The Ship of Tears_The Legend of the Nine_Part One

by T. J. Garrett

  Aleria glared across at him. “And that temper of yours is another reason you should not carry a Tandrian. They mess with the Balance, Daric. If your mind is not pure…”

  “That will do,” Magryn said. “Ranyr will explain how the dagger works, and it will be up to the colonel whether or not he wishes to use it. Meanwhile, I suggest you let me continue. The blade must be bound, and you have a journey to undertake. Once bound, the blade’s power will only last six days. I suggest, should you choose to use it, that you do not dawdle.”

  Six days, Daric thought. You mean half that, don’t you? It will take three days to get there.

  Still, if this blade could help, it was no skin off his back to listen to the giant for half an hour. Besides, he wanted to get out of there before someone noticed that thing on the back of his neck, and the sooner she started, the sooner they could leave.

  Again, he smoothed his hair down at the back of his neck. It felt like tiny ants were running all over his scalp.

  Hurry up, woman, Daric forced himself not to say. Hurry up, so I can scratch my bloody head.

  CHAPTER 9

  Tevaryn

  “Maybe it’s something from the old world,” Nana said. “I heard something about weapons like this when I was still a captain in the Toyan guard. The Merchants’ Council were always telling us to keep an eye out for markings like these.”

  She pointed at the knife, where a deep engraving like spiralling ivy made a pattern on the hilt.

  They were in the dining hall on the third floor of the Belkyn Tower. Samyr was there, as was his daughter, Kyri. Ranyr, the priest from Lop, was there, too, sitting at the end of the table, eating something that looked like hard cheese. Daric had no idea why the priest had come with them, but Magryn had insisted. Maybe he was there to keep an eye on the knife.

  “I told you,” Aleria said, “it is a Tandrian blade. Those etchings are the Master’s mark; he carved them into all his weapons.”

  Daric already knew that; Magryn had told them all about Master Tandrian’thal, the Cren woodsman, who, apparently, lived north of the Eurmac Canyon some two thousand years ago.

  Two thousand years, he thought, once again marvelling at how old the knife was.

  Looking down at the still-shining blade, Daric wondered why the metal had not tarnished. Even the best steel would dull sooner or later. Maybe the unusually heavy grey box they had stored it in kept it looking new.

  Daric took the dagger from the box. It was thin and light, the blade no longer than his middle finger. It seemed it would break if he was not careful with it. The blade was sharp on both edges and tapered to a needle point so thin it was a wonder it was still straight.

  One good stab on a leather jerkin… Daric thought, once again feeling the blade’s weight on his palm. It would bend, wouldn’t it? Snap, most likely.

  Holding the knife, Daric could feel the small silver thing on the back of his neck pulse. Were the two connected somehow? He had found the pendant on top of the box containing the dagger…

  No, Daric decided. The pulsing would be down to the ritual Magryn performed on him, bonding him to the knife. The Tandrian blade was his to use for six days – less than four now – and his alone. If anyone else tried to use it, it would break, so Magryn had said.

  Yes, he was sure holding the blade was causing that pulsing at the back of his mind. But why did the thing on his head itch like a week-old wound every time he touched the dagger?

  “Are you well, Daric,” Aleria asked. “You look in the clouds. Can you feel something? I told you to be careful.”

  Daric had been scratching at the back of his neck, he realised, scratching at the pendant which had now embedded itself into his scalp. He would have to stop doing that less it bled. If that happened, there would be no hiding the thing.

  But maybe he should not hide it. Maybe Aleria would know what it was and, better still, know how to take it off.

  As soon as that thought crossed his mind, the pendant stopped itching. Now, it felt cool on his skin, and the tendrils had stopped pulling at the roots of his hair.

  You don’t want me to tell anyone, do you? Daric asked the pendant.

  Unsurprisingly, there was no answer from the Tevaryn lattice.

  Tevaryn lattice? Where did that come from? Is that what you are?

  “Daric?” Aleria said.

  You can hear me, can’t you? What are you?

  “Daric!” Aleria insisted, very nearly shouting in his ear. “Maybe you should put the knife back in its box. You are looking quite pale all of a sudden.”

  “Yes,” Ranyr said. “Remember what Magryn told you; only use the blade on what is causing the rift in the Balance. Until then, you should keep it in its box, with the lid tightly shut.”

  Daric nodded absently. He was not thinking about the Tandrian blade; he was too busy listening for the voice in his head.

  Was it a voice? He had not heard anything. But neither had he heard of a Tevaryn. Where had the name come from if not the lattice?

  He put the blade back in its box and closed the lid. “You’re right,” he told Ranyr. “I think I will store it in my pack until we reach Whitecliff.”

  He sat down at the table and took a long drink of water from the cup Kyri had given him.

  Aleria was staring at him, again. She had a half-knowing, half-concerned look about her. She glanced at the box, then back at Daric. “Do you feel something when you touch it?” she asked. “If you do, you should say. A Tandrian blade can exact a heavy price on those who are not properly prepared.”

  She was talking about the Balance again, Daric knew. Magryn had said, using the knife disturbs the Balance by using the Power of its victims for its own ends, and if that victim somehow survived, the blade may choose to take what it needs from he who wields the dagger. “A dangerous game,” Magryn had said, “but one you must play if you wish to level the field.”

  Daric was not sure what she had meant by “level the field” – more Power and Balance stuff, no doubt. All he knew was, he would likely need the blade to free Mairi. That was enough for him. Risk or no, he would take any advantage to see his wife away from Lord Breen, and whatever it was he had been doing to the people of Whitecliff.

  “I’m fine,” Daric said. “Just a bit tired. All this waiting has me on edge.”

  “Some good food,” Gyna said. “That’s what you need.”

  The half-Ulroch was sat opposite Daric, playing with something that looked like a loadstone, twisting it around her fingers and slapping the two ends together. It made a clicking sound, then a buzz.

  “Is that a tiner stone?” Aleria asked. “Where did you get that from? Did Magryn give it to you?”

  The old woman sounded jealous, more so than when Magryn told her Daric should keep the Tandrian blade.

  Gyna nodded. “Yes, it is, but Magryn did not give it to me; I always carry at least one set of tiner stones. You never know when you might need to send a scroll or need coin for an inn.”

  Daric frowned. “And how would a couple of loadstones help you get coin?” he asked.

  Smiling, Gyna pulled the two stones apart. She set one down in front of Kyri, the other, she kept in her right hand. She twisted the one in her hand, and its twin began to shake. Kyri sat back, eyes fixed on the stone.

  “Do not worry,” Gyna told her, “it is not dangerous. Watch.”

  Again, she twisted the stone in her right hand. This time, the stone appeared to curl in on itself. When the two halves snapped together, a tiny portal formed. A second later, another portal appeared above the second stone.

  Kyri gasped, but Daric edged forward, trying to look through one portal to see if he could see through to the other.

  Gyna picked up the salt pot and, slowly, she passed it through the first portal. A second later, both her hand and the salt pot emerged from the second portal.

  Kyri laughed, and Daric shook his head. Just when you thought you were getting used to all this magical stuff.

 
“Can you send anything through there?” he asked.

  “As long as it’s small,” Gyna said. “A tiner portal does not get any bigger than that.”

  “And can anybody use one.”

  Gyna shook her head, then made cocked her head to one side. “Yes and no,” she said. “If I gave you one of the pair, we could pass articles between us, but that only works if one of the stones is held by someone who can use the Voice – the Archen Voice, in this case.”

  “You mean the Sky Voice?” Daric said, and felt a twinge of pride when Gyna nodded.

  See, you are getting used to it.

  “How far?” he asked.

  “Depends on the user’s strength. In my case, I cannot form a portal other than the kind we use to enter Arenthenia, so, for me, I am limited by water – I can send objects anywhere as long as I stick to dry land. Of course, if I wanted to send to Bailryn, someone in the city would need to have the other stone.” She nodded at the second stone, which Kyri was busy poking. “And as they are so rare, I only leave that one with people I trust.”

  “Can I try?” Daric asked.

  Gyna grabbed the second stone. Smiling, she said, “Maybe later. It does take strength from the user, and you have already said you feel tired.”

  That was true, Daric thought, but he would risk falling asleep where he sat to have a go with those tiner stones. To think, if only Gialyn had one, and he the other, how much simpler his life would have been? No more waiting on witches for messages, no more wondering where the boy was, or worrying that he did not have food or coin for a bed. Gialyn would likely hate it, but Daric could think of a hundred times owning such a thing would have put his mind at rest. He would have to ask Gyna if he could buy one. But not now. She was right, he needed to eat, and maybe get an hour’s sleep.

  Save the toys for later, he told himself, as he reached for a bowl. He let Samyr ladle soup into it, then sat back, spoon in hand. He was not hungry, but he forced himself. Little good arriving at Whitecliff weak from hunger, he told himself. Or half exhausted through lack of sleep.

  * * *

  Two hours later, Daric woke at Gyna shaking his shoulder. He was in the big chair, his legs hanging over the arm. To Samyr, it was likely an armchair; to Daric, it was the size of a single bed.

  “What is it?” he asked.

  “They are here.”

  Gyna walked purposefully across the dining room to the window and pointed at something approaching from the south. “Or rather, they are nearly here,” she said. “And they have another with them. Ribion, I think.”

  Eyes full of sleep, Daric stumbled over to the window. Gyna was right; three dragons were flying up the coast from the south, flying over the sea so as not to break the No Dragons Treaty the palace held with the Eurmacians.

  “Time to go,” Daric said, turning away from the window. “We will meet them at the border. By the time we get there, they should be well rested and ready to continue,” he added, heart thumping in his chest. At last, Whitecliff was within his reach.

  And the gods be damned if we’re too late, he added for himself.

  Gyna nodded. “I will signal them, let them know we are on our way.”

  Gyna left the dining room, and Daric headed for the stables. An hour later, they were on their way north, four riding the horses Daric had bought on his last visit, Cal and the Ulroch – including Gyna – striding at their side. The tall folk had no trouble keeping up with the horses’ trot.

  They made good time. And in a little under four hours, Daric saw a line of trees on the near horizon. Those trees marked the spot where the dragons would be waiting.

  “Not long now,” he whispered. “Hold on, Mairi. I’m coming to get you.”

  * * *

  As with most journeys, to Daric, the ride north did not seem as long as it had on the outbound journey. But then the miles always appeared to pass quicker when heading toward home, even if, as in this case, he was not going straight there. The horses helped, no doubt, but even with that, it did not seem like more than a couple of hours had passed since leaving the Belkyn.

  The dragons were waiting by the wide stream which marked part of the Eurmacian/Alerasian border. Ban and Lyduk looked tired, but Ribion seemed well rested, as if he had only flown for an hour or two. The Cuis had his six-man chariot on his back and was lying in the shade of a half dozen tall birch trees. He nodded at Daric, as if meeting him there in the middle of nowhere was nothing out of the ordinary – maybe it was ordinary, for Ribion; with the Gan helping the merchants ferry goods around Aleras, Daric supposed the dragons met customers at all sorts of remote locations. Ban and Lyduk had their heads in the stream. Frothy sweat made rings about their necks – they looked like tired horses.

  “How long before you can fly?” Daric asked, as he tried to coax his mount across the stream.

  Daric did not think it was the fast-flowing water that had the horse flicking his mane and stamping his hoofs; if he were a horse, walking into the gap between three dragons would be the last place he would want to go.

  He finally gave up and left the horse with Samyr.

  Lyduk had been watching, a toothy dragon grin creasing his thick lip. “Good to see you, too, Daric,” he said. “Nice day for a ride.”

  Daric raised his hands to the dragon. “I’m sorry, Lyduk,” he said. “It is good to see you, too. How are you? Didn’t have any trouble on the way north, I trust.”

  “Nothing too taxing,” Lyduk said. “Had a bit of a run-in with a flock of geese over Sharm, but we persuaded them to give way.”

  Daric laughed. “I bet you did. They were flying south for winter, no doubt.”

  “Yes, they have more sense than we do. I hear it is cold up in Bailryn, all sorts of snow and ice cutting across the harbour. Most unpleasant. We don’t much like the cold; takes forever to get the blood warmed up.”

  “I bet,” Daric said.

  He scratched at the hard lump at the back of his neck, wondering if that was enough small talk, and could he ask when they would be ready to leave now?

  Lyduk chuckling quietly. Seemed he had read the meaning behind the moment of silence. “We will be ready to continue in a few hours. Maybe four. I need to drink the rest of this stream dry then sleep for a while.”

  A few hours, Daric thought.

  It was already approaching mid-afternoon; in a few hours, it would be getting dark. Could they reach Whitecliff before it would be too dangerous to fly?

  Lyduk seemed to know what he was thinking, “We like flying at night, Daric. Have no fear; we will be there before midnight.”

  Daric let out a sigh of relief. That was better than he had hoped; he would have three full days before the bond on the Tandrian blade unwound. Would that be enough time? It had to be…

  “Use it on the creature,” Magryn had said. “Use it on the creature and return Whitecliff to the Balance.” She had not said what that creature was. Doubtless, Lord Breen would know, which meant folk on his estate might know, too. His Lordship could not hide something like that.

  Lyduk eyed the others: Cal, Gyan, Nana, Aleria, Brin, Ranyr, and Samyr. “It is as well we came across Ribion,” he said. “Are you all headed for Whitecliff?”

  “Samyr is here to take the horses back to the Belkyn, but the rest of us are, yes.” He glanced over at Ribion. “And you are right; I did not think of that. Good that you found him.” He nodded at the Cuis.

  Lyduk did a dragon shrug. “These days, there’s always one of us somewhere around the border. We come this way when we deliver merchants to Beugeddy. And if we had not found Ribion, we would have managed, somehow.”

  “I don’t know about that,” Daric said. “If not for you, I don’t know what we would have done.”

  “You would have found a way,” Lyduk said. “Still,” he added, as he stood and lumbered off toward the trees. “We will discuss our travel plans later. Sleep first, I think.”

  Ban was already lying in the shade. Lyduk walked over and found a spot for
himself. He seemed to fall asleep as soon as his head touched the soft grass.

  We will be there by midnight? Daric thought, remember what Lyduk had said. Looking at the sleeping dragons, he doubted they would manage that. Maybe a little after.

  He decided it did not matter. Midnight, or a few hours later, it was not like they could do much until dawn.

  The others had dismounted, and Samyr looked ready to head back with the horses.

  “Won’t you stay for some food?” Gyna said.

  Samyr shook his head. “Thank you, but no. I don’t like leaving Kyri alone at night. As it is, I will have to run to beat the moon.”

  “Well, thank you for all you have done,” Gyna said.

  “Yes,” Daric added. “Thank you. I know you would as soon keep to yourself, but you have been a lot of help to us this last few week. I am in your debt. If there is ever anything I can do to return your kindness; if you find yourself in Bailryn and need—”

  Samyr burst out laughing. “Daric, if I’m ever forced that far north, I will likely need more help than you can give. But thank you for your offer. And don’t forget to send Kryi’s greetings to your boy. She is quite taken with the lad.”

  Daric tried to stifle a grin. To Kyri, Gialyn was a child, too. She did not understand he was eighteen and had likely outgrown games of hide and seek. Still…

  “I’ll make sure to tell him.”

  Samyr nodded to the others and gave Ranyr a peculiar double-handed handshake. Then he was gone, off running back the way they had come. And surprisingly fast, Daric noticed. At that rate, he would reach the Belkyn a good hour before sundown.

  “Well, we might as well eat,” Brin said. He had already built a fire.

  “Good idea,” Daric said. “I missed dinner. A bit of that salted—”

  Suddenly, a flash of blinding light burned behind his eyes. He fell to his knees, then rolled onto his side. Every muscle in his body seemed to cramp at the same instant. He had to fight not to scream. The light pulsed, and he could feel something throbbing at the base of his skull. The throbbing turned to stabbing, then to a burning sensation. Was he on fire?