by Angus Wells
Of the two, the woman was the more fluent, trading him question for question, often pausing to relay his words to Tekkan and the others who listened and awaiting their response before replying, so that he became unsure whose answer he received, though that seemed of little moment. Vanu lay, as he knew, beyond the Borrhunmaj, where, did he accept the fables, the First Gods, Yl and Kyta, had withdrawn. Katya laughed at that and told him the land was peopled with human folk, not gods, translating for her fellows, which set them to laughing. It was a lonely place, she agreed, the great mountain chain a barrier to the south, and more ringing the land, cutting it off from outside contact. Sometimes, she admitted, seafarers traveled to Nywan, on the Jesseryn Plain; but seldom, the Vanu preferring to keep to themselves, the mountainous coastline deterring much seagoing. There were cities, he learned, in the mountains and the grasslands of Vanu’s center, and commerce between them, the metropolises each governed by a council, each of those electing three representatives to attend what passed for central government, which met twice a year, in spring and autumn. So loose an arrangement surprised Calandryll, more accustomed to the autocratic rule of Lysse’s domms, or the singular prominence of Kandahar’s Tyrants. And did the cities of his homeland not fight, Katya asked, and what of the civil war brewing behind them in Kandahar? In Vanu there was no such conflict, she said, though he wondered at that, seeing warriors all about him. But he could not press the point, for she subtly changed the direction of their conversation, steering it to matters more mundane, speaking of the mountains and the harsh winters, the forests and the plains, and he grew sleepy before she was done, accepting readily enough the pallet that was spread for him on the deck.
He woke with the sun hot on his face, rising to eat bread and cheese, washed down with cool water, and as he finished, Bracht emerged from the little cabin. The Kern approached warily, eyeing the ocean as if in anticipation of attack or a return of the malaise, but his pallor was gone and he braced against the warboat’s rolling like a seaman born.
“Ahrd, but whatever Katya gave me works well,” he declared cheerfully as he settled beside Calandryll, proving the point by consuming a loaf of bread and a sizable wedge of cheese. “Where is she?”
Calandryll pointed to the stem, where the woman stood in conversation with Tekkan. Bracht nodded, taking more cheese, and looked to the east, where the coastline of Gash sat livid in the early morning light. “You spoke last night, whilst I slept?” he asked, and when Calandryll nodded, “Of what?”
Calandryll told him and Bracht grunted thoughtfully, his natural pragmatism dismissing idle speculation for the hard facts of their situation.
‘I’d know more of the holy men,” Calandryll murmured. “They chose to intervene in this—so must be aware of the outside world. Can they truly destroy the Arcanum?”
Bracht shrugged, rising to clutch a line, no longer daunted by the sea, and said, “The spaewife advised us to trust her, and I do. So we have no alternative but to trust them.”
Calandryll studied his face, thinking that such unreserved faith was out of character. Since they had first met it had been Bracht who doubted, he who trusted. The freesword’s nature was, it had seemed, to cast a suspicious eye on whoever crossed their path, but now he appeared committed to Katya—even before Ellhyn had scried their joined destinies he had shown a willingness to believe in the warrior woman. He wondered if Bracht’s obvious admiration clouded his customary skepticism, then cast the thought aside: Katya had intervened on their behalf against the Chaipaku, and the spaewife had declared her comrade—likely his own judgment was affected by the disconcerting knowledge that Varent had seduced him so successfully. And yet he could not entirely shake off the feeling that Katya held things back. She had spoken openly enough, or so it had seemed last night, and yet there remained questions he would have asked had she, or some comment of Tekkan’s, not turned the conversation in another direction.
“I’d speak with her.” Bracht’s voice brought him to his feet and he followed the Kern along the deck to the low poop, where Katya stood with the helmsman. “You slept well?” she asked, smiling.
Calandryll glanced at his companion as Bracht ducked his head in agreement.
“I did. And now I feel settled.” He swung an expansive arm, the gesture embracing warboat and ocean. “I’d never thought to feel at home on the sea—I owe you thanks.”
His eyes were on her face as he spoke, his smile as much in compliment as gratitude. And she was, Calandryll could only agree, a sight to stir the blood. The sun struck silver sparks from her hair, its binding emphasizing her proud features, dominated by the grey eyes. She had shed her breeks, her tunic kilted by her swordbelt, the white cloth vivid contrast to the dark tan of her long legs, her feet bare for better purchase on the deck. She was lovely—and challenging, her eyes darkening an instant as she recognized the import of Bracht’s smile, her own faltering. Beside her, Tekkan frowned briefly, and murmured something in the Vanu tongue. Katya nodded.
“I’d not bring you sick to Gessyth,” she said. “And it may well be your sword skills will be heeded before we reach that place.”
“You anticipate attack?” Calandryll peered sternward: the sea stood empty. “Are we pursued?”
“The danger lies there.” It was Tekkan who spoke, leaving go his tiller to point landward. “In Gash.”
“We must take on fresh water,” Katya expanded. “Our supplies cannot last; nor our food. Eventually we must anchor and go into the jungle; and the folk of Gash are not noted for their hospitality.”
“Ambush?” Bracht’s smile did not waver. “Against an armored landing party?”
“Perhaps not,” Katya shrugged, “but the danger is there.”
“And there,” Bracht declared, pointing ahead, and then astern, “and there. Danger surrounds us, I think.”
“I’d not lose men,” Tekkan said. “Nor time battling the creatures of Gash.”
Bracht laughed carelessly: Calandryll wondered if his confidence stemmed from the effects of the nostrum or a desire to impress the woman. “How long before we shall heed attempt it?” he asked.
“Ten days if we drink sparingly,” Tekkan answered. “And ten after that, all the way to Gessyth. This boat was built for coastal waters, not the deep sea.”
There was a hint of disapproval in his voice, suppressed but discernible, his eyes flickering to Bracht as he spoke.
Perhaps the Kern heard it, Calandryll could not tell, but he saw Bracht’s smile fade, his expression serious as he looked to the helmsman. “My blade is at your command,” he said formally, eliciting a nod from Tekkan. Then, to Katya: “I robbed you of your cabin—my thanks for that. Shall I sleep elsewhere tonight?”
His gaze fixed frank on her face and Calandryll thought he saw a blush suffuse her cheeks, the tan an instant darker. He saw Tekkan’s lips purse, the helmsman’s stare cold.
Katya said, “Your heed was greater than mine—last night. Tonight you have choice of deck or hammock.” Her voice was cool: Bracht bowed, grinning.
Tekkan favored the Kern with a dark look then said, “There are charts I must study. Do you make yourselves at home, I shall speak with you later.”
He relinquished the helm, pausing to speak with Katya in their own tongue, sternly, she replying in kind, and then, with a last glance at Bracht, he was gone.
“Come.”
Katya beckoned them forward, to where the dragon’s head prow curved proud above the waves. Calandryll decided she sought that privacy for what she would say, likely to relay Tekkan’s words. For a long moment she stared at the freesword, her expression unfathomable, Bracht’s easy to read; then she shook her head, somewhat nervously, Calandryll thought.
“You presume much,” she said, but gently.
“Aye,” Bracht replied, his own voice soft.
“We embark on a quest, we three.” She paused, her gaze encompassing Calandryll. “And we are not alone.”
She paused again, as though seeking words
. Bracht said, “No. But if we were …”
“We are not,” she said, quickly, grey eyes hooding a moment. “And this … your … admiration … is more likely to hinder than help. I’d ask you curb your … feelings.”
Bracht nodded and said gravely, “They are there, and that I cannot help, but I gave my word that I would endeavor to bring Calandryll safe back from Gessyth—that stands, still. Even though the one who hired me has proven traitor, that stands. Now you are become part of that warrant and I find it difficult to mask what I feel.”
“Still I ask that you put … what else there is other than our quest … aside.”
She faced him square, her look solemn. No less serious, he said, “Be that your wish, then until we have brought the Arcanum safe from Tezin-dar I will. But after—there are things heed be said between us.”
“The Arcanum will not be safe until we bring it to Vanu and it is destroyed,” she said. “Do you give me that?”
He looked into her eyes and ducked his head.
“Until that is done.”
“Your word on it?”
“My word on it.”
“Then—my thanks.” She smiled again and Calandryll thought he saw relief in her look.
She turned, making her way back down the deck. Bracht stared after her and sighed. “Can you hold that promise?” Calandryll asked.
“For her, aye.” Bracht smiled.
Calandryll grinned, thinking he saw what Bracht had not. “It was a … large … promise,” he murmured.
“How so?” asked the Kern.
“Your warrant was to ward me until our return to Lysse, no farther. It seems now you extend that to the very boundaries of the world.”
“For her,” Bracht nodded, smiling, then clapped a cheerful hand to Calandryll’s shoulder. “And for you, my friend. Did you believe I’d leave you to end this quest without me?”
“No.” Calandryll shook his head, realizing that he had never doubted but that Bracht would stand beside him to the end. “No. But in this matter of Katya, you press too hard.”
Bracht glanced at him and grinned.
“Was your gaze not transfixed you’d have seen Tekkan’s face,” he insisted.
“I saw only Katya,” Bracht returned. “And that a more sightly study.”
“Like a lovestruck boy,” Calandryll retorted.
Bracht returned him a quizzical look, then nodded. “Ahrd, but is she not beautiful?” he murmured. “And a swordswoman to boot—a rare prize.”
Calandryll sighed patiently. “Your sallies earned Tekkan’s disapproval—would you make an enemy of him?”
“I’d know our newfound comrade better,” Bracht said, undeterred. “Would she but allow me that pleasure.”
“Some bond exists between them,” Calandryll said. “Perhaps they are lovers.”
“Do you think so?” Bracht turned from his sword to peer thoughtfully at the helmsman. “Do you say I have a rival?”
“A rival? Dera!” Calandryll lowered his voice as several crew members looked toward them. “We sail unknown waters—in search of the Arcanum; the cannibals of Gash off our bow; Varent behind us; the goddess alone knows what ahead—and you think to bed Katya!”
“The journey will be long,” Bracht said mildly, “and likely boring. And I’ve not met a woman such as she.”
“Would you hazard our quest for that?” Calandryll demanded.
“No,” Bracht replied in more solemn tone. Then grinned. “But I’d lief claim that woman.”
Calandryll stared at the freesword, disbelieving until he saw Bracht’s face and recognized that the Kern was serious. He shook his head, modulating his tone.
“Whatever lies between Katya and Tekkan, our helmsman takes unkindly to your advances. Should that become something more …” He left the sentence unfinished as Bracht nodded. “I’d not make an enemy of Tekkan,” he agreed.
“Then curb your … enthusiasm.”
Bracht met his stare and asked bluntly, “Do you desire her?”
“No,” he answered. The Kern’s eyes held his, speculative, and he shook his head, saying again, “No.”
“Good,” Bracht said softly, “then there will be no rivalry between us.”
“No,” he repeated. “But nor should you chance Tekkan’s anger with your … compliments. I advise that you walk soft about him—and her.”
Bracht exaggerated a sigh. “A difficult thing—but, so be it.”
Encouraged, Calandryll said, “This is unlike you. In all our journeying I’ve not seen you smitten so.”
“In all our journeying have you seen any woman like Katya?” came the response. “But set your mind at rest—my tongue shall be curbed and no offense given.”
“The wiser course,” Calandryll said.
Bracht grunted an affirmative and busied himself with the edges of his falchion, a contemplative smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. Calandryll rested back against the curving heck of the figurehead, content with the Kern’s promise, content for now to stretch in the sun and listen to the slap of waves against the prow. He was not sure what he had seen in Tekkan’s eyes, save that Bracht’s advances had irritated the helmsman, nor how he should interpret Katya’s response. That something existed between the two Vanu folk he was sure, but not the nature of it. That Bracht should so suddenly—and seemingly with honesty—become enamored of Katya surprised him. The Kern had taken his pleasure with Varent’s serving wench casually enough, but this appeared a vastly different matter, for all Bracht’s blunt approach—it was as if the Kern had arrived at some abrupt decision, a certainty born of instinct and beyond plain desire. And it could, he felt, remembering Tekkan’s face, set their quest in jeopardy.
A little time proved the point.
Toward dusk of that day two canoes emerged from the canopy of the jungle, not seeking to intercept them, but flanking the warboat as it moved steadily up the coast. They were huge, fashioned from whole tree trunks, and rowed by muscular men whose purple skin was almost lost beneath an overlay of colorful tattooing. Sleek black hair was dressed with feathers and shells, and white bones transfixed nostrils and earlobes, more hanging in necklaces or clattering against the breechclouts that were their only garments to add to their barbaric splendor. Archers and spearmen crouched between the rowers, gesturing angrily, as if they lusted to close and kill. They held their course until full night had fallen and only then did Tekkan drop anchor, farther out than before, and with lookouts posted. The canoes ventured no assault, but at dawn they still hung off the starboard beam, like wolves trailing a beast too large to attack, and at noon a third joined them, late in the day a fourth, so that they traveled with a flotilla. The rising of the next day’s sun revealed a fifth dugout, and by its setting there was a sixth.
As they closed on the egress of the freshwater stream the intentions of their pursuers became obvious: seven dugouts stood between them and the spring, effectively denying them access. Against such odds not even Bracht could urge an attempt to land and they continued north escorted by the canoes.
After seven days even Tekkan’s patience was tried and he ordered the mast stepped up, the sail raised.
“What good?” Bracht asked. “With the wind against us, how can the sail help?”
Calandryll explained the basics of tacking as the warboat moved out to sea, the maneuver slowing their northward passage, but at least ridding them of their pursuers. They held that course until the water barrels stood near-empty and their replenishment became imperative. The charts showed another spring two days’ distant and—with little other choice—they drew closer to the coastline.
A conference was held on the poop deck, Calandryll and Bracht joining Katya and Tekkan, a woman—Quara—and a man—Urs—with them. It was decided that they should put in under cover of darkness and at dawn the longboat would go ashore. It could carry no more than three barrels at a time, and several journeys would be heeded to restock their dwindled supplies. At the same time a hunting part
y would seek game, for fresh meat, too, was growing low. Katya was to lead the hunters.
“I’d accompany you,” Bracht declared. “I grow stale, idling here.”
Katya and Tekkan exchanged glances and the helmsman shook his head.
“There is too much danger.”
“Then let some other than Katya go,” Bracht said.
“I cannot,” she explained. “I lead these people far from their home and I cannot ask them to do what I will not.”
Bracht shrugged, accepting that but still protective. “Then I go with you,” he said doggedly, and turned to smile at Tekkan. “Nor shall any argument dissuade me.”
His tone brooked no disagreement: Tekkan nodded reluctantly. Calandryll said, “Then I, too, go.”
“There is no heed,” Bracht said. “Not for you.”
“You forget the spaewife’s words,” he returned. “Are we not bound, we three?”
“You need not,” the Kern argued, gesturing at the empty sea. “Likely there is no danger.”
“And if there is?” Calandryll demanded, looking to each in turn. “Should we become separated? The prophecy spoke of three—do you go, then I go with you. Or we risk the quest.”
“I must,” Katya said, “but neither you nor Bracht heed take this chance.”
Bracht barked a laugh and chopped air: a dismissive gesture. “I will not argue this—I go with you and there’s an end to it.”
“Then it is settled,” said Calandryll. “Three, or none of us.”
Katya and Tekkan spoke with Quara and Urs, then the helmsman nodded. Katya said, “So be it,” and turned, grinning, toward Bracht. “But armored.”
They prepared for the foray as Tekkan brought the warboat in, gently under sail, the moon a paling sliver above, not bright enough to betray them they hoped. Shirts of fine mail were found to fit them both, and breeks of thick leather, sewn with mail, helms for their heads. It felt strange after so long a time unhampered to wear that weight, and despite its flexibility, not very comfortable, but faced with the threat of arrows from the jungle neither argued such precautions.
They waited, Calandryll affecting a calm he did not feel, as the black outline of the tree-thick coast bulked higher before them, Tekkan calling soft orders that brought down the sail, the sweeps running out to bring them closer, halting them finally to ride the tide, awaiting the darkest hour between the setting of the moon and the rising of the sun.
