense,” the old man grumped. He raised a fist to his lips and blew through it. A fine dust puffed into Sy-wen’s face.
The powder stung her eyes and nose. She sneezed violently, almost throwing herself from her guardian’s arms. She blinked a few times, then darkness pulled her down.
KAST’S BLOOD RAGED against the assault on the girl. He lunged with his dagger, but as soon as the girl slumped limp in his arms, it felt like a bowstring had snapped within his chest. His vision sprang clear of the red fire that had blinded his thoughts and sight.
He stared at the knife poised at his first mate’s throat. What was he doing?
Flint pushed the dagger away with a single finger.
The boy Tok peeked around the old fisherman’s shoulder. “What’s happening?”
Flint opened his palm and raised it to the boy. “Does this smell odd?”
The boy bent and sniffed. His eyes blinked, and he sneezed a quick little burst before sliding to the planks.
“Sleep dust,” Flint explained.
“What . . . what’s happening?” Kast asked.
The old man wiped his hand on his breeches and shook his head. “Who would have guessed after so many centuries that the bond-oaths of the Bloodriders still tied them so tightly to the mer’ai?”
“What are you talking about?”
As answer, the old man pulled a woolen scarf from his pocket and held it out to Kast. “Cover your tattoo. We don’t want that happening again.”
“What? What happened? I don’t understand.” Shaken, he sheathed his dagger and accepted the scarf. “Flint, what’s going on?”
“No time.” The old man peeked at the girl in Kast’s arms. “Such a pretty face for so much trouble.” He sighed and glanced up and down the deck. “If you wish to escape, we must hurry. This night won’t last forever. I’ve awoken the dragon and freed him of the ropes. But he is gravely injured, and any delay could mean his death.”
Kast backed a step away. He had wrapped his neck in the woolen scarf. “I don’t know what scheme you plot, Flint. But I’ll have none of it.”
“Quit being such a fool, Bloodrider. You just killed two shipmates. That’ll get you hung before the Skipjack reaches port. Come or die.”
Kast still stood frozen in indecision. Suddenly an explosion of voices erupted from belowdecks, angry voices. The captain’s voice was among them.
Flint raised his eyebrows questioningly.
“Where do we go?” Kast asked.
“I have a skiff tied near the stern. Carry the girl.” He turned and led the way toward the rear of the boat.
Kast followed. He glanced at the sleeping mer’ai girl in his arms. What was going on?
A trail of snoring men marked Flint’s trail across the deck. Kast eyed his wiry back. Who was this man he had worked alongside these past three winters? He was certainly more than just a ship’s first mate. Curiosity drove Kast after the old man. Flint knew more about what had happened this evening than Kast did, and he was determined to learn all the old fisherman knew of the mer’ai, their dragons, and the strange hold the girl had upon him.
Kast joined Flint by the stern rail, where a rope ladder draped over the side. A small, single-sail skiff rocked in tow behind the larger boat.
“Can you climb down with the girl?” Flint asked.
Kast nodded. The child was light as a wisp. Below, he could see the dragon’s jade snout secured to the side of the skiff. Its huge wings billowed under the waves to either side.
Flint must have noted where he looked. “He’s old, and his wounds are deep. It will be lucky if we can reach the healers before he dies.”
“Where are you taking him?”
Flint climbed over the side of the boat. He looked Kast squarely in the face and spoke a name that revealed his madness. “To A’loa Glen.”
As the old man’s face vanished out of sight, Kast stared at the open sea behind the boat. Starlight reflected in the midnight waters. A’loa Glen. The mythical lost city of the Archipelagoes. Surely Flint was mad. Sailors had searched many centuries for the sunken city, and nothing had ever been found.
Still, Kast remembered his old teacher, the Bloodrider shaman, long dead from riven fever. Kast had followed a madman’s fevered words before, so why not again? He hoisted the child over his shoulder and reached for the ladder.
Below, he saw the seadragon sluggishly spread its wings.
Besides, Kast thought as he climbed onto the ladder with a child of the ancient mer’ai over his shoulder, this night even myths were becoming real.
SOMETHING STUNG SY-WEN’S nose and pulled her from sleep. She blinked away the traces of slumber and found two men staring at her. She remembered these two men, but she was still too dazed to know if she should fear them or thank them. “Where . . . ? Who . . . ?”
“Hush, child. My name is Flint,” said the one with the gray beard, the silver star in his ear glinting brightly at her. �
��You’re safe.” He waved a tiny vial in front of her nose. “Sniff more of this, my dear. It’ll help clear the cobwebs from that pretty little head of yours.”
Sy-wen winced at the smell, but it did seem to help her eyes focus. Above her head, a sail bulged taut with the night wind. She was in a small boat. Stars lit the night sky still, but to the west, a rosy glow promised morning.
Wobbly, she struggled to sit up. To either side of the skiff loomed the shadowy silhouettes of island mountains, hulking behemoths that threatened to topple as the boat raced through the sea channel between them.
“Careful there, sweetheart.” The old man helped her up and pulled a blanket around her shoulders. “I think it best if you keep yourself covered.”
She lay near the skiff’s prow. Pulling the blanket more firmly around her bare chest, she stared back toward the stern and recognized the other man in the boat. He sat with one hand on the rudder and would not meet her eye. Though his neck was covered with a gray scarf, she knew him to be the tattooed man, Kast, who had rescued her from the hunting fleet. He was the one who had cast some spell over her—or maybe it was the other way around. She shook her head, still confused. The events earlier seemed like a watery dream.
The old man sat back from her, pocketing his tiny vial. “I’m sorry for using the sleep potion on you, my dear. But it was the only way to break the oathbinding between you two.”
She did not understand his meaning and pushed higher on the pile of blankets. If she could just find a bit more strength, she could throw herself over the boat’s side, but her arms trembled with the exertion of just sitting up. She sank back to her blankets. One hand wandered to the five-legged starfish attached to her belt. It was still there! She had lost her knife, but they had foolishly left her with the stunner—a weapon. She eyed the two men and let her fingers drop from her waist. She only had the single stunner. She must bide her time.
Then an explosive snuffling near her left elbow startled her and drew her gaze toward the starboard edge of the skiff. A familiar scaled nose rose above the boat’s lip. A fine mist blew out into the night from his flared nostrils. “Conch!”
Wit'ch Storm Page 20
