by Tammy Salyer
“I’d rather eat the fleech castings,” Cote said, and Jaemus could have kissed him for showing the spark of humor.
“One more day,” he said again. “Whole meals and a new ho—” he cut himself off. The ’Gazians weren’t seeking a new home; no more than he had been.
“Jae, you’ve been hovering over me like my mother used to. Go outside, enjoy the…the Halla, is it? I’ll be fine. We all will.”
“I think I’ll—”
“That’s an order, Glint.” His tone was strict, but the corner of his mouth turned up.
“As you please, Captain.” He sighed. With a kiss to Cote’s forehead, he stood and left the berth.
The hot sun, the dry air, the cool breeze—he stepped into the cornucopia of everything that was opposite of Himmingaze and couldn’t help but smile. For just one moment he let his mind taste the word: Home. It wasn’t so bad here, was it?
He wandered across the main deck, taking in the sights. The Gildr stood four decks high, bristling with weapons along each deck and off the sides. The things had barrels that reminded him of shelksies in a way, just hugely oversized. And he doubted that whatever they fired would simply stun whoever they hit. The weapons, along with the uppermost deck being packed with their small flying crafts, reminded him uncomfortably of the brief glimpse he’d gotten of Balavad’s warship in the sky of Himmingaze.
The Vinnrics had a word the ’Gazians didn’t: war. The concept was easy enough to imagine, though the idea any peoples would wage one was beyond him. Yet the dozens and dozens of similar ships in the Dyrrak fleet that he had seen from the topdeck told him the people of Vinnr did not share his trouble with the idea of blasting each other to bits.
A ring of rope had been erected in the deck’s center, encircling a section of boards covered in sand, and sometimes blood. Jaemus had passed it once and learned the Dyrraks held fights, both hand-to-hand and with weapons, within the ring. It seemed to be a training ground much like the one Stave had used to try to teach Jaemus fighting techniques. With nothing else to occupy him, he grabbed a skin of water and paced to the ring to watch. Wouldn’t my mentor be so proud? he thought without real humor.
Four combatants faced off within. Two were clearly masters—one, he realized was their military leader, Chancellor Seldeg Aoggvír. Each of the Dyrraks’ skin was covered with the deeply inked markings that he was coming to realize denoted either a level of skill or a rank of some sort, and each master had paired with someone lower in position and skill, judging by their less-adorned skin.
“They are testing on their Fourth Phase today. Alfríl is a son of the Third Line. His family’s honor will be continued through him.”
Jaemus looked to his right, surprised to find the Domine Ecclesium beside him. The man moved with remarkable stealth, even when there was no need. It brought to mind one of Stave’s many sayings: “Silent spiders enjoy quieter meals.”
“Phases?” he asked with cautious curiosity.
The Dyrrak’s mouth turned down at the corners, disapproving of Jaemus’s ignorance, but his face smoothed again quickly. “It’s easy to forget how alien you are to our people and our customs, Knight Bardgrim. It is to be expected, but your being here now I consider to be the deepest honor. And it’s my duty to teach you the Dyrrak ways myself.”
Jaemus twitched a bit in surprise. “Teach me…sorry?”
“Yes. You and your people, people of a foreign realm with no connection to ours, were chosen by Vaka Aster, brought to Vinnr, and you in particular granted such a generous gift. To be so foreign yet so favored, I could almost say you are even more worthy than the Knights of Vinnr. We Dyrraks are privileged to get to share our ways and our empire with you.” He looked toward the ring of fighters, and added, “Certainly you will honor us in return, by honoring our own customs.”
As he spoke, the fighting in the ring escalated. So much so that Jaemus soon realized he’d only been watching a warmup before. The two novices, though they hardly looked new to the arts of fighting, were taking beatings that would have left even Jaemus’s spark-infused hide bruised and battered. But they continued without complaint and with barely a sound of pain or grunt of rage. Blood dripped and flew.
Watching their fight, Jaemus’s head reeled. This was a Dyrrak custom? And he was expected to learn it? He swallowed and tried to keep his tone conversational instead of verging on horrified as he said, “You know, the Knights have mentioned that the Himmingazians might not be welcome in Vinnr, given our foreign nature, after what Balavad’s, erm, people did to Ivoryss and Yor. And we don’t exactly, you know, blend in.”
The Ecclesium’s lips pressed together, and he rolled his head across his shoulders as if to loosen up for a fight of his own. “The lesser kingdoms are given to prejudices. And why shouldn’t they be, as low as their own failings have brought them? But we do not judge the Yorish or Ivoryssians. They are simply peoples whose fires of faith have been nearly quenched. Dyrrakium is a devoted empire, and we have waited patiently for the days that are now ahead of us. The faith of the peoples of Ivoryss and Yor will soon be reforged once Vaka Aster commands it. And you and your Himmingazian brethren will be here to aid our charge.”
Jaemus gave the tiniest of nods to acknowledge the Ecclesium’s statement, then stood as rigid as a pillar, keeping his eyes trained on the fight. Distantly, he hoped he looked attentive, as if he were simply pondering the words that to the Ecclesium must have seemed totally reasonable. Inwardly, he was quaking. Stave had used the word “zealot” more than once to describe the Dyrraks, and Jaemus no longer had to guess why. Was it some kind of Cosmic joke that he’d left Himmingaze’s utter renouncement of anything to do with Verities only to fall in with a culture that treated forcibly shoving anything Verity-related down others’ throats as a kind of sacred duty?
The Ecclesium seemed to take his silence for interest and continued explaining what they were witnessing. “Each Dyrrak begins learning the Five Phases from the day they take their first steps. It starts with purifying the body; second, the mind; third is to learn to release all attachments; fourth to overcome all weakness; and finally, each Dyrrak surrenders themselves to complete devotion, faith, and loyalty to Vaka Aster. Today, our Phase fighters Alfríl and Osnald will suffer. They may even die of their wounds. But if they survive, their final physical weaknesses will have been bested. Pain is weakness, you see. And their teachers have the utmost talent in doling it out.”
Jaemus squeaked out, “You mean this is a fight to the death? What good would that do anyone?”
“Not necessarily to the death, but it may be.” Jaemus felt the Ecclesium’s keen stare on his face but didn’t look at him. “Knight Nazaria has told me of the events in Himmingaze aboard the foreign Verity Balavad’s warship. How you freely offered your own life for our maker. Did you not?”
“Well…yes?” he said, not sure he’d characterize his actions quite that way.
“Then why shouldn’t we Dyrraks? How can one’s faith be trusted if one’s faith hasn’t tested? The Knights Corporealis must prove themselves in the eyes of our maker to be chosen to serve. It’s the same with our people.”
Jaemus had no response to that. The reasoning was sound, he supposed, even if the methods by which the Dyrrak measured their worthiness were cripplingly harsh, literally.
The Ecclesium continued, “When you pass the Phases, Knight Bardgrim, you will join the ranks of those worthy of the greatest honor possible among our people.”
Now he did face the Ecclesium, and his mouth forged ahead of his reason as it so often did. “When I—? My generous if muddle-minded friend, even if you were Vaka Aster her-him-itself, I’d sooner get swallowed by a fleech than do that.”
As he flung his hand out to point to the fighters, the distinctive snap of a bone, and a large one, tore Jaemus’s attention from the Ecclesium. His eyes shot to the ring, and the man who would have been honoring his family writhed on the deck, gripping his right thigh, his face a rictus of agony.
> “Perhaps Alfríl will not pass the Fourth Phase this year, if ever,” the Ecclesium said flatly.
Surprised at his emotionless tone, Jaemus looked at him. A set of twin grooves running beside the Ecclesium’s mouth deepened until he was nearly grimacing.
“Excuse me, Knight Bardgrim.”
As he swept off, Jaemus turned back to the ring. Several Dyrraks knelt around the fallen man, tending to his injury. One of the healers shifted enough for Jaemus to see the man. His thigh bone jutted through the skin, its end an uneven, shattered yellow and white spear.
With all the grace of a gutted fish, Jaemus bent over and deposited his last rations on the deck beside the ring. Might as well have been veeshock for all the digesting of it I managed.
Chapter Twenty-Six
Jaemus the Himmingazian showed extraordinary courage. I was injured when Balavad took us captive and brought us aboard his warship. Even so, when Mylla, Ulfric, and Jaemus were captured as well, he appeared meek, and I saw nothing in him that suggested what he was capable of. But there was nothing meek in the way he stepped between Ulfric and Balavad’s vessel before the usurper could strike Ulfric down.
Safran had said this to Eisa yesterday as they’d stood watch outside Ulfric’s cabin together. It was an incredible story, the way this Himmingazian had sacrificed himself, apparently not even knowing he was ordained. Safran had said she didn’t think he’d done it out of any great affection for Ulfric. It had simply been an instinct to protect those he cared about, the Himmingazians aboard that ship, which perhaps came from an innate understanding of the stakes everyone faced if Vaka Aster’s vessel had been destroyed.
But now, looking at the Himmingazian doubled up and hurling his guts out on the Gildr’s deck, she had trouble really believing the story, though she’d conveyed it to the Domine Ecclesium when he’d questioned her about Vaka Aster’s expectations for the treatment of the foreigners. It had seemed a relevant point to bring up. Despite her misgivings about the foreigners, if Vaka Aster had chosen Bardgrim, the Dyrraks needed to show him the respect due all the Knights.
After speaking with Ulfric the first night at sea, Eisa felt…lighter. She hadn’t been this unburdened in centuries. For the first time in more turns than she could count, she caught herself looking forward to the future rather than simply being resigned to play her role in it. Ulfric’s acceptance of the things she’d done, without for a moment making her feel as if she’d dishonored her oath or the Knights Corporealis, made her realize how deeply she’d buried her fear—fear of being unworthy.
Nevertheless, after these two days at sea, she was itching for a fight, something to relieve the dullness of sea travel. Maybe they should have listened to Stave’s point about traveling through the interrealm well. In any case, she’d been heading toward the Phase ring to seek out someone to join her for a practice contest when Bardgrim had stepped out of the hold his fellow other-worlders were berthed in. She’d followed him out of curiosity. Under ordinary circumstances, she’d have known any new Knight of the Order long before they were ordained, and would have helped to train them in the Conservatum and cast one of the deciding votes as to whether they deserved to seek Vaka Aster’s acceptance. His situation was unique, unprecedented as far as she knew.
His uncontrolled purging did not allay her misgivings about him. When he looked finished, she stepped up to him while he surreptitiously kicked some sand from the Phase ring over the mess he’d made.
“Water and lightning!” he yelped as he straightened and found her standing nearly eye to eye with him.
“Knight Bardgrim,” she said flatly in greeting. Her eyes flicked to the ring as the wounded man from Phase contest was being carried away. She’d traveled home to Dyrrakium and passed her own Fourth Phase when she’d been twenty, and still bore scars from it.
He took a step backward until he was pressed against the ring’s rope, startled. “Knight Nazaria? I’m sorry, I didn’t recognize you for a moment without your…rage.”
She eyed him, then jerked her chin toward the ring. “Care to spar?”
“I’d like to spar right now about as much as that poor fellow who just had his leg broken,” he said, wiping his mouth.
“A Knight doesn’t shun a fight. A Knight takes every chance they have to improve their skills, sharpen their mind as much as their weapons, in eternal service to the Verities.”
“And serving our Verities is my top priority, believe me. So long as I get to keep everything inside and outside my skin in its proper place and configuration.”
She scowled. Was he a coward, then? It didn’t seem to fit the story Safran had told. As she scanned the nearby Dyrrak crew for someone else to challenge in the ring, she said offhandedly, “If you truly have serving a Verity in mind, you should return to Himmingaze and undo the calamity your forebears wreaked.”
“About that, actually, and the story you told us the other night. You see, Ulfric’s been a bit…distracted, and now that it’s clear Himmingaze is in direr trouble than we thought, what do you think I should do with this?”
She let her attention shift back. “With what?”
From inside his vest he withdrew a folded parchment.
But it wasn’t merely a parchment. “Where did you get that?” she asked.
With a quick, guilty glance around him, Bardgrim said, “Ulfric left it sitting on the table inside my Glisternaut ship just before he was, er, temporarily mistaken for a criminal, I suppose you could say. I didn’t want it to get lost, so I kept it with me.”
“You have Lífs’s Scrylle map. Bardgrim, you hold in your hands the one way to find all the Fenestrii of Himmingaze.” She gripped his wrist tightly, pulling him close enough to stare directly into his eyes. “Do you realize what you could do?”
He tried to step away from her but her grip held him in place. Instead, he leaned back. “…Find the Fenestrii?” he suggested.
“Put that away and come with me,” she finished, releasing his wrist. “Now.”
“About the map,” he said and cleared his throat, “Ulfric has a bit on his mind and…well, could we maybe just not tell him about it for now?”
Ignoring him, she whirled and paced toward the hold where the Himmingazians rested. He followed a few steps behind. The Scrylle map would be illegible to any Dyrrak, being written in starcrafted runes that only a Knight could read. But that didn’t mean such important artifacts should be toted around among the nonordained like an everyday book.
Once inside the hold, she led him to a steerage-level storeroom, well below the waterline where nothing they said would be heard. The Himmingazian’s extraordinary possession could change everything for his realm. And—it could put her one step closer to getting redemption for what she’d done.
She slowed for a moment. Redemption? Is that what I think I need?
The last words Griggory had said to her in Himmingaze blazed in her mind. “If you succeed in Vinnr, remember me here. Remember what happened and spend the rest of your life, however long it may be, seeking redemption within yourself. Then perhaps you can begin restoring your own faith.”
She snorted to herself. Perhaps, once again, the old Knight had been right.
Inside the dark, damp storage room, she turned back to Bardgrim. “To save Himmingaze from its doom, five Fenestrii and the Scrylle are needed, along with a Knight with enough faith and strength to see it done. It’s not simple chance that you were ordained, Bardgrim, or that you somehow stole that map while Ulfric wasn’t looking.”
He started to protest, but she went on. “When we get to Dyrrakium and Ulfric gathers Vaka Aster’s artifacts, I just need to collect one thing, then you’re going back there, you’re going to find Griggory, and you’re going to right the wrongs of your Mystae.”
“…Right wrongs? Right, well, see Ulfric said that one of the five Fenestrii is missing. It’s not even in the realm. And I thought the map only showed where the stones are. There’s still the Scrylle to find, if it’s even still in
one piece.”
“I’ve told you, the Scrylles are unbreakable.”
“Okay, sure. But are they also unloseable? Because…”
“With all five Fenestrii and the map, the location of the Scrylle will be revealed.”
“You’re…you’re telling me the map also shows where to find the Scrylle?”
“All five and the map will help you find the Scrylle,” she repeated as if he were feeble.
“But Ulfric never said—”
“Why would he? Last time he saw the map, he had the Scrylle, yes?”
Jaemus’s brows rose as if to say Good point. Then he said again, as if he were an annoying mimic bird, “Five. Ulfric said the map only showed four.”
“You can leave retrieving the fifth Fenestros to me.”
Chapter Twenty-Seven
From his confinement within the Knights’ suite of cabins on the Gildr, Ulfric wondered if—and dreaded if so—the Domine Ecclesium had some grand ceremony in mind once they reached Dyrrakium. Verities knew he didn’t want that. Or any of this, for that matter.
Four days had passed, and they’d sped to Dyrrakium in under half the time Ulfric had assumed it would take. The Dyrraks’ advances in mechanics and industry that had given their ships so much speed confirmed his suspicions: Eisa had been sharing the Knights’ inventions with the exiled empire.
When he’d asked her about it, her response had been characteristically blunt. “I always knew the day would come when we couldn’t trust the commoners of the lesser kingdoms. I made contingencies, and it was good that I did, as you can see.”
He’d let the conversation flag then. What good was pursuing it when she was so demonstrably right? Yet it was becoming clearer that someday Eisa’s freewheeling decision-making could become a problem. At the moment, however, too many other problems vied for his attention. He pushed this one away.
