by A. L. Knorr
He fumbled in his bag for the jar Eohne had given him, and held his find up in the moonlight. She'd given him twelve of the strange bugs. She’d mentioned that the Elven princess didn’t really want them used, but Eohne felt they had no choice. Toth hoped some Elven magic didn’t cleave him when he used them. He dubiously eyed the little pill Eohne had given him. Shrugging, he tossed it into his mouth. Here goes nothing.
Eohne had warned him about the choking sensation but it still took him by surprise. His hand flew to his neck as he said the words he needed to say; the sounds stopped up in his throat and expanded there. The urge to cough was nearly unbearable. The bean slid back up his throat and onto his tongue, and he spat it into his hand with a sound of disgust. "Eurgh. Elf magic." Toth was much more a fan of principles he could understand: gravity, wind, a beating heart, a sharp blade clutched in his fist—things like that.
Toth put the bean in the water the way Eohne had instructed and watched while it changed color. He pulled the fluid into the syringe and injected it one by one into the messenger bugs, leaving them to hang in the air above his head. The balls were small and slippery in his hardened fingers and he dropped more than one of them in the process. If he hadn't had extraordinary night vision, he'd have fumbled around in the wet grass in the dark for a long time trying to locate the clear balls.
Doubt that this strange magic would even work wormed its way into Toth's heart as he injected the bright green fluid into each glass ball. What if it fails? How will we find each other then? What if these stupid little balls don’t like me for some reason? He shoved the doubts aside—he'd find out momentarily if someone other than an Elf could do Elf magic.
Toth barked the commands and the message for Eohne, including that he'd found Jordan and gave the location of The Silver Pony. With his closing command, the balls zipped off toward the water so quickly they were nothing but a green blur. So much for not working. Toth stood there looking out toward Rodania and beyond that, Trevilsom, for a long time.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
Allan turned his face toward the door of his small wooden cell as a key jingled in the lock. His neck spasmed and he reached up a hand to rub at the ache. The box wasn't nearly high enough to accommodate Allan's full height, the most comfortable posture he'd been able to find was sitting with his back against the wall so his neck could be straight, or curled into a fetal position. If I don’t get to straighten my legs soon, I will go completely insane.
Allan had been tortured by Marceau's directive to 'Retarder le navire.' It was simply impossible. Faking illness had been his only idea and, as it turned out, he didn't have to fake it. The seasickness was unrelenting; his captors were unmoved by it.
The short, heavy, wooden door of his cell swung open on squeaky hinges. Allan closed his eyes against the bright light that streamed in and assaulted his eyes. The squat, lumpy shape of a being who smelled like moldy vegetables blocked out some of that light. Foreign words were grunted at him, but with the addition of helpful gestures so that Allan was able to work out the meaning: ‘come out of the box, and be quick about it.’
Allan went to his hands and knees and crawled forward, ducking his head to fit through the doorway of the box he'd been living in while the ship crossed a turbulent ocean. His captors had been kind enough to find a pail for him to be sick in and had even taken it away to wash it out. They’d also provided him with a bucket of drinking water. How kind. The hold of the ship stank of rot; even if he hadn't been seasick, it was enough to make a person ill.
He'd finally grown accustomed to the smell and didn't even notice it anymore. Eight holes punched in the ceiling had let in stale air and a muted light, as though the box was inside another box with more windows.
Allan's back protested as he straightened for the first time in days. His stomach clenched as the ship lurched under his feet and he could feel from the concave shape of his abdomen that he'd lost weight. How could I not? Being too seasick to eat and too stressed to think of anything but Jordan and how to get out of this mess, how to find her…
The lump of a creature in front of him wrapped a rope haphazardly over his wrists, which tightened as if by magic and held his hands lashed in front of him. The lump grouched at him, shoving Allan forward through the hull of the ship. The hold was full of crates and barrels, trunks and strange-looking cylinders. Looking back, Allan saw that his cell was indeed a box inside a box, one of only two of a kind. The other held no prisoner, as far as he could tell.
Up the stairs Allan lurched, his stomach swaying and his mouth watering. He climbed to the next deck; a just-as-disorganized sleeping quarters. Hammocks swayed and bottles rolled across the floor as the ship lurched. The square main hatch lay open to the sky and salt spray dripped from the underside of the hatch door. Prodded in the ribs by his grumpy escort, Allan staggered his way up the steps to the main deck and into the sea air. Breathing deeply, Allan almost sighed with pleasure as his brain fog cleared. He caught a glimpse of tall, jagged stones jutting up from the churning sea on either side of the small sailing vessel.
Peering toward the helm and squinting in the light, Allan spotted the man behind the wheel—or woman, rather. She was swathed in red fabric from head to toe, including a turban that kept her hair off her face. She was also squat and lumpy, and Allan suspected she might share some DNA with his escort. Turnip-shaped though she might be, she steered the small ship through the dragon's teeth of dangerous rocks like she'd navigated it a thousand times before. The crew crawled over the ship like ants, tending to the sails and ropes and shouting foreign words from the crow’s nest. Allan had come to think of them as walking turnips, since they were all broad at the shoulders, lumpy, pale, and covered in pallid rough skin the color of autumn leaves. They had a sickly sweet scent and carried short, serrated daggers—which he'd become acquainted with, as they had been waved menacingly in his face more than once.
Allan was allowed to stand by the railing and observe the unusual terrain. A thin mist floated above the water's boiling surface and swirled around the jutting stones. In the distance, a dark shadow loomed. Allan swallowed hard as the toothy island ahead grew close. Is this Trevilsom, the prison the warden at Vischer spoke so proudly of? It has to be; why else would they remove me from my box?
The dragon's teeth stones appeared on either side of the ship, making the way clear. A dock materialized from the fog: a dark slab of rock with a wooden ladder coated in black slime disappearing beneath the surface. Allan shuddered and attempted to wrap his arms around himself. Oh, Jordan, he lamented. Will I ever see you again? The ship slowed to a crawl and then, creaking, to a stop. A chain rattled as the anchor was let down.
Allan was jostled and shoved toward the side of the ship, where a rowboat had been lowered into the choppy black seas. More of those serrated blades than were really necessary were on display. Remarkable how a common language really isn’t necessary to communicate certain things…
Mutely, Allan did as he was told and began to climb down the rope ladder, hands still bound, and into the dinghy, where one of the turnip men was waiting. Allan had spent the first twenty-four hours trying to talk to these creatures to no avail. They either didn't speak English, or pretended they couldn't. Overwhelming even one of them would have been a near-impossible and pointless exercise, considering how weak, exhausted, and sick Allan had become.
The waiting turnip man gnashed something noisily between gray peg-shaped teeth. He spat a lump of slime over the side of the dingy and watched Allan struggle down the rope ladder with his hands still lashed together. His fingers had lost most of their strength. He felt as weak as a child and marvelled at how quickly the body could break down under duress and lack of sufficient food. He also heard Jordan's voice in his head, admonishing him for not working out and taking better care of himself. I have something to be grateful for though, he thought with a kind of sick humor as he took the next slippery step down the rope ladder: they didn’t take my glasses away, and they only have on
e crack across the left lens.
Allan's grip weakened halfway down the ladder, and he fell, landing hard and twisting his ankle painfully as he crumpled in a heap on the boat's bottom. The turnip-man that waited for him in the boat gave a cruel laugh at Allan's clumsiness. A second turnip-man dropped into the boat behind Allan, nearly landing on his other leg.
As they rowed him toward the miserable island of doom, Allan thought of Jordan. Was this what happened to her when she passed through the portal? But then, how did she manage to send me a message? He supposed the best he could do was hope that she had either been rescued from the desert by much friendlier beings, or that she'd made this journey ahead of him and would be there when he arrived. If that was the case, perhaps together they could find a way to escape.
Allan was rowed expertly and rapidly toward the rocky island's edge. Fingers of fog reached up around the toothy rocks they glided by. Rising up in the distance was a fortress made of dark gray stone. Allan felt his bowels turn to water as the prison neared and a cold bitter wind picked up and blasted against him, making him shiver. All he had for clothing was what he'd been wearing before he stepped through the portal—a tank top, a button-up long-sleeved shirt, dress shoes, and pale denim pants that used to be the color of caramel, but were now dingy and stained.
A tall thin shape moved to meet the dinghy as it approached the stone dock. Allan felt cold fingers of dread trace his spine. The being that materialized from the mist to meet them was a bony giant with no neck. No neck, but a column of dark smoke which billowed from its shoulders and balanced a dark floating head. The giants features were obscured by the cloud of smoke on which the head hovered. Allan shivered violently at this horrible sight.
The turnip-man in the boat gave another grating chuckle and uttered some nonsensical words at Allan before jerking him to his feet. Leaving Allan's wrists bound, the turnip-man jabbed the point of his serrated blade at the dock. Allan got the message: ‘Out of the boat, peon.’
Allan lost his balance as he stood and the turnip shoved him. A single, despairing word croaked from his lips as he almost tumbled headfirst into the rocky, biting sea.
"Jordan!"
Staggering and swaying, his spine and ribs aching and his fingers and toes numb with cold, Allan set foot on the stone dock. As he stepped onto solid land where the creepy giant waited for him, he wondered, is this where I’m going to die?
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
Jordan woke with a wet face and a head full of cotton. Her first thought, before she had even opened her eyes, was My mother is a horrible person. She opened her eyes with great effort, feeling like her ocular cavities were full of gel instead of eyeballs.
A chair covered with clothing blurred and then focused. Movement drew her attention to the other chair, which had been set under the window. A shape occupied the chair—a long, slender shape framed by dark brown ribbons of hair.
Jordan rolled over, rubbing her eyes. She wiped the dampness from her face, baffled at its origin.
"You were crying in your sleep," said a soft, familiar voice.
Jordan gasped. "Eohne?"
The Elf came into proper focus. Jordan bolted upright and then groaned and clenched her eyes shut again as her temples throbbed and the room spun.
A weight depressed the mattress beside her and a warm hand squeezed her shoulder.
"Did you bring some of that dog-water with you?" Jordan croaked. "I feel like garbage." Then Jordan opened her eyes and put her arms around her friend. "Sorry. I don't mean to make demands first thing. I'm so happy to see you." Her voice was nasal and plugged-up sounding. "I would do a proper job of expressing it if my head wasn't full of fluff."
Eohne chuckled and hugged Jordan back. "I can help you with that." She got off the bed and went to where her bag was hanging over the back of the chair. She fished inside for a small vial of purple liquid. The liquid was floating at the top of the vial with air beneath it, rather than the other way around. She took a small needle from a pocket and returned to the bed.
"Where's Toth?" Jordan asked.
"He's sleeping in the next room. He said to wake him when you were up."
"And where's Blue?"
"Is that his name?" Eohne smiled. "I can see why."
A yawn split Jordan's face. "Did you let him out?"
"Yes. I arrived early this morning, before it was even light. He was waiting at the door when I came in. Gave me a bit of a startle, but he must be one smart reptile; he let me in without so much as a growl."
"He is smart, and brave." Jordan eyed the vial and needle suspiciously as the Elf sat down next to her. "What is that?" Then, "Nevermind, I don't want to know."
"Finger, please."
Jordan held out her hands. "Take your pick. I have ten." She gave a violent sneeze into her elbow. "Ugh." She sniffed. "Gross. Ow!"
Eohne squeezed a drop of Jordan's blood until it sat on top of her thumb in a bright red bead. She turned the vial of purple liquid upside down so it ran to the bottom of the glass, removed the cork and put the mouth of the vial over the bead of blood. The blood sat at the mouth of the vial for a moment, quivered there and then flew into the gel as though sucked by a vacuum. Jordan watched this with great interest.
"Did you invent this…whatever it is you're doing?"
"Of course," said Eohne. "I only use my own magic. I don't trust anyone else's." Eohne jabbed her own thumb with the needle next and repeated the process until both drops of blood were mingling with the purple gel. She corked the vial and shook it. The purple substance turned a rich chocolate-brown.
"Why did you take your own blood?" asked Jordan.
"I'm healthy. When you put this gel on the back of your neck where your skull meets your spine, the huriob—that's the liquid—will take my vitality and give it to you."
Jordan looked up at the Elf, horrified. "Will it make you sick?"
Eohne shook her head. "The vitality only travels in one direction. That's the beauty of huriob." She handed the vial to Jordan. "You have to do it, though. If I touch the gel now, the vitality will just go back into me. Be careful not to spill it; if it goes to the ceiling it will be wasted and I don't have time to make more."
Jordan took the vial and turned it upside down. She took off the cork then turned the vial upright while holding her palm over its mouth. The brown liquid ran out of the bottle and hit her cupped hand, where it gathered. She dropped the vial and lifted her hair, rubbing the liquid into the back of her neck where Eohne had said to. "How long does it take to—Whoa!" Jordan straightened. Her whole body tingled from head to toe; her sinuses drained and her eyes cleared. Energy filled her blood and tissue. She flexed her fingers and stared at Eohne. "Is this how you feel all the time?"
Eohne laughed and took the empty vial back. "I guess. Elves don't get sick much." Eohne put the vial back in her bag. "You want to tell me what happened yesterday? Whatever it was, it had you so upset that you were weeping while you slept."
Jordan threw the covers back and got out of bed. Her limbs felt like coiled springs, ready to explode at a moment’s notice. She looked down, realizing that she’d slept only in her underwear and the bra Eohne had invented. She cast about for her clothing, remembering that she’d set it by the fire after Toth had left her alone the night before. "I found my mother yesterday."
Eohne frowned. "Toth mentioned that. It didn't go well?"
Jordan picked up her clothing. It was crunchy and stiff. She flexed it to soften it and began to dress. "She was at the Maticaw Trade Office. I guess she runs the place, or something." Jordan sighed miserably. "She tried to have her goon kill me."
Eohne was blinking at her, puzzled. "She runs the Trade Office, you say? I thought it was a man who had that job?"
"That's because she's going by the name of Jack instead of Jaclyn. Why? I have no idea." Jordan did up the laces of her pants. "Did you hear me say that she tried to have me killed?"
"It's because that position has always been held by a man," E
ohne speculated. "Dealing with sailing captains and shipping crews, many of whom are not as educated as might be ideal, would be tough for a woman. It would be an uphill battle to gain their respect."
"So, what? She never actually faces them in person? Just has some intimidating guy do it for her, while she's behind the scenes, pulling the strings?" Jordan bounced around while pulling on her boot.
Eohne looked thoughtful. "Maybe."
"I did see a tall, mean-looking Arpak leave her office right before I went in. Maybe that was ‘Jack’," she made air quotes with her fingers.
"Interesting." Eohne stood looking out the window, where the midmorning sun streamed in across the floor.
"Did I mention she tried to kill me?" Jordan laced up her vest, yanking on the leather thongs with a little more violence than was necessary. She looked down at her hands where there was no pain, remembering that they had been full of slivers. She unravelled the bandages, revealing healthy, pink flesh. She barely felt any amazement. She was getting used to Oriceran's wonders.
"You did." Eohne looked over her shoulder at Jordan, her eyes full of compassion. "I'm sorry, Jordan. I know you were hoping for better."
Jordan barked a laugh. "Better than my mother trying to murder me?" She put her fists on her hips, her eyes blazing. Now that her burgeoning cold had been nipped in the bud, she was full of razors and bees at the memory of what had transpired the night before. "A hug would have been nice. Maybe some tears of joy." She snatched her blade and sheath off the back of the chair, her movements quick and fiery. "I have to go back there."
