by Jeff Wheeler
In the dirt nearby he had found Phae’s tracks. They were unmistakable. He knew the type of boot she wore, the size of her foot. His mind nearly went mad with grief and suspense as he tried to decipher the clues. Some sort of blast or explosion had happened. There were multiple prints as well, the size of men. There were also the prints of a horse coming along the road, mixing up the clues in a way that completely befuddled him. He wished Holt had been there and would have trusted his master’s judgment.
Trasen began to nod off in the boat and jerked himself awake again. He had not slept properly in days. Poor Willow had gone as far as she could go and he had left her with a stableman at the settlement on the lakefront.
Phae had simply disappeared.
The tracks all clustered together, four people in total, and then there were none. It was as if some enormous invisible hand had snatched them away. Without a trail to follow, without anything but hope and the fires of love shoving him on, he had decided to press forward to their likely destination—Kenatos. Trasen would confront the Arch-Rike if necessary to save her. He would do anything to save her.
As he stared at the impassive city, swirling with gulls and pennants, the sense of dread and foreboding increased. He fished the iron ring out from his pocket and stared at it, turning it over in his palm, prodding it with his finger. It was a twisted, blackened thing—not a decorative ring. It had strange black sigils carved on it.
“What’s that, lad?” the boatman asked, nodding to him.
“I paid your fare,” Trasen replied hoarsely. “Leave me be.” He felt the scowl etched in his own mouth. The thought of smiling was a distant memory.
“Don’t be like that. What is it? A ring?”
Trasen stuffed it back into his pocket and folded his arms, feeling the aches all throughout his body. He had never pushed himself so hard or gone so long without proper sleep. His mind was a blurry fog of worry and pain. Would he ever see Phae again? He regretted that he had not confided in her his plans, why he wanted so much to join the Wayland army and save his ducats. He wanted to seek a homestead with her, to be with her always. He shuddered with suppressed emotions. He thought there was a chance she might feel more than just friendship. Not wanting to risk losing what they already shared, he had been reluctant to reveal his heart to her.
“Here we are,” the boatman said petulantly. “Be on your way, lad. Keep your secrets then.”
After the boat bumped into the pier, Trasen lurched to his feet and started to wobble toward the dock ladder.
“Don’t forget your belongings!” the man said, exasperated. “You’ll be leaving your brains behind next, I’m thinking.”
Trasen apologized and grabbed his pack, slinging it around his shoulder. The docks were enormous, teeming with ships and freight. He tramped down the dock and found few in the lines ahead of him entering the city. Before long, he was standing before a brown-haired Rike who gazed at him with curiosity.
“Where are you from, traveler?” the man asked him politely. “You look bone weary.”
“I am,” Trasen replied, craning his neck to gaze up at the enormity of the city. “I’m from Stonehollow.”
The Rike clucked his tongue. “Looking for work, then? The Paracelsus Towers are under repair. They need quite a few laborers.”
“No,” Trasen said, shaking his head miserably. “I’m looking for…a friend.”
The Rike nodded calmly. “Well enough.” He paused, his expression narrowing just slightly. “You won’t last a moment among the Preachán in your condition. They’ll rob you blind. Do you want to sit over there a moment and catch your breath?”
“No, I’ll be all right,” Trasen said, trying to wave him off. “May I pass?”
The Rike persisted in his interrogation, his face scrunching. “Do you have any…magic…with you boy?”
Trasen caught the subtle gesture from the Rike as he seemed to nod to someone elsewhere and gesture for him to come closer. He remembered the twisted ornament in his pocket and glanced at the beetle-black ring on the Rike’s hand. He swallowed, knowing one did not lie to the Rikes of Seithrall.
“It is said that the Vaettir came in great ships across the sea. When the Plague struck their empire many thousands of years ago, they sailed across the turbulent waters in fleets and landed on the coast of what is now called Lydi. The ships returned for another convoy of survivors. They returned again a third time, bringing tens of thousands with them to safety. Alas, when the ships returned the fourth time, the empire was full of rotting corpses and abandoned cities. It is said that the deaths of so many, millions even, upset them such that the Vaettir swore an oath never to kill. They treat life as sacred, in memory of the forgotten generations that fell. They erected a temple in the mountains of Lydi—a place where they could pass along the traditions of their people. They named it Shatalin.”
—Possidius Adeodat, Archivist of Kenatos
Hettie lunged at Paedrin with the dagger, aiming for his abdomen. The fading sunlight glimmered on the sharp edge of the blade. As Paedrin pivoted on his heel to let it pass by, he recognized that it was just a feint. Her arm never reached full extension and suddenly the dagger blade was jutting up to his neck. He accelerated his pivot, swinging away from her and then jumped high, bringing his leg around in a high circle, directly at her temple.
She ducked, of course, as he expected her to. His foot met nothing but empty air where her dark hair had been a moment before. With a quick sip of breath, he remained in the air, poised like a leaf caught on a draft, gazing down at her mockingly, as she was abandoning the leg sweep she had just commenced.
Snuffing out his breath, he dropped on her leg like a rock, pinning her to the ground. There was the dagger again, aiming for his back. He blocked her forearm with his, slid down to her wrist and closed his fingers around her hand. His eyes gleamed with triumph.
Her eyes glittered with fury. With a momentous pull, she jerked her arm backward and hoisted him, trying to offset his balance. She lifted at his body with her pinned leg and Paedrin felt himself overcome by the act. He would have sailed over her shoulder if her leverage had been better. Instead, she managed to pull him right on top of her. The scratchy meadow grass crackled around them, leaving little burs in her hair. He sprawled on top of her, face hovering above hers. He still controlled her wrist with the dagger.
“That did not work out the way you intended,” he observed dryly.
She squirmed beneath his weight, trying to get free. “Don’t say you’re not enjoying this, Bhikhu. I see it in your eyes. Get off!”
“Drop the dagger before I make you.”
“What are you afraid of more? That I’ll kiss you or stab you?”
“I’m not sure which would be more painful to endure,” he shot back. “To be honest, the thought of the former hasn’t once entered my mind.”
She squirmed harder, trying to wrest him away with her leg. Then she tried to smash him in the nose with her head.
He jerked back in time, but kept her pinned. “Now you are trying to kiss me! Shameless, Hettie.”
“I could really hurt you right now, if I chose,” she said back through gnashing teeth.
He pressed his thumb at a spot near her wrist.
“Owww!” she groaned, wincing with pain.
“I’ll wait you out. How long have your fingers been tingling?”
“How long has your brain been tingling?” she said, bucking harshly on the grass. Her fingers shot up to his face, hooked like talons.
“Tsk, tsk,” he clucked, forcing his elbow around to intercept the strike and used his weight to push her arm back down. Now both of her arms were above her head. She tried to lash out again, but it was pointless. He could see her chest heaving with lack of air. Her fingers opened and the dagger thumped to the grass.
Submission.
Paedrin inhaled, smelling her sweat and the wonderful scent of the dried prairie grass cushioning them.
He lifted off her slowly, hovering in
the air, and gazed down at her, hair sticking to her face, her black tunic slivered with grass. His heart ached with suppressed emotions. He would not give in to them though. Their friendship had expanded since leaving Kenatos with a whirlwind of seek and chase.
“You tend to slip back into insults when you realize I’ve won,” he mentioned.
She stared at him, eyes narrowing with thought. “It’s the anger of the moment. Sometimes you just aggravate me.”
He nodded, satisfied. “Back to the mistake,” he said, brushing his hands. “Your leg was trapped over here.”
She stared at his face with a look impossible to decipher. Women were too complex to understand. He dared not even try. She snatched the dagger in the grass and rolled up to the crouching position. He set himself on her leg again, caught her arm as it plunged toward his back and gripped her wrist.
“What were you trying to do?” he asked her.
“Use your grip on me to pull you off balance,” she answered. It was important that they were always communicating the thoughts behind the actions. “I wanted to throw you.”
“I was on your leg,” he stated, motioning down with his chin. During this part, they always moved very slowly, reenacting the previous combat. “Where is your leverage?”
She thought a moment. “Ah!” she said. “I was trying to pull you toward me. You flopped on top of me. I should have used the Unbreakable Arm and pulled you this way.” Her arm went rigid as she twisted, pulling him backward. Paedrin felt the shift in his posture and the momentum carried him over onto his back, pulling her on top of him, knife blade still caught by his wrist, but now she was on top.
Her hair tickled his face.
“Correct,” he praised. “That would have worked better.”
She gazed down at him, her eyes narrowing slowly, her expression shifting into another of her mercurial moods.
“I’m getting closer now,” she said softly. “Closer to cutting you. I don’t think we should practice with the dagger.”
“You weren’t that close.”
“Part of me still holds back though,” she said, shaking her head. The tips of her hair were vastly annoying on his cheek. “I don’t want to cut you.”
“If I get cut, I deserve to be cut,” he answered. “You are getting better though. I will admit that. Your hand forms need some work still. Practice your stretches for a while. There is still daylight left.”
She nodded, tickling his face one more time with a smirk, then pushed up to her feet. She sheathed the dagger in her belt then extended one leg in front and curled the other leg behind. Leaning forward, she stretched, clutching her bare foot with her hands and pulled herself as low as she could. Paedrin’s flexibility had been instilled since childhood. Hers improved vastly day by day. She never complained about the pain of the stretching. She threw herself into it, as if the knotting feeling in her stomach was a joy instead of agony. Pain is a teacher. She seemed to relish being a student.
Paedrin stood and brushed the grass from his Bhikhu robes and scanned the land ahead. They were well outside the range of the pack dogs of Kenatos, in the grassy hillocks south of Silvandom and north of Stonehollow. Another day of traveling would bring them inside the forests of Lydi. But even from the great distance where they were, they could see the flat blue line of the ocean. He had always imagined what that would be like. The vastness of it was beyond his previous imagination. The horizon stretched as far as he could see, nothing but a flat, gray-blue line. They were still several leagues away from it, high in the hills. A broad forest stretched out in front of them. But the port city of Lydi was clearly visible in the horizon to the south. There were easily thousands of ships anchored there, clotting the port like beetles.
The vastness of the ocean had caught him unprepared. It was not the smelly waters of the lake surrounding Kenatos, but the real, foaming oceans that his forefathers had sailed generations before. The anticipation of it was delicious. They had chosen to stop and train on the hilltop, providing a view of the land west as well as the path east where they had come from.
Hettie finished the stretch and then switched legs, leaning down the length of her leg, her back arched. Paedrin knelt in the grass behind her and placed both hands against her lower back and pushed.
“Harder,” she said, stifling a groan. He put more of his weight into it and felt her breath quicken with pain. He leaned against her, seeing her jaw muscles clench with the suffering of the stretch and held it for several moments before easing up.
“Again,” she panted, shaking her head. “Push again.”
“You truly defy everything, including pain,” he said, then obliged her. He pushed even harder, feeling her firm muscles. He waited longer, knowing it was excruciating to her. Yet she did not complain. He eased up the grip. She gasped with relief.
“I’ll give you credit for your endurance,” he said as she got to her feet. “I’ve seen younger men weep during the stretches. Now for some forms to practice. Sugar Plum Fist. Then Snapping Legs. No stopping between. Go.”
Hettie nodded obediently and plunged into the routines with animation, despite her weariness. He noticed how being barefoot didn’t bother her so much now. The calluses were forming swiftly. Her boots were nestled by the travel packs. She finished the first form quickly and then launched into the longer one. When she had first learned them, she had made many mistakes with technique. But instead of being angry when he corrected her, she had immersed into the nuances with a keen desire to learn. She was a gifted student and craved to memorize not only the movements but the names of the movements: Heron Gliding on the Water, Serpent Seeks the Pearls, Black Dragon Swings His Tail, Leopard Fist. It was the Bhikhu way not just to showcase movements and applications, but to describe the forces of nature that had inspired them. The tradition had been passed down for over a thousand years. Hettie was a natural.
When she finished Snapping Legs, sweat dripped from her nose. She stood at attention though, not moving until he released her with a salute. Paedrin walked over to their packs and sat down cross-legged. She joined him, wiping the sweat away with her hands.
“You didn’t criticize me this time,” she murmured, picking the fragments of grass from her clothes.
“Your form is improving,” he said. “Give it another ten years and you’ll be ready to face a five-year-old.”
She chuckled, flicking away a speck. “Tell me, do you think it is odd that the Arch-Rike has not hunted us? Once we made it past the lake, there were no pursuers. Not even in the air.”
Paedrin shook his head solemnly. The pain of losing Shivu had dampened his joy. While he often thought of witty retorts, he did not use them nearly as often. Traveling alone would have been unendurable. He was grateful to have Hettie to talk to and had enjoyed her companionship.
“He already knows our destination, Hettie. His forces will be waiting in front of us, not behind.”
Hettie looked at him, startled.
“Always remember the Uddhava. Anticipate your foe. He has already sent others ahead of us to Lydi.”
“How do we succeed?”
He did not want to poison her thinking with his own ideas. What they needed were fresh ones and so putting it as a challenge would incite her creativity. “You are a clever girl. Think it through as we go. We still have some time before we get there.”
“It’s a beautiful sunset,” she said, folding her arms around her knees.
“I’ve never seen so many ships,” Paedrin said. “Not even in the harbors of Kenatos.”
Hettie nodded. “I’ve never been to Lydi before, but the Romani travel there. I heard the city is made of ships. There are no buildings, only reclaimed vessels brought to shore. It used to be a thriving city, ages ago. Now it is a graveyard of wooden hulls.”
“If they are all made of wood, you would think they’d have decayed by now.”
Hettie shrugged. “Lots of timber in the forest down below. They are the master shipbuilders, the Lydians. I do no
t know about their loyalties to Kenatos.”
“Do you know anything of their customs?”
Hettie shrugged again. “No, not really. I’ve never met a Lydian before.”
Paedrin stared at the sun, vanishing like a disc beneath the gray folds of the sea. It was a beautiful sight. Somewhere, past the Lydian city, somewhere buried and nearly forgotten was the Shatalin temple. His skin prickled with gooseflesh and his heart saddened again. His determination, however, only strengthened.
She noticed the subtle frown on his face. He saw it register in her eyes. “Let’s go a little farther,” Hettie suggested quietly. “I don’t like being exposed on the hill like this. Let’s go down to the woods before it gets too dark.” She stood and offered him her hand.
Paedrin stared at it, feeling the swell of difficult emotions that always threatened tears. She was recognizing his moods now. When he wanted to banter. When he wished for silence. He gripped her hand and let her pull him to his feet. She then tugged on her boots and swung the pack around her shoulder. As they started down the hill, side by side, he felt her hand graze his. Part of him wanted to reach out and hold it, to cling to her grip like a rope to save himself from drowning in grief. He rebelled against that part of himself, the part that felt reassured by her presence. He needed to clear his mind.
Yet Paedrin struggled against the thoughts and emotions that kept flitting like inside him like a hive of enraged bees.
The following afternoon, Paedrin and Hettie studied the port city for a long while. From a secretive vantage point within the woods, they learned what they could from the safety of the forest. It was the strangest looking place Paedrin had seen. He had been impressed by the mountain towers of the Cruithne in Alkire. Silvandom, of course, had a special place in his heart with its majestic trees and stone-fashioned homes. Kenatos was a thriving civilization sprawled atop an island lake from end to end. Havenrook, on the other hand, was a painful memory and a place he never dared venture again—knowing that if he did, he would school the entire city in a lesson of pain. Yet he knew, by his Bhikhu training, that even scourging the city would not assuage his guilt.
