Prianhe didn’t particularly like Thorl Desirmor, nor did he trust him. He had sensed in Thorl, even at a young age, an intense desire for power. There had been many times over the years that Thorl had even been directly derelict to his father, but discipline was not for Prianhe to decide. He knew all too well what had happened over the centuries to several of the Great King's sons who had plotted to overthrow their father. The results had not been pretty. His master did not suffer insubordination, and in Prianhe’s opinion, Thorl seemed to be toeing the line.
For the moment, as he watched the Paratamian lumber away down the crowded street, Prianhe wondered about the strange association. As far as he knew Paratamians stayed away from other people. In fact, he couldn’t remember ever seeing one outside of Altrega. They were miners, comfortable only in the darkness of their caves and mines. It didn’t make any sense. Thorl was clearly up to something.
Even the force he had used against the city made no sense. Dell was a very important port on a major trade route between Triall and Solocca. To take half the city apart to bring down the Harven seemed a bit extreme. Prianhe wasn’t one to second guess his superiors, but he couldn’t imagine the Great Lord ordering Thorl to use such a hammer blow. He was lucky the Harven didn’t escape. In fact, Prianhe was surprised he hadn’t.
Prianhe mulled over his suspicions as he wandered toward the docks. His own rooms were at an inn near the ships, and with nothing left for him to do in Caramour now that the Harven and the young man who could wield the trivarial power were dead, he figured it was time to call it a night, get some supper, and wait to board his transport in the morning.
The streets leading to the docks were packed even at this late hour. Sailors were either spending the night carousing in one of the numerous taverns that lined the streets in this part of the city, or working the docks to get the ships ready to sail by morning. He smoothly slid between a crew of sailors carrying barrels of wheat in teams of two when he saw the tourines transporting the bodies from the Kelmor Inn, making their way toward the Blood Lord's ship. Four lumps, covered by burlap, resting atop pallets carried by some Imperial soldiers, being ordered along by an officer.
Prianhe approached the officer, a tall aging man with a trimmed goatee in the fashion of most officers in the imperial infantry. The officer gave a start when he looked into Prianhe's yellow eyes. Rare was the occurrence when someone failed to recognize the King's monomach, and the officer immediately ordered his men to drop the tourines and stand back. Without a word to any of the men, Prianhe moved from body to body pulling back the heavy covering to take a look at the faces of the dead. He paused a moment on the sailor, Sarimus, the last Harven. For nearly a year, he had chased the man across the world, coming close so many times. To see his foe like this, his eyes glazed over and lifeless, his skin pale and cold, made Prianhe feel a pang of regret. Thorl had taken his glory.
The last covering he pulled back brought him an unexpected shock. The young man lying dead on the tourine was not the one from the inn. This was the body of some local guardsman, not the young man he had spied the night before.
Finished with his inspection, Prianhe sent the soldiers on their way, and continued his walk to the inn.
Plans had changed. He would gather his things at the inn and pack for a trip. His thin lips held a genuine smile as he considered his new task. The young trival was still at large, and Navan Prianhe had a new quarry to hunt.
Chapter Six: The Treasure Hunter
The warm breeze blowing in from the ocean was a small comfort as Maehril walked teary eyed along the white sand beach. Every few moments the waves would creep up the beach to gently caress her bare feet as though the world itself sought to ease her mind with small, refreshing reassurances. From a young age she had known this day would come, but knowing did nothing to lessen the pain in her heart. She had never experienced a pain like this; a loss so complete it left an unbearable agony to fill the emptiness. Her mind swelled with every joyful memory she could stand to remember about Sevin and Bella Kelmor, and her father, Sarimus Harvencott.
The island burned hotly in the afternoon sky, but she just felt empty and cold inside. Her unkempt, stringy, brown hair tasseled across her face drying the tears that streaked her cheeks with each pass.
Sevin and Bella Kelmor had not deserved an ending so violent. They had been honest, loving people in touch with the world around them, carrying the torch of peace even as it cost them their lives. Maehril knew how fortunate she had been, to be adopted by such brave, wonderful people. Sweet, generous Bella had taught her so much. Everything she knew of womanhood, of healing, nature, cooking, and history had been passed to her from Bella. And sweet, sweaty Sevin, all burly bluster with no bite, mad at the world and determined to change it. Sarimus. Dear earnest Sarimus. A heart as pure as existence could allow. How could she move forward without them? For the first time in her sixteen years of life, Maehril truly felt fear.
The suddenness of the emotion startled her. Her skin tingled, and she could feel her heart racing. Irrational thoughts kept arguing their way into the jury of emotions that she was feeling all at once. How would she move forward? The question hung across her mind like a satin curtain with no answer to take it down. She looked out at the beach stretching in lazy S-curves until it found the horizon. She had to take control. She had to listen for the voice.
All of her life she had been able to hear the voice that no-one else could hear. Maehril believed that she had sharper hearing than normal people because she couldn’t talk. It probably wasn’t true, but it made her feel like she was special. The voice was a soft feminine whisper, almost in the back of her mind, that gave her advice when she worried most. People would think she was crazy if they knew she listened to a voice in her head, but then again, most people thought she was slow witted, on account of being a mute. She didn’t blame people for making those assumptions. She just felt sorry for them.
To calm down, Maehril hugged herself and closed her eyes. She timed her breathing to calm herself, inhaling deeply in through her nose and out through her mouth. She concentrated on the sound of the tranquil ocean breeze as it licked the long drooping leaves of the fena trees that stood like guardians protecting the vast plains of othoran wheat. It didn’t take long to achieve that oneness, where only the sound of that soft, quiet symphony of flowing air echoed in her mind. She listened beyond the wind, for that gentle feminine voice, and found it floating along like a whisper on a draft of air.
She listened closely as it spoke to her, reassuring her that her loved ones had not died in vain, imploring her to hold onto hope. Then the voice spoke of a man sitting alone on the beach, somewhere further along. Maehril held onto every word, committing the instructions deeply to her memory, before soundlessly thanking the voice for its help. She let go of the oneness and allowed herself to listen to all of the sounds around her. The fear that had gripped her only moments before was gone, and in its place was a sense of purpose, halcyon but resolved. Maehril gazed back out toward the horizon, glimmering from the sun reflecting off of the white sand. She had a long ways still to walk.
Trying her best to set a brisk pace, she wondered about Sim. How would he react to all this? She could just imagine him bursting into the inn, brazenly trying to save everyone. He was so confident and brave, always ready to be part of an adventure. She had watched him practice his swords in the barn more times than she could count. She had listened to him tell the horses in the stable all of the grand things he would do one day when he left the Kelmor Inn. Little did he know then, that the world he sought would come calling on him. She could only hope that he was ready for the task at hand.
Sarimus had told her if anything should happen, she should follow Sim, but that morning the voice had told her otherwise. Be patient it had told her. Sim would do well with Lady Relador, and soon their paths would cross once again. Maehril had listened to the voice after the young guardsman had come to warn them of the Blood Lord's arrival, and set out for
the beach, going against her parent's wishes and leaving Sim to manage for himself. The voice had never let her down before, and when it said that she was to follow a separate path from Sim‘s, Maehril never had a moment of doubt. Now, walking alone down a beautiful, sun-drenched beach, hunger and thirst pulling at what remained of her rationality, Maehril trudged forward on her unwavering trust in the voice.
Hours passed and still the shore stretched on toward the horizon. Maehril felt as though her legs would give out at any moment. Her throat was dry and she could feel her lips cracking at the corners of her mouth. She couldn’t stop her mind from forming a picture of an ice cold pitcher of water, sweat beading down its sides, and how that water would taste. How much further, she wondered, almost expecting to hear the voice answer her. She might have tried her luck looking inland for one of those bubbling springs she had heard travelers talk about, but Maehril had never ventured so far from the inn and had never even been away from the city limits without Sevin or Bella to guide her.
She was moments from dropping down to the sand and giving in to the demands of her exhausted legs when she thought she spotted a plume of smoke drifting up into the early evening sky. The surge of hope gave her legs renewed life, and she rushed forward trying to confirm that her eyes weren’t playing tricks. With each step she could make out the smoke more clearly, and soon Maehril could even see the flickering flames of a fire, unmistakably burning in the distance ahead. Her feet moved on their own, the pain and fatigue becoming an afterthought. There was a person sitting next to the fire, a man, and as she drew closer, lumbering clumsily on her tired feet, he looked up to watch her approach.
He stood as she came to the fire and watched as she dropped down several feet away, her eyes imploring him for help. It took him only a moment to guess what she needed before he hastily grabbed a fat waterskin and rushed to put the nozzle to her lips. The water was lukewarm, but as it trickled over her teeth, saturating the strip of leather that her tongue had become, she was certain that she had never tasted anything so wonderful, so perfect, and so refreshing in all her life. Maehril drank generously, gasping for air every few moments, and then taking as much as she could swallow in long heavenly gulps. After she was sure she had drank half of the water in the skin, she pushed his hand away, wiped at her mouth, and smiled up at him gratefully.
He was an old man, with thin wisps of gray hair falling in patches down to his neck. He was remarkably tan, the skin of his face a weather-beaten hide of rough leather pulled tautly over a thin skull and a hawkish nose. She saw that his eyes were a soft blue, like a sky just after sunrise, and they twinkled as though nothing surprised him, but everything left him amused. The old man looked down at his half empty waterskin and laughed softly to himself, running a hand full of crooked fingers through what was left of his hair.
“Now just who in heaven’s name are you, Missy?” he asked with a nearly toothless grin.
Maehril knew at once this was the man the voice had sent her to, and looking into his tender blue eyes, for the first time all day she felt safe. He waited for her to answer his question, but all Maehril could do was open her mouth and shake her head. Most people understood without much more exhibition what she was trying to communicate when she made this gesture, but the man just stared at her with a blank expression. She tried again, but this time he just craned his neck, aiming his ear closer to her as though he was having trouble hearing.
“Eh. What’s that now? I’m an old man, ya have to speak up.” He sat down next to her looking at her mouth as though if he couldn’t hear her then perhaps he might read her lips. “Come on now, no need to be shy. I won’t hurt ya. Jest asked fer ya name?”
Maehril exhaled a deep breath of frustration. The hand gestures were getting nowhere with him. She looked around trying to think of something she could do to let him know that she was mute, when she saw a small bit of driftwood nestled snugly in the sand near her feet. Thank heavens Bella had taught her to read and write, she thought, as she wrote the word ‘MUTE’ in the sand between them. The old man looked down at the word and seemed to mull it over a bit before he looked up at her sadly.
“Can’t talk, eh?” he clicked his teeth and shook his head sorrowfully. “Well that’s too bad, it is. Too bad.” There was a short silence before he pointed to a plate on the beach where he had originally been seated. “Got a bit of fish left there. It’s not much but ya can have it.”
Maehril didn’t need to be asked again, and she didn’t wait to be served. Beaming at him, she leapt up, pausing only an instant as her legs ached with fatigue, and scampered across the camp to grab the plate and quickly devour its contents. He had said it wasn’t much, but Maehril was sure he was being humble. There were still two large fillets of what tasted like silverfins. As she worked on the fish, the old man searched through a linen bag and pulled out a handful of small round purple fruits. He smiled happily as she cautiously tested the sweet tangy fruit, before practically ripping them out of his hands and inhaling them with large gluttonous bites. She was so hungry she had to remind herself to stop and breathe every now and then.
“They call me Cano. Cano Ash’amar. Though…I couldn’t rightly say who ‘they’ are, seeing as I haven’t spoken to anyone in a good long time now.” He smiled at her approvingly as she spit out the last seed and wiped her sticky hands on her gray linen skirt. “Do ya have a name, Missy?”
Maehril retrieved the small piece of driftwood and spelled her name out in the sand. Cano inspected the word, kneeling over the letters and leaning his face down until it was about a foot away from the beach. He must be half blind, she thought to herself.
“Mare-ril?” he posited, looking to her for affirmation. Maehril nodded with a bright smile. She wanted to thank him for his kindness so she leaned forward and kissed him lightly on the cheek. As she kissed him, she noticed what looked like scars behind his left ear. She reached out to touch them, but he took her wrist and stopped her. Maehril feared that she had embarrassed him both by kissing him and by noticing the scars. He looked at her wrist a moment, probably fearful that he had hurt her, then let go and began to search the ground in front of his feet, not knowing what to say.
“They’re gills,” he told her, sounding a bit reluctant as he rubbed behind his ears with his calloused hand.
She had never met a man with gills before and found it all exciting. Could he breathe underwater like a fish? Why would such a wonderful thing embarrass him? He seemed to feel uncomfortable talking about it, so Maehril put her hand on his and gave him a gentle squeeze hoping to let him know everything was alright.
Finally, shyly meeting her eyes he mumbled something that sounded like ‘you’re welcome’. Then he got up and sifted through his bag to find a bone pipe and a pouch of tobacco. They sat together in silence watching the sun fall behind the ocean. The sweet smell of Cano’s pipe smoke, like cherries and licorice, reminded Maehril of the tavern back at the Kelmor Inn. She still couldn’t believe her family was gone. The life she knew -- the only life she understood was gone, a memory to hold in her heart.
The fire crackled throwing off sparks as suicidal bugs drawn to its light threw themselves at the dancing flames. Maehril was ready to close her eyes and give in to sleep, but her mind still held onto the memory of those she had lost. She lay on her side staring hopefully at Cano, wishing he would talk to her, tell her about himself, anything to take her mind off of the tragedy. Cano sat with his back against a large water damaged log contentedly puffing on his pipe. He looked over at her and smiled. As though he could read her mind, he began to tell her about himself.
“Used to live in Tel Armera,” he told her as though it was a given she’d know where Tel Armera was. “Fished those waters fer giant blue rods and mallers. Good fishin' there. Man with a good boat can do real well fer himself. Had a wife and a daughter, bout yer age, I’d guess. Yep life was good then. Didn’t worry bout nothing. Never gave two figs bout nothing other people worried bout. Then I wake up one morning w
ith this fever. Never been so sick. Wife was worried I wouldn’t make it. She liked to worry. Most women seem to. A whole week I was laid up in bed jest tryin to beat that fever, ya know. Then I wake up one morning, and I felt fine. Like nothin’d been wrong at all. Except fer this itch behind my ears. Turns out I had these gills here. Then everything changed. People started talkin' an all. Thing about people is they don’t much like what they don’t understand. Don’t blame em much. If it’d been somebody else, I might’a acted jest the same. Desirmor’s soldiers came to the house while I was out fishin'." Cano’s voice began to crack. A tear made its way down his leathery cheek. ‘They killed em both--wife and daughter. I wasn’t there to save em, ya know. I would’ve given my life to save em."
“Anyway,” he went on with a sigh, wiping his eyes and staring off into the distance, “wasn’t anything left there fer me after that but revenge, and who was I gonna go get, the whole town? Desirmor? No, no. No good. Been bout thirty years now. Jest been sailing the seas on my boat out there." He pointed toward the water, and Maehril could just barely see the outline of a fair sized skiff. “Yep. Don’t do much these days. I guess ya could call me a treasure hunter. See what I do is sail around from island to island, drop anchor, and dive down to the ocean floor seeing what I can find. Been a few times I’ve found a shipwreck down there. Good treasure on a shipwreck. Heaven knows what yeh can pull out of the cargo holds. Found lots a things. Usually, I find a port and trade anything that looks like its worth something. Strangest thing, this place. First time at this island and ya wouldn‘t believe the amount of shipwrecks out there. Must be bout a hundred of em. See there’s this kind of mountain under the water out there. The tops just below the surface. All them ships must‘a run aground on it and sunk. Think I‘ll head back out there in the morning. Suppose ya could come if ya wanted.”
The Innkeeper's Son Page 10
