Scar Felice (The Fourth Age of Shanakan Book 3)

by Tim Stead

  Why? She had detected no change in the motion of the ship. Was it sinking? Surely she would be no help up there in the storm? That was why he had sent her below.

  Bracing herself against the wall she undid the ropes that held her to the bunk. It was something that she did not want to do. She felt safer here, tied down. Once free of the ropes she chose her moment and threw herself at the door frame, catching hold of it and hanging on. She felt light headed, and stood there for a moment, breathing heavily. She was feeling ill from the motion of the ship, but it was subservient to her fear.

  Down the corridor she could see the stairs leading upwards. They seemed a huge distance away. She could see water coming through the hatch in trickles and bursts as though the pressure on the other side was coming in bursts, or waves she thought, of course waves. She was almost comforted by her own silliness in such a dire moment.

  She lunged for the steps, but fell yards short, tossed by the motion of the sea against a wall. She struggled half to her feet and lunged again, getting a grip on the bottom step. She paused again, regaining her breath, and was showered by cold sea water. The stairs were easy to climb, being built with open treads, and in a few moments she pushed open the hatch and emerged into the chaotic hell that was the Sea Swift’s deck. She grabbed a handy rope and kicked the hatch shut again, looking about her.

  What had once been an ordered world was now unrecognisable. Tangled ropes and broken spars littered the open spaces. Water surged over the side of the ship and tried to sweep her away, but she held on fast and came out of the wave spitting salt water and curses.

  “Felice!”

  She turned, and could see Pelorus. He was tied to the great wheel and even as she watched he fought it, keeping the ship at least partly headed into the wind. He vanished as water poured over the deck again, and emerged from the foam as it subsided, shaking water from his head and salt from his eyes.

  She studied the ropes on the deck, and seeing a way she began to crawl across the deck towards the stern, watching every moment for the next wave, wrapping the rope around her arm when she saw it coming. Eventually she reached the broken rail that stood just before the raised deck. The captain was only a few yards away.

  “Can you swim?” he shouted.

  “In this?” She could not believe the question.

  “Can you swim?” he repeated, louder, almost angry.

  “A little. Not well,” she shouted.

  Pelorus cursed, and another wave swept the ship. He struggled grimly with the wheel.

  “The shore!” he called, gesturing with his head.

  Then she heard it, a deep hammering sound that had been lost in the noise of the ship, booming like thunder, and raising her body from the deck she could see through the curtains of rain and spray the dark line of land, and the white fury that was the sea beating upon it. Swim? She would need to be able to fly to get past that.

  She shook her head at Pelorus. “No!” she shouted.

  “Thirty minutes,” the captain shouted back. “The ship will be on those rocks. We have lost the boats, couldn’t have launched them in this anyway.”

  She looked again at the shore, and she understood. When the ship hit, the rocks would chew it up. The whole magnificent structure would become a mass of splitting, twisting timber and iron, dying beneath the hammer of the surf. Alone in the sea a strong swimmer might have a small chance, might be cast over the rocks by the waves themselves.

  So they were all going to die.

  Fear was suddenly gone, and she was filled again by the anger that she had felt before, the rage that gave her strength. She pulled on the ropes, dragging herself away from the captain and towards the bows, towards the wind and the sea that beat mercilessly on the ship. As she fought her way to the bow the rage grew into a towering fury, a white hot fire that burned all else from her mind. Her father had always accused her of having a temper, but it was a rare thing, and like lightning it burned away and passed in an instant. Now it did not pass, but grew and grew. It fed on her outrage and helplessness. She felt as if the entire world had turned against her.

  She stood, eventually, in the bow of the ship. The rail here was intact and she gripped it with white knuckles, staring into the waves that broke against her and the wind that tore at her wet clothes.

  “I’m not afraid of you!” she shouted at the ocean. It answered with a wave that slapped her face, pushed her back, but she did not let go of the rail. “You are nothing!” she shouted. “I drink you, I bathe in you, you are nothing but a dog that obeys its master, a weak thing, a servant!”

  Another wave crashed over the bow and she swallowed water, but it only made her angrier.

  “And you,” she spat into the gale. “The mighty wind. It is you that drives the water, lifts up the sea, but you are no more than a tool, a whip to beat the dog. There is no power in you but the hand that holds you. I cool myself with you on a hot day. I breathe you, and my hand passes through you! You are nothing!”

  Still the wind howled and the sea rose once more and tried to beat her from the rail, but she held on.

  “You!” she shouted, now staring upwards through the storm to the faintest hint of lighter sky. “You are the hand that holds the whip. You are the fire, the sun, the light. It is you that calls the storm, beats the sea, and yet you hide behind clouds. What do you want? What?” She paused, gasping for breath. In spite of the cold sea and the wild wind she felt hot, her anger flowing through her like molten rock through a violent mountain. The water struck at her again, and the roaring of the surf grew in her ears. She felt none of it.

  “You want my burden?” she demanded. “I give it to you! Go to Samara. Hunt down the creature that killed my brother. Kill him for me!”

  Nothing changed. The surf roared still upon the rocks and the wind ripped across the deck.

  “No?” she shouted mockingly into the face of the wind. “You do not want it?” She dipped her head for a moment, catching her breath, gathering her strength. “Then leave me alone! Stop this! Go away!” All her hate and anger gathered in her throat and came out as one explosive scream. “Be gone!”

  There was nothing left. The cold could no longer touch her, and she barely felt the wind and rain. The sky seemed to darken and her knees felt like water. Raising her head one last time she looked up into the sun’s hiding place, and then the world went black.

  * * * *

  Pelorus saw her fall. In only seconds another wave would sweep the deck, carrying her from the larboard bow over the starboard rail, or the place where the rail had been. He knew, too, that there was no way he could reach her in time. Even had he not been tied to the wheel it was just too far in too short a time.

  “Catch her!” he roared over the sound of the wind, but even as the words were formed he felt the ship plunging down again, saw the wave into which the bow was about to disappear. At the same moment the figure of a sailor hurled across the deck from somewhere close to her, and he was faster than the wave. He crashed into the rails beside her, and Pelorus saw one hand wind into the rails while the other encircled her waist. It was only a moment before the wave came, and he waited for anxious seconds while the white water surged over them all.

  When it cleared she was still there, held in place by the bold sailor who had made the saving leap across the wild deck. But what now? He looked across to where Yan, the mate, was roped to the rail.

  “We have to abandon the ship,” he called. Yan nodded, looked out towards the shore with an appraising eye.

  “We have time,” he replied. “I will go below and check.” He began to undo the ropes, struggling with sea-chilled fingers.

  The movement of the ship changed. It was slight, but both the men sensed it, and a look passed between them. It was the wind. For a moment it was less. The moment became longer and Pelorus was sure that he felt it shifting to the north as it dropped. He put more energy into turning the wheel again, and for the first time in hours he felt the Sea Swift respond, ever so slight
ly, to the helm’s command. He looked up and saw Yan staring at him.

  “Do we have anything that will carry sail?” he shouted.

  “It was her,” the mate responded, ignoring his question. “It was the girl that stopped the storm. You saw her.”

  “I saw her collapse. I saw nothing else, and the storm hasn’t stopped.” But the wind continued to weaken and back round to the north. “Can we carry sail?” The shore was very close now, and even though the wind was dropping the waves continued to pound the rocks fiercely.

  “We can get a spar up on the foremast,” the mate said.

  “Now, Yan. Do it now.” The masts themselves were unbroken, and even with no sail the wind tugged at them, providing the smallest amount of steerage. The shore was coming no closer, and although the ship still dashed into the sea the water no longer broke so much over the bow. It was beginning to turn with the wind.

  We are going to make it, he thought, allowing himself to believe for the first time. I’ll see Pek again. I’ll see Helena.

  Men scattered about the deck, and he saw the sailor who had saved Felice carrying her across the steps and back down to her cabin. It truth he could not allow himself to think the way Yan did. He had seen what he had seen, but she was just a girl, and this was just a ship, and the storm was just a storm.

  6. Pek

  Felice dreamed that the storm was gone, that the ship was saved. She smelled the dry, clean sheets of her bunk on the Sea Swift. She felt the gentle motion of the sea. It was as though the storm had never happened, but it was only a dream. It came and went.

  She felt the sun. There were sounds that she had never heard before. Voices spoke nearby, and their accent was strange. The meaning of their words passed her by. The motion of the ship changed, too, and she felt jostled and jolted. There was a sense of motion, and a face above her, like the sun looking down, but not happy. It spoke words to her, and the tone was friendly, but she understood nothing. New smells came to her, and new sounds. She thought there were horses, but she was puzzled where the horses could have come from on a ship.

  Nothing touched her. There was no heat and no cold, no pain and no pleasure, and yet she could not stay focussed on anything for more than a few seconds. The world slipped out from under her scrutiny like a greased pig at a town fair. She drifted. Sometimes it was night, and sometimes it was day.

  She remembered rain and wind, and it distressed her, she thought the storm had returned. She cried out and voices spoke soothing words. Something cool was laid across her brow and she felt safe again. So time passed.

  She opened her eyes.

  There was light, but no form to it. The world was seen as though through a veil of thin cotton. There was light in one place and shade in another, but no lines between them.

  “The wanderer returns.” The voice that spoke was a woman’s. It was kind, and gentle. It spoke with the familiar Scar accent and she did not feel afraid.

  She turned her head and saw a shape beside her, a shadow that could have been a person.

  “Where am I?” she asked.

  “In bed. You have been travelling the borders of death, but that country could not hold you. Now you are returning to life.”

  “I remember nothing. Who am I?”

  “Scar Felice,” the woman answered. “You were born and raised in the Scar. You are scarred on the outside, you are scarred on the inside, and to the Scar you will return.”

  “Prophecy?”

  “Common sense. Scar folk…”

  “…Are better in the Scar. I don’t like the name. Who are you?”

  The woman laughed. There was no malice in the laughter, just a sort of tired delight.

  “Am I dreaming?”

  The woman hesitated. “Yes,” she said. “Dreaming.”

  “Will I remember when I wake up?”

  “Your life? Yes. It will all come back. This? Some of it. You will remember three things that I tell you.”

  “What things?”

  “When you look in the mirror you do not see what others see.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “That is not required. The second thing is that the Shan know that you are coming.”

  “The creatures that see truth?”

  “The same.”

  “This also I do not understand. What do the Shan want with me?”

  “The third thing is the most important. Do not seek vengeance. Seek justice. Vengeance will cost you more than you can imagine.”

  The shape moved beside the bed, began to fade as though drawing away.

  “Who are you?” she asked again, and again there was laughter.

  “Felice,” the voice was distant, faint. “Don’t you recognise your own voice?”

  She opened her eyes.

  Everything seemed sharp, and nothing was familiar. She was clearly not on the Sea Swift. The ceiling above her was plaster, painted white, and it was a long way above her, perhaps twelve feet. The white plaster was brightly lit by the sun, which streamed across from her right. It was warm, and a cool breeze touched her, scented with flowers that seemed exotic and yet familiar. Everything seemed clean and new.

  She turned her head and saw that she was in a room, lying on a bed. A tall window was beside her and she could see the tops of trees waving gently beyond it, and a blue sky beyond them. Beside the window was a chair, and in the chair sat a young girl. She watched the girl for a while. She was about ten years old, at a guess, and sat with her face turned towards the sun with her eyes half closed. She was too small for the chair, and her feet swung a few inches above the floor. She wore a simple white dress, and her pale hair was loose, but cut short, framing a brown, pretty face, with brown eyes and clear, unmarked skin. She was singing quietly to herself in a clear, tuneful voice.

  Something, some small sound, must have alerted the child, for she turned her face towards Felice.

  “Are you awake?”

  “I don’t know,” she replied. “I think so, but so much has seemed a dream lately. Where am I?”

  “My house,” the child replied, and with a shock that chilled her, Felice realised that the girl was blind. Her eyes didn’t focus, and looked vaguely in her direction, flicking from side to side in a useless, questing dance. “I’ll go and tell father,” she said, and before Felice could think of anything more to say she was gone, running from the room with a light step, as though not at all hindered by her ruined eyes.

  She tried to sit up, and her arms gave way. She was weak, probably weaker than the child who had just left. With an effort she managed to lever herself higher against the bed head and gained a better view out of the window.

  She could see the sea. It was only a thin strip of blue joining two clumps of trees, but she could see it, and now that she could its voice came to her as well. It was a gentle noise, a rush and a sigh, a pause, then another rush, another sigh. It was like a giant breathing.

  “Felice!”

  She looked and saw Pelorus, but it was a different man from the one she had known in Yasu. Now he was respectable, dressed in a white tunic and trousers, hair trimmed, beard shaved clean. He looked concerned and happy at the same time.

  “Where am I?” she asked.

  “A spare room,” he said. “My house. Pek.”

  She closed her eyes for a moment. This was safety. They had survived the storm.

  “How long have I been here?” she asked.

  “Ten days. We thought we were going to lose you for a while. You had a fever. The doctor said it was the cut. Infected.”

  She put her hand up to her face and felt the ugly furrow of the scar, tracing it with a finger tip. It felt clean and dry. There was no pain. She did feel a sense of urgency, though. Ten days was a long time to be stranded in Pek.

  “I am in your debt, Captain.”

  “I would have done the same for anyone,” he said. “How could I have done else?”

  “As you say, but thanks anyway. Now I must continue my journey. Can you a
rrange passage for me to Samara?”

  “Not yet,” he said. “The doctors have said that you will need at least a week to regain your strength.”

  “I’m sure I’m fine,” she said. She tried to swing her legs over the side of the bed, but found herself almost immediately tired. Everything felt so heavy.

  “You’ve lost a third of your weight,” Pelorus said. “You’re as weak as a kitten, and I doubt you could make it to the front door, never mind the docks.”

  She lay back in the bed, feeling the truth of his words. “I am hungry,” she said.

  He smiled and turned to the door.

  “Helena!”

  The blind girl appeared again. She must have been standing only a few feet away.

  “Father?”

  “Go down to the kitchens and tell Netra that we need food. Nothing healthy, mind. Lots of meat and cheese.”

  The child ran off, and Pelorus helped Felice to sit up in the bed. He was gentle, and fussed around her like a sick child. It made her wonder.

  “Your wife…?” she asked.

  “Dead,” he said, but it was an old wound. She could see that by the look in his eyes; a little sadness, but no pain. “She died when Helena was born.” He glanced out of the door the way the child had gone. “She was born blind,” he said. “And her hand does not work as it should.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “We have grown used to it,” he said. There was a sigh in his voice. “I blame myself, really,” he said. “She could have been cured.”

  “How so?” Felice had never heard of a doctor who could cure such things. They were beyond skill.

  “I used to take her with me when I went to sea. She was a mascot to the crew, and she loved ships, loved being with her father the captain. They were good times even before we had the Sea Swift. I had a smaller ship then, just ten crew, and we used to ply a trade between here and Samara, small cargoes, small profits. She was with me when the Saratans attacked Pek, and then with me when Borbonil came.”

  “The Faer Karani?”

  “The same. He was sent here by Serhan after the defeat of the Saratans at Samara, told to heal the people and fix the city. If she had been here she would have been healed. Others were.”