The Ruling Sea

by Robert V. S. Redick

Yellow light flooded the room. There in the doorway stood Lady Oggosk, dressed in a sea-cloak, holding a lamp and a walking stick of pale, gnarled wood. Hercól stood beside her, distressed by the old woman’s intrusion but unclear whether to prevent it by force. Oggosk pointed at the youths with her stick.

  “Get dressed,” she said. “We’re going ashore. The captain has need of your services, Pathkendle.”

  Hercól loomed over her, furious. “I do not know how you passed through the barrier, old woman. But you give no orders here.”

  “Shut up,” said Oggosk. “You’re coming too, girl. Bring a weapon. And bring this valet of yours; he’s useful in a fight. The Sollochi runt I will not allow.”

  Thasha looked at her coldly. “We’re not going anywhere with you. Are we, Pazel?”

  Pazel was distracted by the hope that he was dreaming, and by the memory of Oggosk’s threats, and above all by his collision with Thasha’s soft, invisible, bed-warmed body moments ago. “Of course,” he blurted. “That is—no, absolutely. What?”

  Lady Oggosk turned him a scalding look.

  “We are at Dhola’s Rib. The sorcerer is already halfway to the beach, with his Polylex in hand. If we sit back and wait he is going to learn the secret of the Nilstone’s use—today, right under our noses. You won’t be bickering with me then. You’ll be dead, and so will I, and so will the dream of Alifros. I will see you on deck in five minutes.”

  It must have been too small, or too unimportant, to appear on the chart in her father’s cabin. As she dressed, Thasha snatched a look at her own Polylex, tearing through the pages by candlelight. Daggerfish. Death’s Head Coin. Deer’s Tongue. Dhol of Enfatha. Dhola’s Rib.

  In the outer stateroom Hercól was shouting her name. Thasha read only: a thin, curved islet between Nurth and Opalt, abandoned by man. Then she slammed her Polylex, hid it in a place not even Hercól was aware of, and sprinted for the topdeck, still carrying her boots.

  The island was invisible as they pulled for shore: Thasha could see only a dark silhouette blocking the stars of the Milk Tree. They were in the twenty-foot skiff, rowing hard but freezing nonetheless, for the wind was carving spindrift from the wave-tops and flinging it in their faces. It was frightening work, making for a shore you couldn’t see. Rose held a lantern at the bow; Oggosk sat curled in her sea-cloak. Four hulking Turachs sat behind the duchess, armor clinking as they rowed. Hercól and Drellarek took an oar apiece.

  Thasha’s rowing-partner was Dr. Chadfallow. The man’s nearness made her bristle: he lied, he conspired; he had brought the Nilstone aboard in the first place! And despite his help in exposing Syrarys’ treachery, Thasha could not bring herself to believe that he’d known nothing of the Shaggat.

  On the other hand, Dastu was along. That was a stroke of luck, even though his orders (he’d confided in a whisper) were to keep an eye on her and Pazel. There had been a slight hint of mischief in his voice: enough to let Thasha know that he might not follow those orders to the letter.

  A blast of spray caught Drellarek in the face. He growled with fury. “How did this happen? What fool let Arunis put a boat in the water?”

  “No one authorized it,” Rose shouted back. “The sorcerer launched the dory with the aid of one tarboy—Peytr Bourjon.”

  “So Jervik’s not the only tarboy he’s got his claws into,” said Pazel quietly.

  “They are not so far ahead,” Rose was saying, “and it is always possible that they have struck a rock, in this darkness. In that case we will try to rescue Bourjon, and let Arunis drown, as he should have forty years ago.”

  “He will not drown,” said Hercól.

  “But what does he want out there?” demanded the Turach commander.

  Oggosk pulled back the hood of her cloak. “I told you he has the forbidden Polylex. That book holds more than knowledge embarrassing to kings. Priests and mages feared it too, for what it revealed of their own arts—the worst of their arts, the black charms and curses they would rather keep from the minds of men. Arunis may have stumbled on one he thinks he can use against the power that resides on Dhola’s Rib.”

  “I hear music!” said Dastu suddenly. Thasha heard it too: a strange, rich, hollow sound, as of many notes played together by a crowd blowing horns. The sound came from the darkness ahead.

  As they rowed on, the sky began to glow in the east, and the shape of the island emerged. Thasha did not like what she saw. It was a giant rock, nothing more: high and jagged at one end, smooth and low at the other. The ridgetop looked sheer and lifeless.

  The landing, however, was not as bad as she feared. The beach was narrow but sheltered and gently sloped, and a sandbar broke the force of the waves. Everyone leaped into the cold surf except Oggosk, who waited until the others had dragged the skiff well ashore before allowing the captain to lift her down.

  The mysterious noises blended eerily with the moan of the wind. Soaked and shivering, Thasha glanced up again and saw patches of sun on the ridgetop. A great building loomed there, carved from the native stone. It might once have been a mighty keep or temple, but time and countless storms had melted its edges to a waxy smoothness. The domed roof bulged out over the walls, then tapered swiftly to a weathered peak.

  Higher up, where the sand gave way to rock, they found the dory beached on its side, oars tucked under the hull. Rose bent and placed a hand on the gunnel. “Still dripping,” he said. “Arunis is just minutes ahead of us. You—” He pointed at a pair of Drellarek’s soldiers. “—will remain here and guard the shore. The rest of you will climb with me.”

  “Captain Rose,” said Drellarek earnestly. “Why go any farther? Maroon him here! Tow the dory back to Chathrand and set sail! He’s made no progress turning the Shaggat back into a man, and he nearly got us into a shooting war in the Bay of Simja. Let Arunis plague us no more, Captain. With any luck he will starve!”

  “On Dhola’s Rib men die of thirst before hunger,” said Chadfallow, “and there are quicker ways than thirst.”

  “Thirst, hunger! What do we care?”

  “One of my crew is with him, Sergeant Drellarek,” said Rose.

  “That Bourjon imbecile?” scoffed Drellarek. “Good riddance! If he’s taken up with the sorcerer, then he’s long since broken faith with the ship.”

  “So did you,” said Rose, “when you raised your hand against the captain appointed by your Emperor. Listen to me, Turach: I alone will decide who is to be disposed of, and when.”

  One side of Drellarek’s mouth curled upward, as though Rose’s words amused him, but he said no more. Again Thasha felt her suspicions rise. Whatever Rose was up to, it wasn’t about saving Peytr. She had her doubts that he meant to confront Arunis at all. But Oggosk means to, that’s for certain.

  Oggosk was already hobbling up the slope, leaning heavily on her stick. The others followed, hugging their soggy coats more tightly about them. Soon they were exposed once more to the wind, which was fierce and cold.

  Once Pazel stumbled, and began to roll perilously toward a cliff. Thasha, Hercól and Dastu all leaped after him, but swifter than any of them was Dr. Chadfallow. With a scramble and a tremendous lurch he reached Pazel and caught his arm, stopping him just feet from the cliff. Breathless, Pazel looked the doctor in the eye. Neither he nor Chadfallow said a word.

  Minutes later they gained the ridgetop, not far from its crowning temple, and stepped into the full morning sun. A spectacular sight opened before them. Dhola’s Rib was much larger than Thasha had supposed. It was shaped much like its namesake bone. They had landed on the only west-facing beach. The eastern side of the island, however, curved away for nine or ten miles before sharpening to a wave-swept point. The long beaches there were ablaze with sunlight.

  And covering those beaches were thousands upon thousands of animals. They were seals, enormous, rust-colored seals. They lolled and flopped and surged in and out of the waves, one huge congregation after another, merging into a solid carpet of bodies in the distance. From every pod came th
e booming, wailing, rippling song they had heard in the darkness. It rose and fell with the gusting wind, now soft, now suddenly high and drowning out all speech.

  “Pipe-organ seals!” grunted Rose with a vigorous nod. “It fits. Yes, it fits.”

  “Well, I’ll be a candy-arsed cadet,” said Drellarek. “Pipers? Them beasts that come ashore just once every nine years?”

  “And on just nine beaches in Alifros,” said Hercól.

  “Eight,” said Chadfallow. “The ninth beach was on Gurishal, where the Shaggat’s worshippers have known generations of hunger. One night a few decades ago they heard the singing, and rushed the beach, and killed thousands for their meat. The seals that escaped never returned to Gurishal.”

  He shielded his eyes, marveling at the sight before them. “To the old tribes of the Crownless Lands these animals were sacred, and to hear their song was a mighty omen. What a stroke of luck to arrive today! Look there, the pups are learning to swim!”

  For a moment they all watched in silence. Then Drellarek pointed and gave a belly laugh. “And the sharks are helping out with the lesson! D’ye see ’em, boys?”

  Thasha saw them: the churning dorsal fins, the pups vanishing one after another beneath the darkening foam. Those ashore kept coming, unaware of the carnage farther out. Thasha repressed a shudder, irritated by her response (Hercól would not flinch, her father would not flinch). But laughter? That was worse, abominable. She saw Pazel looking at Drellarek with unguarded hate. Was he thinking of Ormael—the men gutted and thrown from the fishing pier, while her father, in command of the attacking fleet, sat at anchor offshore?

  “Ouch! Pitfire!” cried Drellarek happily, still watching the sharks. “You’re right, Chadfallow, you don’t see that kind of show every day! Don’t look, Lady Oggosk—Lady Oggosk?”

  The witch had left them behind again. They hurried after her, climbing straight for the temple. Thasha could now see a curious feature of the building: its windows. They were small, irregular ovals, scattered apparently at random across the domed roof, gaping like toothless mouths.

  “That is Dhola’s Manse,” said Chadfallow as they climbed. “It is only a ruin now, but centuries before the Rinfaith was born it was a mighty cloister, built over the island’s only spring. I do not know if anyone in Alifros knows the full story of its builders. They vanished, leaving only a name—Bracek Dhola, Dhola’s Rib—and a handful of legends among the shore folk of the western isles.”

  “So we don’t even know how they died?” asked Thasha.

  “It may have been the spring,” said Chadfallow. “At some point in history the water changed, arising from the depths tainted with oils and foul minerals. It is deadly now—and in some chambers, boiling hot. One of those legends holds that outsiders came and seized the temple for a war-base, and killed the priests who lived here. In some stories those outsiders are Arqualis, in others men of the Pentarchy, or Noonfirth, or even some realm south of the Ruling Sea. But all the tales end the same way: with the last priest uttering a curse, and the poisons appearing in the spring.”

  They hurried up the trail. The wind grew even stronger, as though trying to blow them sideways off the ridge. Soon Pazel’s teeth were chattering. Thasha looked at him and tried to smile.

  “Hot water,” she said. “That sounds blary wonderful.”

  Pazel grinned at her, and at all once Thasha felt more hopeful than she had in days. Then Pazel glanced up to where Rose and Oggosk waited in the temple doorway. His face darkened with confusion, and he turned from Thasha with a scowl.

  The doorway was a square black hole. The party huddled just inside, out of the wind, as Hercól and the soldiers lit torches. The air inside was warm and moist. Thasha sniffed: there was a strange odor, too, a biting smell, like a harsh drug or mineral spirits. Before them ran a rough stone corridor, strewn with the bones of birds and the leavings of other visitors: a broken sandal, a ring of fire-scorched stones, an obscene rhyme scratched in charcoal on the wall.

  Rose beckoned Pazel near. He clapped a hand on the tarboy’s shoulder.

  “What’s on Dhola’s Rib?” he said, in the manner of someone asking a riddle.

  Pazel looked him up and down. “I don’t know, Captain,” he said at last. “Seals?”

  “Seals, and a sibyl,” said Rose. “A sibyl, a creature with the second-sight. She could tell you the very hour of your death if she wished. But don’t fear her. You’re with me, and the sibyl is fond of Nilus Rose. You might say she’s an old friend of the family.”

  He put two fingers in his mouth and withdrew something about the size of a peach pit. He held it up for all to see. It was a white stone, carved on one side in the form of a woman’s face.

  “I’ve kept this in my mouth since Simja. She likes that sort of thing. Likes her presents to have felt the warmth of human flesh.”

  Thasha fought the urge to back away from the captain. He was mad; and his eye had a crafty gleam.

  “I have a little question for her,” Rose went on. “A private matter between me and my kin. But she’s tricky, this sibyl. When she comes you have to think fast, and talk sweet. And even if you persuade her you’re a friend, she may answer in some language you don’t understand. That’s where you come in, Pathkendle.”

  He put the stone back in his mouth and placed his hand on Pazel’s shoulder.

  “Arunis wants her to answer his questions,” he rumbled. “But he’s never bothered to come here before. I have the sibyl’s favor, and a present, and a wise witch to help me. And you, lad—you’re of great worth to me, this day.”

  “Don’t forget the girl, Nilus,” said Oggosk. “She too is here to help you.”

  Rose glanced doubtfully at Thasha. “I’ll not forget any aid I receive today. Nor any hindrance.”

  He took a torch from one of the soldiers and led them down the corridor. After about twenty yards it ended in two narrow staircases, rising to left and right, and a third, wider, that descended straight ahead. The steps were worn until they seemed half melted, like steps carved from soap. The middle staircase divided into two some thirty feet below.

  “The maze begins,” said Rose.

  Thasha saw Hercól and Drellarek exchange a look. The Turach’s lips shaped a silent question: Maze?

  Oggosk pointed to the left-hand stair, and up they climbed, single-file, with Rose leading the way and the Turachs bringing up the rear. It was a stumbling, awkward climb: the corroded steps had no truly level surfaces any longer, and their feet tended to slide. They passed a tiny corridor exiting the stairs, and then another identical. At the third such hallway Oggosk pointed with her stick. Rose left the stairs and crept into the hall, crouching low. Embers fell from his torch as it knocked against the ceiling.

  Even in this black, cramped corridor they could hear the wind outside, and the endless song of the seals. They passed many other halls, and took several turns, all chosen by the witch. Once they passed through a little chamber with an iron grate set in the floor. Steam issued from it, and a stronger whiff of that drug-like smell Thasha had caught in the doorway.

  Then Rose turned a sharp corner, and they were descending again: this time down a spiral staircase, even more corroded and hazardous than the previous steps. The air grew warm and heavy with moisture. Around and around they went, shuffling, choking on torch smoke, until Thasha was certain they had descended much farther than they had climbed.

  Finally the staircase ended, and Rose led them down a hallway tighter than any of the others, the Turachs’ armored shoulders scraping the walls with every step. The narcotic smell was all but overpowering here. Thasha tensed, aware that some deep part of her was shouting an alarm: You could get drunk on that smell—drunk, or worse. Then they turned a corner, and Lady Oggosk cried, “Ah! Here we are.”

  A great chamber opened before them. It was round, and composed of many stone rings, one within another, descending like the levels of an amphitheater. The edges of the room were dark: Thasha could just make out a num
ber of stone balconies, some with crumbling rails, and many black corridors leading away.

  But the center of the room was lit by fire. It was a breathtaking sight: a polished stone circle twenty paces wide or more, orange like the sun before it sets. The stone was cracked into a dozen pieces; it resembled a dinner plate smashed with a rock. The spaces between these shards were filled with water, to within a few inches of the top of the stone. And the surface of the water was burning: low blue flames that raced and died and puffed to life again, as though fed by some vapor bubbling up through the water itself.

  At the center of the cracked orange stone sat Arunis, cross-legged, his tattered white scarf knotted at the neck. His back was to the newcomers, and his Polylex lay open before him.

  Peytr crouched a few paces away, hugging his knees. When the big tarboy saw the newcomers, he rose with a cry: “Captain Rose! I didn’t want to help him, sir! He said he’d kill me in my sleep if I didn’t!”

  The newcomers filed into the room. Rose, Hercól and the Turachs descended the stone rings toward the room’s fiery center. “You’re a coward and a fool,” Drellarek shouted at Peytr.

  “Or a liar,” muttered Pazel.

  “Get over here, Bourjon,” snapped Rose.

  The big tarboy was panic-stricken. He looked from the captain to the sorcerer and back again. Then Arunis turned his head, showing them his profile.

  “Go,” he said.

  Peytr ran to the captain, hopping over the cracks with their whispering flames. Rose stepped forward and intercepted him, seizing a fistful of hair. “Drellarek here thinks I should have left you to die,” he said.

  Peytr’s eyes pleaded for clemency. Thasha looked at him with a kind of disgusted fascination. There was nothing false about his fear.

  “The sorcerer can kill no one, Mr. Bourjon,” said Chadfallow. “Have you forgotten that to do so would risk the death of his own king?” But Arunis, still watching them from the corner of his eye, smiled at the doctor’s words.

  The captain raised a fist high over his head. Then, gradually, he relaxed his grip on Peytr’s hair. He pointed at the doorway they had come by. “Stand there. Don’t move and don’t speak.” Peytr leaped to obey, shoving between Pazel and Thasha in his haste.