This was definitely the strangest morning of Fredrick’s life.
****
Dormael awoke to the smell of roasting fish. He stared up at a ceiling, old knotted boards that weren’t quite squared lay side by side, and from the look of the condition of the ceiling he knew that this had to be The Inn. Dormael groaned and stretched his arms over his head, working the knots out of his tired muscles.
Seeing his bared and tattooed arms rising over him, Dormael stopped and looked down at his body. He was covered with a thin blanket, and underneath the blanket he was as bare as the day he came into the world. His left thigh was wrapped completely in a tight bandage, and as he looked down at it his mind suddenly registered a dull throbbing from underneath the wrapping. In a flash, he remembered.
The fight with the syndicate camp spun back into Dormael’s mind and the midnight flight to safety from the forest that followed quickly after. He remembered how he hadn’t had the energy to change back right away, and how D’Jenn had linked with him to help the transformation after they had reached The Inn. He remembered the healer, a middle-aged woman with an oddly sweet bedside manner, and her delicate hands stitching him up, even as the tea she had given him was putting him quickly to sleep. He remembered the size of the gash on the outside of his thigh, and remembered the amount of blood he had lost.
He had been lucky to have D’Jenn there, and they both had been lucky that the bandit camp hadn’t lain farther into the forest. Another mile or two to run, and Dormael very well might have been dead somewhere in the snow. The cut itself wasn’t serious, but the run the cousins had made in wolf form had caused Dormael to lose a substantial amount of blood. That coupled with the wintry cold outside could have proved fatal. Dormael took a deep breath, and sat up on his thin mattress.
The double room that he shared with D’Jenn seemed strangely lifeless at this moment. He could hear clattering plates and the low, murmuring drone of mouths joined in low conversation downstairs, but after the night’s ordeal and his own drug induced sleep, Dormael felt odd at waking up alone in this room. He thought idly of a bath, and then realized that submersing his cut in water may not be the best idea, at least not with those bandages on. He didn’t feel dirty though; perhaps the healer had bathed him earlier.
He stood and tested his leg, shifting his weight slowly onto his left foot. It held well enough, no real pain except for a low throb, and Dormael sensed that he wouldn’t need a walking stick to help him with this injury. That was a comfort, at least. Crossing to the armoire with only the slightest limp, Dormael donned his clothes.
Ten minutes later he was stepping slowly down the stairs, trying his best not to appear injured but at the same time trying not to upset his bandages. The result was that he appeared to be walking a slow, deliberate pace down the stairs, almost a skulking pace. Dormael realized all of a sudden that he looked like a half wit, and resorted to a slight limp, at least for the stairs.
As he came down enough to look out upon the common room floor, he spotted a table that contained D’Jenn, Shawna, Bethany, Hadrick, and a man he had never seen before. The four adults appeared to be conversing idly while the little girl sat on a chair by herself, kicking her little feet over the edge. Dormael studied the odd man sitting at the table with his friends, and had a momentary jolt of surprise.
The man was obviously a Sevenlander. He was wearing a long-sleeved woolen shirt similar to that of Dormael and D’Jenn, though green in color and adorned with some sort of golden design down the hems, Dormael couldn’t entirely see it from where he was standing. His pants were made some sort of tough cloth, Dormael was unsure of the type, but they were dun-colored and hung loosely about his legs. Oiled black leather boots peeked from the hems of his pants, still wet with the snow he had trod through some time ago. A pair of thick black gloves sat on the table beside the man’s drink, a mug of what appeared to be frothy ale.
The most startling thing about the man was his hair. It was wild and long, spilling from his head as if it were constantly being blown back by a strong wind. Dormael saw then that it was braided into very small plaits in certain places, and beads were woven into some of the braided strands. His ears were studded by three small golden rings, two in his left ear and one in his right. As Dormael studied the man closer, he noticed that he had small tattoos on the side of his face, just beside his eyes. He was Orrisan, then, from the southwestern corner of the Sevenlands. The man must be a sailor; Orris was renowned for its affinity with all things nautical. If he was sitting at the table with Hadrick and D’Jenn, then he must be their ship’s captain.
Dormael approached the table, limping only slightly as he walked, and at sight of him Bethany jumped out of her seat and ran over to him. She wrapped her little arms around his hurt leg, and he felt a pang of sharp pain as she squeezed out her childish affection on his thigh. He could see D’Jenn suppressing a laugh, Hadrick with a raised eyebrow, and Shawna looking horrified. Dormael grunted lightly and ruffled the young girl’s hair, now hanging loose about her shoulders.
“It’s good to see you too, little one,” Dormael said affectionately. The little girl looked up at him without releasing her hold on his leg.
“I saw your leg. It was bleeding a lot,” she said with her characteristic simplicity.
“Was it, now? Did you get scared?”
“A little,” she replied, her face scrunching up a bit.
“Well, everything is alright now. Did the healer stitch me up good? You watched her, right? Made sure she was doing it correctly?” Dormael asked with a wry smile on his face.
“I don’t know how to do that,” Bethany giggled, and released his leg. Dormael reached down and grabbed the youngling’s hand as Hadrick called for another chair to be pulled to the table. A serving wench brought another wooden chair and slid it in between D’Jenn and Bethany. Before he sat, however, Dormael turned to the Orrisan seated next to Hadrick and placed his right fist over his heart and bowed. The Orrisan slid his chair back and stood, repeating the Sevenlander greeting to Dormael.
“Dormael,” Hadrick began, “this is Mikael. He is the captain of the Seacutter, the ship I’m planning to hire to take you back across the Stormy Sea.”
“Well met, Mikael,” Dormael greeted.
“Well met, Dormael,” Mikael replied, raising his ale in toast. An empty ale flagon was slid across the table to Dormael, and he filled it from a pitcher that had been placed in the center of the table. The adults seated at the table all toasted and drank deeply from their flagons, save Shawna who sipped daintily. Bethany sat kicking her little legs, looking around the common room with her color-changing eyes.
“So then,” Mikael began, “let us speak of business, as friends.”
“Indeed,” D’Jenn agreed, and the men leaned forward onto the table with their elbows as men are wont to do when there is business to be discussed.
“Dormael and D’Jenn here have done me a favor, friend Mikael,” Hadrick began, “They will be needing passage across the sea to the Sevenlands for themselves, Shawna and Bethany here, and their bags and horses.”
“The horses are not a problem, Seacutter has plenty of cargo space, so she does,” Mikael began, “The passage will cost you ten gold marks per head, Hadrick, and good Cambrellian marks, I say.”
“Is that the sort of price to set for an old friend, Mikael?” Hadrick asked, surprised but obviously feigning insult, “That is robbery, Mikael, outright robbery.”
“Bah! ‘Tis not robbery, Hadrick, ‘tis good business; Say there, D’Jenn, where did you need to put into port?” Mikael asked, thrusting his arm at D’Jenn.
“Mistfall would be sufficient,” D’Jenn replied offhandedly.
“You see?” Mikael exclaimed in mock exasperation, “Mistfall is beyond my route of travel, I’d have to be going ten, maybe twelve days out of my own way, so I would!”
“I could buy your whole ship for ten marks a head, Mikael, and name her the Haircutter for all as you would like it,” Ha
drick pointed out, and Dormael sprayed some ale froth over the edge of his flagon as he laughed in mid-sip. Mikael’s eyes widened as if he had been hurt by this comment.
“Aye, you could Hadrick, but you sail like a woman (no offense, Shawna) and you’d get one mile from shore before you lost your way and ran aground, so you would,” Mikael threw back.
“I’ll give you four marks per head, and two jugs of rum for your trouble. Even that, Mikael, is robbery,” Hadrick offered, leaning back and crossing his arms.
“Four marks? You think you’re hiring a ferry, Hadrick? Do you think me a captain of a flat bottom river runner? For four marks, they’d get the deck, and working off the remaining six they’d be, that I promise you,” Mikael said, throwing his hands up but winking at Bethany from the side of his gaze.
“Fine, five marks, and one jug of rum,” Hadrick offered again.
“Make it six with four jugs, and you’ve got yourself a deal, old friend.”
“We’re agreed, then? Six marks and four jugs of rum?” Hadrick asked quickly, offering his hand to Mikael.
“No, no, no old friend. Six marks per head, and four jugs of rum.”
“Fine, Mikael. Agreed,” Hadrick grumbled.
“Agreed,” Mikael said, and the two men shook hands amiably and drank to their deal.
“Now,” Mikael breathed, wiping ale froth from his mouth, “Let’s talk about the price of transporting the horses.” Hadrick sputtered around his mouthful of ale and leaned forward across the table, his shoulders shaking with the effort of holding the rest of it in while he was laughing. D’Jenn, Dormael and Shawna had no such problems, so they were all laughing heartily.
“A fine haggler you are, Mikael. I can always trust you to squeeze until there’s nothing left of a man but the blood in his veins,” Hadrick laughed.
“You give me too much credit, old friend,” Mikael nodded and raised his flagon in salute. They all sat quietly for a moment sipping their drinks and relaxing. The sounds of murmured conversation surrounded them in the smoky interior of the common room, and Dormael could hear drinks being slammed onto the wooden tables and plates clattering with the scrape of cutlery. After a few minutes went by, the serving girl brought out a plate of steaming roasted fish, and Dormael found suddenly that he was starving. The companions and Mikael dug in eagerly.
“How are the winds this early in the season?” Dormael asked Mikael pleasantly, and the Orrisan swallowed a mouthful of fish to answer.
“Wild and rough, as usual, but nothing we can’t handle, I promise you,” Mikael replied, “The Stormy Sea is an unforgiving woman this time of year, with the high winter winds coming over her from Dannon, and meeting the warmer breezes from Soirus-Gamerit. Kicks up storms to remember, so it does, but rest assured my friend, Seacutter has sailed on these winter seas many a season, she has.”
“How long of a journey can we expect?” D’Jenn asked him, looking over his flagon of ale.
“Depends on the winds, of course. At this time of year, we may expect to be at sea for forty days or more. If everything goes smoothly, then we’ll reach Soirus-Gamerit a few days after Imbolc. That far, I think, to Mistfall. We shall see,” Mikael explained amiably.
“And how many men do you have, how many good fighting men?” Shawna queried.
“Ah, now…such a hard question from such a beautiful woman,” Mikael smiled slyly.
“Don’t let her appearance fool you, Mikael. That one is Marked,” Hadrick warned his friend, “she would cut you into pieces before you could raise your own blade.”
“Eindor’s Eyes and Evmir’s Hammer…is it true? Island trained, you are?” Mikael exclaimed in a low whisper.
Shawna smiled at him sweetly and turned her wrists over to show him the blade and vine tattoos that marked her as a Blademaster. Mikael’s eyes grew first wide with surprise, and then they narrowed and took in the other occupants of the table. He looked to D’Jenn with an appraising eye and met that intense blue-eyed stare. His eyes danced quickly to Dormael, took in his appearance as Dormael simply smiled back at him. He spared Bethany a quick glance, but she said nothing; only sat with her legs kicking over the edge of the chair she was in.
“All was not as it seemed here,” Mikael uttered, his voice low, “though I would expect as much from Hadrick. I tell you this, if there is anything that I should know before I decided to take you onto my ship, you tell me now. You let it out so that I don’t get any surprises. I don’t like surprises, and neither does the Seacutter. Surprises have a way of getting a man drowned or jailed, and I want neither for myself nor my crew, so out with it.”
“We mean your crew no harm, surely you realize this,” Shawna said, trying on her sweetest tone.
“Aye, I believe you don’t, I do. What I also believe is that you are running from something or someone. Two Gamerits, on the run with a Cambrellian woman…a noble by birth if I’ve ever seen one, and those marks are testament to that fact…and a youngling that was fathered or mothered by none of you. The definition of a motley crew, you be. Now I’m not a man of many questions, and far be it from me to go inquiring into business that’s none of mine…but there’s someone powerful chasing you or I’m the bride of Evmir.”
Silence engulfed the group like a blanket, and for a moment everyone just stared at each other, carefully considering their next move. Mikael was not tense, but he was assertive in his questioning, and Dormael weighed the risks of telling the man what was going on. He was Orrisan, a Sevenlander and their countryman, so Dormael had no worries about the man being bought or his loyalties lying other than with his country. It was just better in these situations to keep a low profile, to keep from revealing personal secrets to anyone, be they friend or foe. It was D’Jenn who broke the silence.
“Mikael, brother,” D’Jenn said, using a more formal tone with him, “we are countrymen here in a foreign land. Do your loyalties lie with your tribesmen? Do your loyalties lie with the Sevenlands?”
“Aye, brother, they do indeed.”
“Then I am binding you here and now, I am binding everyone to the Conclave Silence,” D’Jenn declared. Dormael widened his eyes a bit and looked to his cousin. It was a bold move for D’Jenn, who normally considered secrecy, stealth, and cunning to be better allies than trust and companionship. Dormael, however, stayed quiet and let his long time companion talk.
Mikael’s eyes didn’t change, but a muscle twitched on the corner of his jaw with the realization of what D’Jenn was saying. Mikael, though very perceptive, hadn’t guessed everything about them, after all. Mikael hadn’t realized that D’Jenn and Dormael were wizards.
“Mikael, you already know the consequences of betraying the Conclave Silence, do you not?” D’Jenn asked him, and Mikael nodded solemnly, a new respect in his eyes for the cousins. “Hadrick, Mikael…I give you now the opportunity to deny the Silence and walk away from what I am about to tell you. You need not know, but in knowing you are entering into a pact, and an agreement that you will never speak of this to anyone. The consequence of violating the pact is death. Do not think that you could run, or hide from it. The Conclave has ways of finding people. Do you accept?”
Hadrick studied D’Jenn a moment, as if weighing his words and deciding whether or not D’Jenn meant what he was saying or was playing some strange game. After a few seconds, he nodded to D’Jenn and sat back in his chair studying him as he spoke. Mikael nodded again and held up his hand to D’Jenn as if to tell him to continue.
“Shawna has an artifact, an artifact of great power that until now was unknown to us. This artifact had come into the possession of her family some time ago, and even they were unaware of its power, believing it to be a mere trinket.
“Dargorin, the tyrant of the Galanians, learned of this artifact somehow and covets its power for himself. It is said that he already holds another magical object of great power, and it seems he has a taste for them. He sent his personal guards, the Red Swords, to take it from her people. They slaughtered her
entire family, but not before Shawna escaped with the object, which she now holds.
“She enlisted our help, and it is from the Galanians we flee now. Dargorin cannot send armies of course or pursue the object outright for political reasons, but his agents seem to be everywhere. Hadrick, here, was almost one of his agents unwittingly.
“Mikael, those are the dangers to you and your crew. Rest assured, however, that if you undertake this journey for us, then you will have not only our protection, but the appreciation of the Conclave for helping us now. Such a thing is priceless.”
“Indeed it is, Blessed,” Mikael whispered, addressing D’Jenn by a formal title used for born wizards in the Sevenlands.
“Please, none of that formality and pomp for us,” Dormael cut him off, “to you, we are Dormael and D’Jenn.”
“You honor me, Dormael,” Mikael said, bowing his head slightly, “tell me gentlemen. You say that I would be under your protection? That you can use your…abilities…to our advantage lest we encounter trouble?”
“Yes. We could, and would. It is the least we could do for one who offered their hand in help,” D’Jenn replied. Mikael nodded to himself and sat with his eyes on his ale flagon for a minute, mulling over what he had just heard. Dormael began to grow restless and took a few long pulls from his own flagon, and seeing him do so Mikael followed his example. As Mikael’s drink was hitting the table, Dormael asked him.
“Well?”
“We sail at dawn,” Mikael replied, rising to his feet. The other adults rose with him, and hands were shaken and backs clapped. Goodbyes were said and Mikael informed them of which wharf to come to when the time to set off was reached.
The Sentient Fire (The Seven Signs) Page 32
