by J M D Reid
“Snakewood, huh?” Guts asked.
“And that waterfall must be the Bluesnake.” Ary pointed to the water cascading off the skyland edge. The river ran out of the forest to pour down the coral-coated side, the falling water diffusing into mist before it reached the Storm Below. Schools of south sky cod and bark trout flew through the waterfall, scales glittering with rainbow iridescence.
Guts gave Ary a look. “So, what’s a snake?”
He shrugged. “I don’t know. A word for river, maybe?”
“I bet Estan knows.” The bigger marine whistled sharply, a piercing sound that cut across the deck. He beckoned a shank-thick hand, attracting Estan’s attention. The slenderer man sat perched on a barrel, his head shaking out of his thoughts. He crossed the deck.
“Is there a matter of import?” Estan asked.
“What’s a snake?” Guts asked. “And why would they name a stream and a forest after one?”
“It’s a name for a stream, right?” Ary asked. “That’s the Bluesnake pouring off the side of the skyland. And it flows through the Snakewood.”
“It is not a word for a stream. It is an old name. One atrophied from our modern lexicon. Snakes were a species of reptile possessing no arms and legs. Instead, they were long and narrow, almost like a creature made entirely of its tail. They lived on the ground below. None were brought up into the sky by Riasruo. Those who named that stream and forest must have taken inspiration. I suspect the stream meanders and winds through the countryside.”
Ary nodded.
“Yes. Snakes were said to be sinuous in their slithering movement upon the earth.”
“Sinuous?” Guts groaned. “Small words, Estan. Me and Ary ain’t as educated as you.”
“Winding or curving back and forth.”
The Bosun’s whistle knifed through Ary’s ears. He winced, his gaze snapping around to the one-eyed woman striding across the well deck. She barked, “Prepare to ascend!”
Ary grabbed the gunwale, glancing out at the approaching bend in the skyland. “Looks like we’re not sailing around the peninsula.”
“A straight line is always faster,” Estan said as he seized the railing, his legs shifting into a wider stance.
The bow of the Dauntless rose while the winds gusted faster. Ary’s feet adjusted beneath him as the wood creaked. The ship climbed to clear the side of the skyland and race for the dark forest. Gnarled trees reached up to touch the keel of the warship. The bow’s pitch increased. Ary leaned forward, his stomach sinking. The pressure assaulted his ears.
The Dauntless cleared the top of the trees by a few ropes. The ship leveled out as it skimmed over the forest. Ary peered down at the tangled branches threading around each other, weaving a canopy that allowed glimpses of the ground beneath. The trees rustled beneath them, waving as they caught the bottom edges of the breeze the Windwarden controlled to propel the Dauntless. Water gleamed through gaps, marking the meandering Bluesnake.
‘Sinuous’ fit it. He shuddered, imagining the river come to life, a blue-scaled monstrosity slithering through the woods chasing after the Dauntless. A creature out of legends like one of Theisseg’s monstrous children.
The line of the forest appeared on the horizon. Its edge. Ary’s stomach tightened. The tingling on his skin became a prickling. Dark dread swallowed excitement. A shiver ran through his limbs as he clutched at the gunwale.
“We’re almost home.”
Ary started at Chaylene’s words. He hadn’t heard her approach. She squeezed between him and Estan, her shoulder rubbing against his. She leaned out over the railing, her blonde hair, tied back at the nape of her neck, whipping in the wind.
“Isfe’s just past the forest’s edge,” she said.
“Yeah.” He shifted, his eyes growing distant. The dread swelled, growing darker and darker. The guilt squeezed about his heart. Why didn’t I just write her earlier?
“Hey, Estan,” Guts said, grabbing their scholarly friend by the arm. “Let’s go watch from the bow.”
“Oh, but this is a perfectly fine view,” Estan protested while Guts dragged him back. “Well, I suppose if you must insist.”
“Yep,” Guts said. “You can teach me more big words, like ‘oblivious.’”
“It’s so strange,” Chaylene said as Estan’s explanation to Guts mingled with the sounds of the ship. “I never thought we’d be back so soon.”
“Or ever?” Ary asked.
She glanced at him. Her lips pursed. “No, I knew you’d have to come back. And . . . I guess, I’ve missed it.” She gave a snorting laugh. “I just wanted to get away from it, to see the world, and now . . .” She stared down at the passing foliage, patches of reds and oranges standing out amid the furry pines.
“Now, it’s all different,” Ary said.
The edge of the forest neared. Beyond, the farmlands, a blur of green and gold, grew into sharper focus. Pale blobs became the whitewashed buildings of Isfe. Ary’s eyes sought the hill on the other side of the village where his family’s farmhouse stood.
“Being a farmer, even on Isfe, doesn’t seem that terrible,” Chaylene said.
“No more plans of seeing the world?”
A smile grew on her face. “To travel free.” She stretched her back. “That would be nice. I’ll be so glad to get off this ship and away from . . .”
Ary glanced at his wife. “Away from what?”
“Hmm?” She pursed her lips as she stared off into the distance. “Oh, just the ship and all the people.” Her gray eyes drifted down and away.
Ary brushed a blonde lock from her dark cheek. “Something bothering you, Lena?”
She shrugged. “Not really. I just miss privacy. And bathing. There are some . . . pungent members of the crew.”
Ary nodded his head and took another deep breath. His eyes found the hill. His family’s farmhouse. Unease slithered through him and coiled about his heart with its blue scales.
*
“Something bothering you, Lena?”
Chaylene squirmed as she held back her turmoil from her husband. He would do something reckless. His protective temper was, in some ways, endearing. He claimed to be her Bronith, that he’d chase her anywhere. She believed he’d do anything to defend her, even plunge into the Storm to save her.
But his strength coupled with his anger scared her. On the voyage to Camp Chubris, terror had gripped her when she’d watched her husband come within a heartbeat of murdering that swine Grabin. By not telling Ary, she was protecting him from himself.
I’m strong enough to handle this on my own. Chaylene’s stomach twisted.
“It’ll be nice to see Gretla and Jhevon,” she said. “If your brother hasn’t killed Gretla yet.”
Ary snorted. “I’d be more worried about Gretla nibbling Jhevon to death.”
“It would take awhile.” Chaylene laughed. “She has such dull teeth.”
Ary joined her mirth, gripping the gunwale, his shoulders shaking, his face growing red. Gretla, Ary’s youngest sibling, loved to pretend to be a shark, always threatening to bite. Of course, she had the dullest teeth of any shark, so no one, especially not Ary, took her threats seriously.
Chaylene savored the joy of laughing. The twinges of guilt melted away. The stress, the fears, none of it mattered. Tonight, she’d escape the rumors gusting around the Dauntless, the looks of the crew, the knowing smiles or disgusted glares. Laughter held such power, a magic wholly different from Riasruo’s Blessings. Something at once simple and yet profound in the way it could sweep warmth through her body.
The Dauntless cleared the forest as the pair laughed. The ship sped over Isfe, the villagers gawking up at the ship, shielding the sun with hands cupped to brows. Children chased after, waving with arms thrust high over heads, their shrieks rising above the creaking of rigging and moaning of wood. Ary and Chaylene waved back. Delight touched her heart. Her thoughts drifted to a daughter with Ary’s red eyes and her own golden hair.
From atop the gr
ay granite Weather Tower, thrusting up from the center of Isfe, Weathermaster Xorlen snapped a salute at the passing warship. A heartbeat later, they soared over the orchards, fields, and pastures. Chaylene spotted Ary’s home sitting on a hill to the east of the village. She squinted, trying to make out his siblings.
A horn blared, shrilling a single blast. There was a long pause, and then it blew again. Ahead at the skyland’s edge, where the grassy hills ended at blue sky, lay Aldeyn Watch. On a wooden tower, a scout in a matching blue coat to her own sounded the approach of a friendly ship.
The Bosun’s whistle cut across the deck. Then her voice boomed, “Rig the ship for a fifteen degree turn to starboard!”
Sailors scrambled in the rigging. Ropes rasped, a fibrous, dusty scent washing over the ship. Chaylene sneezed as the Dauntless banked to starboard. The winds shifted, howling off the port, aiding the ship’s turn. She adjusted her feet, shifting her balance without thought as the corvette rounded Aldeyn Watch. A pair of docks jutted out over the skyland’s edge from the small naval outpost. The Fearless, the Dauntless’s twin, floated at one pier.
The Dauntless sailed over the ruined watchtower where she’d played with Ary and Vel as kids. A shiver ran through her. There, Theisseg had touched her husband. Now, only broken foundations peeked through the grass.
“Prepare to come about to port!” ordered the Bosun. “Rig for a tight turn and brace for descent!”
The spars creaked as the sailors pulled ropes, swinging the sails to point to port. The wind stopped gusting from port, instead rushing from starboard, whipping hard at Chaylene’s hair. She gripped the gunwale as the Dauntless turned tighter, the front of the ship knifing downward. They cleared Vesche’s edge. Red and yellow coral warred with each other up the face of the skyland, schools of fish darting in and around the tangle of spiny red and tubular yellow. The Storm boiled below, hungry.
“Quarter sail and rig for straight ahead!” the Bosun commanded.
Sailors hauled in the sails with precision, reducing the available surface area to catch the wind. The Dauntless slowed as she straightened, aimed now at Aldeyn Watch’s open pier. Sailors swarmed the dock, and a pair of blue-coated officers strode from a whitewashed building.
The wind died to a breeze. The Dauntless’s sails fell almost slack. The ship slowed with every beat of Chaylene’s heart. On the port railing, sailors hefted the mooring hawsers, readying to toss the thick cables.
“Furl sails!”
Sailors obeyed, drawing up the sails and tying them to the spars. The wind died completely. A stillness descended upon the warship as the Dauntless drifted the last twenty or so ropes. The waiting sailors of the Watch caught thrown hawsers and tied the ship off to the pier.
The Dauntless docked.
Chaylene turned to her husband, opening her mouth to speak, and . . .
Ary stared at the ruined watchtower, his eyes distant.
Dread swallowed Chaylene’s excitement. How can we free Theisseg?
*
“What?” Ary frowned at his wife as she giggled.
“You’re marching like we’re in parade.”
“Habit.” He planted his boot down on hard-packed dirt of the Watch Road. Aldeyn Watch dwindled behind them. He struggled to fall into a natural walking pattern, but . . . marching felt comfortable. It was something he could control, every step placed just so, his back held straight.
His skin prickled worse. What would he find at home?
Captain Dhar gave liberty to the three members of the crew who were from Isfe. Vel slunk out right away while Ary made sure his marines were bivouacked in the Watch’s barracks. When he left, they were impressing the slovenly marines of Aldeyn Watch about the Cyclone. All except for the corporal. She watched with disapproval painted on her face.
The sun set before them, shining in Ary’s eyes as it sank over the Snakewood. Lemon trees rustled as schools of fish flew into the protection of the thick branches for the night. Ary glanced up at the sky, wishing he had a thunderbuss. He didn’t spot any sharks, but the big ones sometimes drifted in from the Arxo Sky to the south. Nothing lay past Vesche in that direction, just endless sky. Ships sailing south only found strong winds, whipping always from east to west that tired out the Windwardens fighting them.
Past Master Oatlon’s lemon grove lay Ary’s family farm. Excitement and dread warred in him, their clashes sending chills spilling through his flesh. He longed to see his siblings, but . . . would they hate him for abandoning them? For not being here when they lost their ma? He spotted the farmhouse sitting on the hill overlooking his family’s ostrich pastures, barley fields, and orchards.
He couldn’t let fear hold him back. He marched at the quick step.
“Excited?” Chaylene asked as she fell in beside his faster pace.
“And scared,” Ary answered, the black guilt threatening to engulf him, held back only by his longing to see his siblings.
They reached the gate and the path that led from the road to the farm. Ary beat back dread and led his wife home.
“Ary!”
Gretla’s shout pierced through Ary’s turmoil. She waved, standing before the barn. One of the farm’s golden ospreys leaped from her shoulder, flapping into the air. She lifted the front of her blue skirts, her leather shoes flashing. Her loosely tied bonnet flew off her head and floated to the ground.
“Ary!” she shrieked again, such joy on her round, brown face, still a little plump with her shedding baby fat.
Ary couldn’t fight the smile spreading across his lips. He braced himself as his little sister hurtled into him at full speed. He caught her in his arms, spun her around, and hugged her tight to his chest. She clutched her arms about his neck.
“You came back! Oh, you came back!”
“I told you I would,” Ary said through his grin.
“I kept your brother safe,” Chaylene added.
“Big sis!” Gretla turned in Ary’s arms to give Chaylene a fierce hug.
“Wow, you look so fancy in your uniforms,” Greta said after giving Chaylene a kiss on the cheek. Ary shifted her in his arms as she fingered the blue star hanging from a purple ribbon pinned to his red coat. “You have medals. What’s this one for?”
“That’s the Merit of Distinguished Service,” Chaylene said, her smile broad. “Ary earned it for being so brave during a battle.”
“Battle?” gasped Gretla, whipping her head around to stare at Chaylene, her dark-blonde locks brushing Ary’s face. “But . . . you should have been in training. How have you already fought?”
Ary’s face fell, his joy wounded by dark memories. He said, voice tight, “Yeah. We fought in a battle.”
Gretla fixed her red eyes—Ma’s eyes—on Ary. “You said it would be safe.”
“There was a . . .” Ary swallowed. “And—”
“So you came in on that ship that flew over,” a young man stated.
Ary’s younger brother, already as tall as him, stood a half-dozen ropes away, brown skin streaked in dirty sweat. Jhevon had shaved the ridiculous blond mustache he’d attempted to grow months back. The youth took more after their pa than Ary did, having the same lanky form and narrow face. Ary had the short, stocky build from their ma’s side of the family. In a year or two, Ary would have to look up at his younger brother.
“A ship flew over?” Gretla gasped.
“We docked at Aldeyn Watch,” Ary said. “It’s just a stop before we head out to the Fringe.”
Jhevon’s face fell. “I was half-hoping . . .”
“That I was back for good?”
Jhevon nodded. “It’s been . . . hard . . . since you left.”
Ary shifted Gretla so she perched on his other arm and so he could clap his hand on his brother’s shoulder. “I would love to stay. Both of us would. But we can’t. It’s only for the night.”
“I know.” Jhevon’s face tightened for a moment, his emotions warring across his expression before Ary. “I miss her.”
G
retla let out a sniff. “I know she was horrible to you, but . . .”
“She was our ma,” Ary whispered, tears stinging his eyes. Shuddering emotion built in his chest.
“Do you . . . want to see her urn?” Jhevon asked. “We interred her next to Pa.”
“They’re both up on the sun now, happy and watching us,” Gretla said, her voice cracking. Then her slender form trembled in his arms. She buried her face into Ary’s neck, her emotions soaking his skin.
“I know.” Ary fought the grief choking his throat as he rocked his sister. Chaylene hugged the both of them. Ary’s hand tightened on his brother’s shoulder. “She . . . she tried to apologize to me . . . and . . .” He battled against the tears, but they welled faster. A suppressed sob shook his shoulder. He had to be strong for his siblings. “I wrote a letter . . . but . . .”
“It made her happy.” Jhevon smiled, his red eyes swimming with tears.
“What?” Ary gaped at his brother.
“Your letter. She was so happy when it came. I think she read it over and over that night. She was bubbly with energy the next day when she . . .” He wiped at his eye with the back of his hand. “She died quick. The ostrich kicked her hard. But she was happy before.”
“She got my letter?”
Gretla nodded her head.
I didn’t wait too long.
Ary’s knees buckled. He swayed and surrendered to a storm of tears. The horrible, crushing weight on his heart fell away. He felt much lighter as the emotions rained out of him. He hadn’t realized how badly the guilt had dragged at him, down into oily darkness. He didn’t know what miracle had let his letter travel fast, what merchant had flown straight to Vesche instead of making a half-dozen stops along the way, but it had happened.
Jhevon cleared his throat, pulling Ary out of his emotions. Jhevon wiped at his cheeks. His voice creaked as he asked, “So, do you want to see her urn, Ary?”
“Yeah,” Ary croaked. He rubbed at his tear-stained face, the back of his throat burning.
Jhevon shifted, looking away. The youth cleared his throat again. “Then . . . then we can attempt to eat Gretla’s cooking.”
