The Last Sea God

by Ashley Capes

  One soldier was tapping a foot as he waited, but the other man took the woman’s arm and spoke soft words to her, helping her up. She stumbled on and once they’d left the light and their footfalls faded, Grav started across the street.

  A hush now filled the cemetery after the woman’s sobbing. Only the sound of their feet on the stone pathways between triangular headstones. Many loomed tall, others stood only knee height. She avoided them all easily enough, since they’d fallen into single file with Grav in the lead. The graves wound around the hill, occasional skeletal trees spreading their net-like branches up to the starry sky.

  Another low fence sectioned off the graves for soldiers and despite the cold air, the scent of freshly turned earth led them to new graves. For now, there were no headstones.

  “Here. Quickly now,” Grav said, hefting his shovel.

  Kanis rested a hand on his shoulder. “Let us. We’ll tell you if we get tired.”

  He went to one knee. “Of course, dilar.” He motioned to the other men, who took up watch positions.

  Flir stopped before the grave on the left – Aren was within, the thread had grown slightly stronger. Doubtless it was the same for Kanis. She drove her shovel into the earth and started digging.

  Beside her, Kanis had already made a fair hole and was glancing across at her – if he thought it was a race he was going to be disappointed. She heaved another shovelful to the side. Her strength was holding as she knew it would; even if she’d used everything Aren lent her she was still dilar.

  The piles of dirt beside the hole were tall when she hit wood.

  “Finally.” She dug around the edges before tossing the shovel up and gripping one end of the coffin and heaving. Something slid against the bottom of the wood; Aren. Flir lifted him easily enough, setting one end atop the grave and pushing the coffin free. Then she followed it up and out, checking on Kanis while Grav and the others started on the wooden box with their bars.

  “You finished, Kanis?” she asked him over the sounds of splintering wood.

  He looked up from his hole, a shrouded figure in his arms. “Of course. Here, catch.” He tossed Tikev. She caught him with a curse, then set his body down. Grav’s men started working on the shroud and she hauled Kanis free when he reached up.

  “That’s a person you were throwing around,” she snapped.

  “Not until we do whatever it is they want,” Kanis replied.

  “Dilars?” Grav stood nearby. “We are ready – did Aren explain the next step?”

  “No,” Flir snapped. Then she sighed. “Sorry, Grav. Tell us.”

  “Simply take their hands. Focus on the thread and repeat the chant, you will feel the transfer. You will know when to stop.”

  Flir nodded, then knelt beside Aren’s near-corpse, which had been placed on the earth. The men around her were pacing, muttering prayers to Mishalar. Aren’s features were pale, tinted blue in the night. Or by the closeness of death. Or both. But the thread remained and when she took his stone-cold hands it was easier to focus on. She evened her breathing, shutting out the chill beneath her knees, any small sounds made by the cultists as they worked on something unseen, and the soft chanting from Kanis.

  She started on the words herself. “Temir, tkma hu movan.”

  When the old words finally merged into naught but sounds she felt a coldness seep into her – but no, coldness was wrong. It was warmth leaving. It flowed from her chest, running down her arms and hands, spreading into Aren. His skin was already growing warmer to touch.

  The borrowed life continued to flow until he jerked upright with a gasp. His hands convulsed, gripping hers. The warm continued to flow – too much! She pulled back, reclaiming what was not Aren’s, and broke his grip. He slumped back to the ground, eyes wide, breathing hard.

  “What by Mishalar was that?” she asked him.

  But Aren did not answer. His eyes fluttered closed. He was still breathing and his colour, as best she could tell, seemed better. The ritual was a success.

  Grav appeared beside her. “You have done well, dilar. He is returned. He needs rest now but by tomorrow he ought to be fully recovered.” The fellow gestured to the two other men. “Bring the stretcher.”

  Flir caught Grav’s wrist and he winced.

  “Dilar?”

  “What was that?” she asked. “When he woke – it was like he was taking more than his own strength back.”

  Grav nodded; his face sincere beneath the pain. “So it is. That is your signal to stop, the Bequeather is restored.”

  “You should have warned me.” She let go. “Sorry about your hand.”

  “No, forgive me, dilar.”

  She glanced to Kanis, who was standing nearby, his own expression a little concerned. He was rubbing his little finger again. Flir joined him. “Well, we’ll help you get Aren and Tikev back and then I have a few questions for your leader.”

  15. Seto

  Seto gathered his few advisors in a small glade near the old King’s Hideaway, seating them around a stone table set with cool wine and chilled figs and grapes, which Abrensi was already shovelling into his mouth. His Storm Singer robe, with its somewhat gaudy golden lightning bolt on the chest, was no less ruffled than usual, but his hair was mostly under control. He had even shaved somewhat recently.

  “So, why the little picnic, sire?” he asked. “Afraid of eyes and ears and more ears in the palace walls?”

  The king looked back across the lawns to the white walls of the palace and its glittering balconies. “Since Danillo finished his purge, I’ve given that little thought – any such eyes ought to be friendly now.”

  “How goes his rebuilding of the Mascare?” Holindo rasped from where he sat. “I didn’t get the chance to speak to him before he left.” He still wore breastplate and sword and seemed to have half an eye on the surrounding pines – never truly at rest, a good soldier. A cup of his herbal drink to soothe his throat rested before him.

  “Well. Vanepa is gathering new recruits to replace those who chose exile.”

  Abrensi straightened, a look of consternation on his face. “Exile? Am I missing something?”

  Seto sighed. “No need to play at being offended, Abrensi. You were undertaking your own recruitment search at the time, as I recall. Danillo felt that having the Mascare holding allegiance to individual Houses was no longer prudent, considering past history. Those that would not renounce their Houses were exiled and new Mascare – men and women from the Second and Lower Tiers ‒ have been undergoing training.”

  The Storm Singer nodded. “Prudent? Perhaps. The Mascare now swear directly to the Lord Protector – or to you, my king?”

  “To me.”

  “So much power in one man’s hands,” he said, making a ‘tsk, tsk’ sound, finishing with a grin.

  “We all have burdens to carry,” Seto said. “Now, to the business at hand. Reports of false Ecsoli continue. I want to know why and who is behind it all. Giovan suggested we might offer freedom to our own prisoners, in exchange for their help.”

  “I see,” Abrensi said. “And you wish to use them while manpower is short.”

  “It is an option,” Holindo replied. “They will be ideally poised to assist. It does not need to be a large group, especially while the sightings remain non-violent.”

  “So. Objections?” Seto asked.

  Abrensi took a drink, then stood, pacing in and out of the sunlight. “No specific ones, I suppose. Will you be including the Tonitora?”

  Holindo shook his head. “Not unless we must.”

  “I will send someone with your man... Giovan, was it?”

  “Who do you have in mind?” Seto asked. He was yet to discuss Abrensi’s own search in any detail. “One of your finds from the villages then?”

  “Yes. She is but a girl; Fiore. Yet in her I may have found evidence of two possibilities. Either Singing may not simply be hereditary as long thought, or my predecessors tended to... look beyond the noble families for comfort.”


  Seto leant forward. “Then there may be more – her father or mother?”

  “Possibly. Lavinia and Stefano are still searching, but both Fiore’s parents succumbed to sickness, some years past,” he said. “It was said, however, that her father bore a most commanding voice. He was well-regarded; an influential speaker.”

  Holindo was frowning. “Hope for more Storm Singers is a good thing, but do we really want to send a child into such danger, Lord Abrensi?”

  “She is not precisely a child, twelve or thirteen summers at my guess,” he replied. “But I am confident more so, due to other factors – Vinezi being one of them.”

  Seto raised an eyebrow. “Vinezi?”

  “Yes. We discussed it briefly, not long after his most timely passing,” Abrensi said. “You were rather preoccupied as I recall, my king, but I noticed Vinezi very rarely touched I or Lavinia, as if he was... conditioned not to do so. Upon investigating this, I learned from Bethana and her fellow captives that in the Land of the Sun, Storm Singers are never to be touched. Violence against them is done under the pain of death. They are sacred,” he said with a rather pleased grin.

  “And you believe that sending Fiore with Giovan’s team will serve as a further hold over their behaviour.”

  “Yes. I have also taught her the Song of Sleep as a last measure. In fact, I am looking forward to discovering the true extent of her abilities.”

  Holindo crossed his arms.

  Abrensi turned to the soldier. “Is that so different to what you do with your own new recruits? No blade must go untested, surely?”

  “True enough,” Holindo said. “I will have Giovan watch over her, if King Seto permits it.”

  “I do,” Seto said. “It is a risk, but so is every move we make.”

  Abrensi had already turned to the trees, expression pensive. “I regret that in all the years before the invasion we never thought to widen the search. Foolish, foolish.”

  “Times of trouble brew strange miracles,” Holindo said heavily.

  “Aye.”

  16. Fiore

  Fi looked up to the stern-faced Shield, his breastplate gleaming in the sunlit courtyard, his orange tunic so bright. Not like the dull brown and greys of home, not like the deep blue of Canto’s robe. The Priest of Ana always smelt of herbs and his missing tooth made him look a little scary, like a pirate. But he’d been kind, even if he went on and on about Ana’s grace and how lucky everyone was to have her watching over them.

  “I am Giovan,” the soldier said, scratching at his dark beard. “You must be Fiore?”

  “Fi. I don’t like Fiore.”

  He grinned. “All right, Beanpole, no problem. Did Lord Abrensi explain what we’re doing here?”

  She gaped. No-one had called her ‘Beanpole’ since Father got sick. Somehow, when Giovan said it, it didn’t make her angry – unlike the older children in the village. They always laughed, but this Shield was asking her a question and offering answers, something Lord Abrensi hadn’t bothered with. “He said something about, ah, helping the kingdom.”

  He nodded. “That’s a start. We’re looking for people in blue cloaks – they invaded the city. Did you hear of it in your village?” More soldiers appeared nearby, herding people in chains into the square, though they were apparently being set free.

  “Everyone’s heard of the invasion,” she said. Was the Shield a bit of a fool? Didn’t he know how quickly news spread through the villages?

  He only smiled at her tone. “Good. Well, we’re trying to find some more – or, at least, people who are pretending to be Ecsoli.”

  Fi gave him a look. “I’m not a child, you know. You can skip to whatever I have to do. Is it about Singing?”

  Now Giovan laughed. “Yes. Abrensi told me you know the Song of Sleep?”

  “Every word. I’ve been practising on myself at night. One day, he said it won’t work on me when I sing it.”

  “Well, I need you to use it if I say so.”

  “On who?”

  “If anyone attacks us.” He glanced over his shoulder at the smiling men and women who had once been in chains and who were now speaking amongst themselves, the words having a similar feel to the song Abrensi had taught her. “Or if they try something.”

  “You mean... they’re Ecsoli?”

  “Yes. The ones who surrendered.” Now Giovan’s tone had turned dark. He didn’t like the Ecsoli, she realised. But why would he? The stories spoke of the Ecsoli as murders, all armed with Greatmasks. It was hard to believe, that was for sure, but she’d seen the melted stone on the way in.

  “I understand.”

  “Good. Now, there’s only one rule when we’re in the streets. Do as I say, understood? I don’t want you getting hurt.”

  She frowned up at him. “I’ve been taking care of myself for a long time now.”

  “Well, you can continue by filling this, then, Beanpole.” He tossed a water-flask to her and headed for the Ecsoli, who were now gathering to hear a man in a fancy robe speak – Lord Abrensi. His words filled the courtyard, his voice rich and commanding. It was like hearing Father speak again and she shook her head.

  But it wasn’t Father; she’d never hear him again.

  And she did not understand the words. Not all of them. Just something that sounded like ‘freedom’. Lord Abrensi lifted something, a scroll of some sort. Now when he spoke, whispers broke out between the Ecsoli. Some looked hopeful, others as if they didn’t believe what they were hearing. But all listened until he stopped speaking.

  Then Lord Abrensi pointed to her and spoke again.

  Several dozen faces turned upon her.

  She took a step back, fumbling with the empty flask. It bounced across the stones and she snatched it up.

  “Dearest Fiore, I have just informed our loyal prisoners that you are a Storm Singer like me, and while I certainly adore you in that colour, I must say, do attempt to act the part while you’re out there.”

  Before she could answer he had already turned to motion to the Shield, who were handing out small packs to the Ecsoli. Giovan was one of them, his expression not cheerful. But since Giovan had told her to find water, that’s what she’d do. It seemed best to do so before he finished.

  She searched the square and found a water barrel beneath the eaves and jogged to it, dunking the flask. Bubbles rose and burst as she waited, the water cool where she’d submerged her hand. It was nice, especially since the morning was already warm. Sweat had started to form at the small of her back while she’d stood listening to Lord Abrensi.

  Giovan barked an order and the group of Shield and Ecsoli headed toward the exit. He waved her over as he neared. “Stay close.”

  She nearly trod on his heels as they funnelled into a narrow passage. The clatter of footfalls filled the space, which grew darker. So many bodies pressing in around her. Not like the quiet, open air of home. Canto would have told her to stay calm, let Ana surround her, but it was hard when she didn’t know what to expect. Exactly what were they going to do out there?

  The corridor eventually opened onto well-kept lawns, green beneath a beaming sun. If only she could have kicked her shoes off to walk on it barefoot. It looked so soft. And there were tiny white flowers in circular beds too. But Giovan was striding across the lawns, heading for a giant gate. She had to keep up.

  More Shield stood guard there but they were already opening the gates when her group arrived. No-one looked happy to see the Ecsoli. But Giovan and his own Shield only rushed them into the cobbled streets of the Second Tier. Here, Giovan paused to order the searchers to split into smaller groups, directing them into different parts of the Tier.

  But his words were almost lost – she caught herself gaping.

  Entering the city and the palace late at night, clouds covering the moon and few torches lit, did not prepare her for what she saw. The buildings were all so tall, the stones so clean! Many had ornaments on the eaves or in windows, the black tiles gleamed in the sun. Even the peopl
e! Did everyone wear bright silk? Just how rich were they? The few times she’d been to the Lower Tier was nothing like up here.

  One little girl even had a servant trailing her, carrying a kitten in a woven basket, feeding it pieces of fish.

  “We’re starting with a nearby inn,” Giovan said to the five Ecsoli. The other Shield watched the prisoners, a hand on his sword-hilt. “How well do you follow my words?”

  One of the Ecsoli, an older man, shook his head. “Little, Anaskari.”

  Giovan sighed and switched to the Ecsoli language. When he spoke, there were more nods and he soon waved them into the street, where they started down toward the distant harbour. Fi kept close to Giovan, who was frowning as his eyes roved around the street. It seemed he never stopped.

  “What’s in the inn?”

  “The innkeeper. She saw the supposed Ecsoli. I want her to tell her story to this lot,” he gestured with a thumb, “and see if it rings true.”

  “Do you think she’s lying?”

  “No. I think the imposter might have given something away in their behaviour.”

  Fi frowned. “Couldn’t you just describe what the innkeeper saw to the Ecsoli while they’re still in jail?”

  “Yes.” He smiled down at her. “But nothing beats actually seeing something for yourself.”

  “But we won’t see what the innkeeper saw, will we?”

  “I hope we will get a chance to see something just like it, Beanpole.” He raised a hand before she could ask another question. “Now, let me watch the streets.”

  The crowds grew as they moved deeper into the Second Tier, their voices louder than every Harvest Day she could remember. People with carts, armfuls of food or parcels, musicians and hawkers, so many sounds. Her head began to ache. When Giovan pointed to the inn, a four-storey building with a shining silver name, she could barely concentrate on the words.

  But inside the door, which did not even squeak when Giovan opened it, the noisy street faded enough. Fancy chairs and tables, each set with a candle and bowls of rosemary, all stood empty. A cold fireplace waited beyond the bar. She inhaled deeply while Giovan called for service.