Dangerous Waters

by Juliet E. McKenna

  ‘I need to talk to some people.’ Kusint made a careful adjustment, sighting along the compass’s pointer.

  ‘Who? When?’ Corrain sipped his ale; dark and flavoured with summer berries. Not much to his taste but all there was to be had unless he was fool enough to risk well water and three days squatting on a bucket.

  Looking inland, sail barges crowded around the wharves and jetties extending upstream as far as Corrain could see. He couldn’t even see the far bank. In between, vast rafts of great logs floated, brought down from the Great Forest. Some of the rafts even carried wooden huts with smoking stove-chimneys sticking through shingled roofs. Truly, the mighty Rel, the greatest river that Corrain had seen, was indeed a stream by comparison.

  ‘Kusint?’ he demanded, exasperated.

  ‘All in good time,’ Kusint said absently.

  ‘We have no time to waste,’ Corrain insisted. ‘Any more delay—’

  Kusint looked up. ‘You think we could have got here sooner?’

  ‘No,’ Corrain said curtly.

  They had finally arrived, with barely enough men to manage the galley’s oars. Deaths and desertions had continued through the voyage. The other face of that rune meant those who endured to the end had been rewarded with an even greater share of the loot in the galley’s holds.

  The scum-sucking bastards could have been more grateful. Corrain took another swallow of the darkly fruited beer. ‘Have you any idea how much coin the services we seek will cost us?’

  He had absolutely no notion how much gold a Soluran mage would ask for and no idea what other expense might lie ahead as they searched for such a wizard. They had already had to pay out for fresh clothes and travelling gear to avoid being scorned as beggars or worse.

  Granted, they had a heavy coffer of gold and silver between them, from selling their share of the galley’s cargo and better yet, it was locally minted coin. All the same, so much uncertainty made Corrain tense.

  ‘Kusint!’ He plucked the accursed compass from the Forest youth’s hands, barely restraining himself from hurling it out into the roadway.

  Kusint almost snatched it back, before thinking better of it. ‘We need to go north, and the river will be quickest, but there will be no boats to take us until the Solstice is done. I’m sorry, but there it is.’

  ‘We can buy horses.’ Corrain wondered what that would cost.

  Kusint shook his head. ‘There’ll be no one selling, not tonight, tomorrow or the day after.’

  Corrain looked at the crowds enjoying the balmy evening. ‘You’re sure we have to travel? Surely, among all these people—?’

  ‘Can you tell a mage from the rest?’ Kusint queried. ‘I can’t, and besides, if we find one to help us we still need consent from the Order’s elders. After we wait out the Solstice, we can go straight to an Order’s tower.’

  ‘Where’s the closest?’ Corrain demanded. ‘We can start walking.’

  Kusint took a drink of his own beer. ‘The closest wizards’ Order will be beholden to Lady Kisselle, whose province this is. She won’t countenance any mage heading for Caladhria. None of the coastal lords will.’

  ‘What have wizards’ affairs to do with her?’ Frustration burned Corrain’s gullet.

  Now Kusint looked exasperated. ‘I told you. Soluran wizards have no Archmage. Each wizardly Order is bound by fealty to their province’s ruler.’

  ‘Can’t we seek an audience with this lady?’ There had to be something they could do instead of sitting here drinking peculiar beer. ‘Explain Caladhria’s plight to her?’

  Corrain was beset by more and more irritations, flocking around him like the gulls following the fishing boats into the dockside. If Caladhrian-born wizards answered to the parliament instead of the Archmage, then Corrain would never have had to make this desperate journey. Lord Halferan need never have died in the first place.

  ‘We could wait thirty days or more even to see her port reeve.’ Kusint gestured at the busy street. ‘We’d be lucky if he gave us a chit to take to her castle door before the end of the year. Lady Kisselle has far more important things to fill her days than granting audiences to travelling strangers. She has more important things for everyone to do, wizards included. Kisbeksar may be one of Solura’s smallest provinces but trade makes it one of the richest. And she’s a ferocious old woman by all accounts. We won’t find anyone willing to sacrifice her goodwill just to help us out, however much coin we offer them.’

  Corrain grunted. Kusint had explained how women could both inherit and rule without any man as their guardian, but he found it an outlandish notion.

  Kusint delved into a pocket and found a map he’d drawn for Corrain while they were on the galley. It turned out that the cargo included a quantity of the finest quality paper, heavy with rag. The Aldabreshi prized it highly for recording their astronomical observations and the intricate calculations that followed.

  ‘Here’s the Great River of the East and the Great Forest, your Land of Many Races beyond it.’

  ‘You mean Ensaimin?’ Corrain interrupted.

  ‘Here’s Kisbeksar’s northern boundary.’ Kusint sketched in a larger province above it embraced by a broad sweep of the river. ‘This is Brawathar, where Lord Brawen is very weary of seeing the trade from the forest and the mountains heading downstream and seldom even bothering to pay him for an overnight berth. But if he could secure friendly ties with Caladhria and Caladhria’s merchants, then Lady Kisselle would at least have to pretend to treat him with some respect.’

  Everything always comes down to self-interest, Corrain reflected sourly. No need to waste time appealing for succour for Caladhria’s suffering innocents. ‘So he’ll tell a wizard to help us?’

  To his growing annoyance, Kusint shook his head again.

  ‘We wouldn’t be able to get an audience with Lord Brawen any sooner than we could with Lady Kisselle. If we find a willing wizard on the other hand, there’s every chance he’ll know exactly how to secure his Order’s permission and those Elders will have no trouble tugging on Lord Brawen’s sleeve that same day.’

  ‘If?’ Corrain fastened on that word. ‘What if we can’t find a willing mage?’

  Kusint ran a hand through his hair, barely. It was short enough after its cropping in Caladhria to turn heads in Solura, where Forest Folk in particular favoured much longer styles.

  ‘Then we’ll have to head further north, most likely to Pastamar. Mandarkin holds these mountains, north of Resdonar.’ He stabbed at the map with his finger. ‘This region here, north of the Great Forest and west of your Land of Many Races, is always being disputed. The Mountain Men usually drive back Mandarkin incursions but they’ve had their own troubles of late. Last summer, Mandarkin forces—’

  ‘Why Mandarkin?’ Corrain snapped. ‘Why not ‘Men of the North’ or some such? You don’t grant any other land the courtesy of a name!’

  Kusint was more taken aback than affronted. ‘Why should the Solurans bother with names for anyone else? They have no real interest in whatever might lie beyond their great rivers of east and west. A simple description suffices for strange places far away of which they know little and wonder less.’

  Corrain felt himself reddening, obscurely ashamed of his outburst. But words once spoken were as far beyond reach as a loosed crossbow bolt. He seized on a different question. ‘Who are these Mandarkin?’

  ‘A brutal people ruled by tyrants.’ Kusint scowled. ‘If Solura’s wizards didn’t take a stand against their enslaved mages, Mandarkin soldiery would pour through the mountain passes and lay waste to everything between the pine woods and the sea.’

  His vehemence took Corrain by surprise. The youth’s hatred for these unknown northerners sounded equal to his own loathing of the Aldabreshi.

  ‘The Mandarkin often test Solura’s resolve in the summer,’ Kusint continued, glowering, ‘especially when the Solstice sees so many border nobles travelling to Solith to renew their fealty to King Solquen.’

  He too
k another swig of beer. ‘I know this delay galls you but I’ll be able to hear the latest news rumoured round the taverns. If we know where there’s been trouble, we’ll know where to look for a mage.’

  Corrain contemplated the map. ‘How many days’ travel to Pastamar?’

  ‘To the southern end of the province? Ten days by road, far less on a sail barge and there’ll be plenty of those heading north after the Solstice,’ Kusint assured him.

  ‘Very well, if that’s how it must be.’ Corrain sought to wash away his irritation with more beer. ‘What do we do in the meantime? If no one’s trading over the Solstice, I take it we can’t sell those cursed things?’ He nodded at the discarded compass.

  Kusint looked around. ‘We can eat some dinner, for a start.’

  Corrain was about to say he wasn’t hungry, but Kusint’s words might as well have been someone cutting the pastry lid of a pie right under his nose. Now the evening air was luscious with tantalising spices and the scents of roast suckling pig. Corrain’s stomach growled.

  Kusint laughed. ‘Lightning liquor will lift your spirits, if you don’t like our local ale.’

  Corrain managed something close to a smile. ‘That should take care of tonight. What about tomorrow? Don’t you have Solstice rituals to attend?’ he asked belatedly.

  As he spoke, he found he desperately wanted to be back in Halferan, where fire and water would be rededicating each threshold to Saedrin. Everyone would gather for the festival feasts where men and boys raced burning hoops against each other, rolling them into the brook between the manor and the village amid cheers and steam.

  Corrain had always been among the victors. A little scorching was a small price to pay for the admiration of some young wife giddy enough to be reckless while her husband drank himself insensible.

  Would Halferan see such celebrations this year? What of the other coastal baronies? Had corsair raids put paid to their jollifications, despite whatever successes Captain Mersed and the Tallat men might have achieved?

  Recalling the corsairs prompted more unwelcome thoughts.

  Was Hosh looking up at the skies and marking the solstice, even more bereft than Corrain? Or was the fool boy answering to Saedrin at the door to the Otherworld, explaining Corrain’s failure to save him, to see him safe home again? Corrain grabbed for his tankard and hid his distress in the sickly beer.

  Kusint was shaking his head. ‘Solurans will be gathering at their own firesides after settling their debts. Some may offer thanks at their local sanctuary for goodwill and good fortune among family and friends or seek counsel from the priests if they’ve had illness in their household.’

  ‘You don’t worship the gods as we understand them?’ Corrain hesitated somewhere between a question and confusion.

  ‘The Solurans don’t,’ Kusint corrected. ‘My father was Soluran but I follow my mother’s religion. The Forest Folk revered Trimon and Talagrin, Larasion and Arrimelin long before their reputation spread east to your people. We were the first to teach the lore of the runes to those once ruled by the Tormalins.’

  ‘Runes?’ Corrain drained his tankard and slammed the battered pewter down on the table. ‘Let’s find a game.’ That would be one way to pass the time, if there was nothing more constructive to do.

  Kusint looked sideways at him. ‘What do you plan on spending to buy your way into a game?’

  ‘Those things.’ Corrain nodded at the Aldabreshin compass. ‘You think I’d touch our coin coffer?’ He challenged Kusint with a look. ‘That gold’s to buy us a wizard, and as soon as we can.’

  His fingers tightened around the tankard’s handle. Lady Zurenne would be expecting him any day now. Lord Licanin would be laying his claim before the barons’ Summer Parliament, to be acknowledged as Halferan’s guardian.

  He and Kusint had to get back with a wizard in tow before Lord Licanin arrived to impose his will on Lady Zurenne. If they didn’t, what would she do?

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  Halferan, Caladhria

  Summer Solstice

  ZURENNE HAD YET to decide if she welcomed Lysha’s growing independence over this past half season. She felt they both hesitated on a threshold far more perilous than this entrance to the manor’s shrine.

  She closed the door from the great hall’s dais behind her. ‘What are you doing?’

  ‘Who told you I was here?’ Ilysh laid a garland of leafy green stems and bright blue flowers on the pedestal before Saedrin’s statue.

  ‘Never mind.’ In fact, Jora had told Raselle, all fond amusement and the dutiful maid had hurried to rouse Zurenne. ‘What are you doing here?’

  ‘If I am now truly wedded, then my claim to Halferan is secured.’ Ilysh’s composure and determination reminded Zurenne painfully of her dead husband. ‘Whatever the parliament might say.’ Her eyes flashed with a hint of the indomitable will she had inherited from her father. ‘So I must undertake the duties expected of a baron’s lady while my husband is away. Just as you have always done, Mama.’

  ‘But no one must know of your marriage.’ Zurenne forced herself to speak calmly. ‘We agreed on that and you promised me, in this very shrine.’

  As soon as Corrain had departed, she’d been tormented with doubts, demanding oaths of utmost secrecy from Ilysh and Raselle, before Saedrin’s statue and Drianon’s.

  Ilysh laid fennel stalks and an elder spray on the shrine table. ‘No one need know of my marriage. The demesne folk will only see a daughter honouring her father and his legacy.’

  The girl went towards the shrine’s outer door. She paused with her hand on the iron ring, looking at her mother, unblinking.

  ‘At this season above all others, we must see the rites observed. Saedrin’s door must stand open for those who’ve been released from the flesh and bone that binds us to this world, especially for those who’ve died unnoticed and unburned. Half the village still mourns their men folk taken by the corsairs.’

  Zurenne longed to protest. Lysha was a child and such matters should not concern her.

  ‘You saw to the rites last year, Mama,’ Ilysh reminded her. ‘Even after Master Minelas forbade it, and you did the same at Winter Solstice.’

  ‘Who told you that?’ Zurenne had gone walking alone in the night time pastures, chilled with fear as well as the frost. She had cut the rowan spray and blackthorn twigs with a shaking hand and a purloined knife, hiding everything beneath her cloak before scurrying back to the manor.

  Starrid had caught her sneaking back in through the rear gate, pouncing like a triumphant cat on a mouse. What if she had fallen and hurt herself, or been lost to some other misfortune? Whatever would become of her daughters? Master Minelas was sure to punish her when he returned.

  Zurenne had gone in dread of the monster’s retribution for the rest of the season, long after she had crept to the shrine at midnight on the winter solstice and honoured Poldrion with whispered rites.

  Her nostrils flared. She need never have endured such fear. Minelas had already been dead. That was one more weight in the scales against the wizards of Hadrumal. Surely the demands of justice would see Raeponin deliver Corrain safely back to repay the Archmage for that deception.

  Ilysh opened the shrine door and a muted cheer startled Zurenne. She took a few steps forward and saw the household servants and troopers gathered outside. Though the sun was barely risen, their approval of their lost lord’s daughter and heiress taking up his ritual duties was as warm as the midsummer morning. There was Jora, whose busy tongue was doubtless responsible for bringing them here.

  Zurenne retreated back into the fragrant shade of the shrine. Whatever her own misgivings, she realised the demesne folk’s testimony would strengthen Halferan’s case if she and Ilysh ever found themselves arguing for this clandestine marriage before the parliament.

  Lord Licanin had sent her a whole series of letters, detailing the arguments that he would be making before the barons. He was confident that his guardianship would be approved. Shutting
the letters inside her writing box didn’t alter their words.

  Zurenne could only be grateful that the parliament was meeting in Kevil, so far to the north and not on good roads. He couldn’t pester her while he was there, not even with brief notes sent to Master Rauffe. It took a full half year to raise courier doves from egg to reliable messenger.

  But as soon as the parliament was over, he would be heading southward, waving the parchments supposed to seal their fates. Had she been an utter fool to trust in Corrain, a man of such flawed reputation, even if he had escaped the Aldabreshi?

  Zurenne watched as Ilysh carefully removed the rowan spray and blackthorn twigs that had protected the shrine since midwinter from the hooks beside the shrine’s door. She stooped to lay them on the threshold.

  Now the shrine door would stand open from dawn to dawn, the chicory wreath before Saedrin a sign to any uneasy shade that their way to the Otherworld lay open.

  Ilysh knelt and struck sparks with flint and steel. The dried leaves of the rowan flared into flame and an appreciative murmur stirred the household.

  Zurenne blinked away tears. Ilysh looked so like her father. It was agony to remember Halferan doing this, just as calm and assured. So long and his loss was as sharp a knife to her heart as ever.

  She wondered how a could child show such strength of purpose. But Lysha’s words had shown that she understood the ritual. Her daughter was less a child with each passing season, soon to become a young woman.

  Neeny was still her baby. Zurenne caught sight of her younger daughter, fidgeting by Jora’s side. All the festival meant to her was honeyed sweetmeats and scampering in the pastures by the brook with the children from the village.

  Jora tightened her grip and Esnina’s squirming subsided. Now Ilysh was taking the elder and fennel from the shrine table and hanging them on the doorpost hooks. The door to the Otherworld might be open but no one wanted the troubled dead lingering here, or worse, any of the Eldritch Kin, until some rainbow offered them a door back to the Otherworld.