“I know,” he said gently. “But you must continue to put on a brave face for others. Fannon will need your help in conducting court, and you will have the responsibility for the entire household. You are mistress of Crydee, and many people will depend upon your guidance.”
They watched the banners on the walls snapping in the late-afternoon wind. The air was harsh, and he drew his cloak about them. Trembling, she said, “Come back to me, Roland.”
Softly he said, “I’ll come back, Carline.” He tried to shake a cold, icy feeling that had risen within, but could not.
They stood on the dock, in the darkness of morning before the sunrise. Arutha and Roland waited by the gangway. Arutha said, “Take care of everything, Swordmaster.”
Fannon stood with his hand upon his sword, still proud and erect despite advancing years. “I will, Highness.”
With a slight smile Arutha said, “And when Gardan and Algon return from patrol, instruct them to take care of you.”
Fannon’s eyes blazed as he shot back. “Insolent pup! I can best any man of the castle, save your father. Step down from the gangway and draw your sword, and I’ll show you why I still wear the badge of Swordmaster.”
Arutha held his hands up in mock supplication. “Fannon, it is good to see such sparks again. Crydee is well protected by her Swordmaster.”
Fannon stepped forward and placed his hand upon Arutha’s shoulder. “Take care, Arutha. You were always my best student I should hate to lose you.”
Arutha smiled fondly at his old teacher. “My thanks, Fannon.” Then his manner turned wry. “I would hate to lose me, also I’ll be back. And I’ll have Erland’s soldiers with me.”
Arutha and Roland sprang up the gangway, while those on the dock waved good-bye. Martin Longbow waited at the rail, watching as the gangway was removed and the men upon the quay cast off lines. Amos Trask shouted orders, and sails were lowered from the yards Slowly the ship moved away from the quayside into the harbor. Arutha watched silently, with Roland and Martin beside, as the docks fell behind.
Roland said, “I was glad the Princess chose not to come. One more good-bye would be more than I could manage.”
“I understand,” said Arutha. “She cares for you greatly, Squire, though I can’t see why.” Roland looked to see if the Prince was joking and found Arutha smiling faintly. “I’ve not spoken of it,” the Prince continued. “But since we may not see each other for some time after you leave us in Tulan, you should know that when the opportunity comes for you to speak to Father, you’ll have my word on your behalf.”
“Thank you, Arutha.”
The town slipped by in darkness, replaced by the causeway to the lighthouse. The false dawn pierced the gloom slightly, casting everything into greys and blacks. Then after some time the large upthrust form of the Guardian Rocks appeared off the starboard quarter.
Amos ordered the helm put over, and they turned southwestward, more sails set to bring them full before the wind. The ship picked up speed, and Arutha could hear gulls crying overhead. Suddenly he was struck with the knowledge they were now out of Crydee. He felt chilled and gathered his cloak tightly around him.
Arutha stood on the quarterdeck, sword held ready, Martin to one side notching an arrow to his bowstring. Amos Trask and his first mate, Vasco, also had weapons drawn. Six angry-looking seamen were assembled upon the deck below, while the rest of the crew watched the confrontation.
One sailor shouted from the deck, “You’ve lied to us, Captain. You’ve not put back north for Crydee as you said in Tulan. Unless you mean for us to sail on to Keshian Elarial, there’s nothing south save the straits. Do you mean to pass the Straits of Darkness?”
Amos roared, “Damn you, man. Do you question my orders?”
“Aye, Captain. Tradition holds there’s no valid compact between captain and crew to sail the straits in winter, save by agreement. You lied to us, and we’re not obliged to sail with you.”
Arutha heard Amos mutter, “A bloody sea-lawyer.” To the sailor he said, “Very well,” and handed his cutlass to Vasco. Descending the ladder to the main deck, he approached the seaman with a friendly smile upon his face.
“Look, lads,” he began as he reached the six recalcitrant sailors, all holding belaying pins or marhnespikes. “I’ll be honest with you. The Prince must reach Krondor, or there’ll be hell to pay come spring. The Tsurani gather a large force, which may come against Crydee.” He placed his hand upon the shoulder of the sailors’ spokesman and said, “So what it comes down to is this: we must sail to Krondor.” With a sudden motion Amos had his arm around the man’s neck. He ran to the side of the ship and heaved the helpless sailor over. “If you don’t wish to come along,” he shouted, “you can swim back to Tulan!”
Another sailor started to move toward Amos when an arrow struck the deck at his feet. He looked up and saw Martin taking a bead upon him. The Huntmaster said, “I wouldn’t.”
The man dropped his marhnespike and stepped back. Amos turned to face the sailors. “By the time I reach the quarterdeck, you had better be in the rigging—or over the side, it makes no difference to me. Any man not working will be hanged for the mutinous dog he is.”
The faint cries for help of the man in the water could be heard as Amos returned to the quarterdeck. To Vasco he said, “Toss that fool a rope, and if he doesn’t relent, pitch him overboard again.” Amos shouted, “Set all sails! Make for the Straits of Darkness.”
Arutha blinked seawater out of his eyes and held on to the guide rope with all the strength he possessed. Another wave crashed over the side of the ship, and he was blinded once more. Strong hands grabbed him from behind, and in the darkness he heard Martin’s voice. “Are you all right?”
Spitting water, he shouted, “Yes,” and continued to make his way toward the quarterdeck, Martin close behind. The Wind of Dawn pitched and rolled beneath his feet, and he slipped twice before he reached the ladder. The entire ship had been rigged with safety lines, for in the rough sea it was impossible to keep a footing without something to hang on to.
Arutha pulled himself up the ladder to the quarterdeck and stumbled as much as walked to Amos Trask. The captain waited beside the helmsman, lending his weight to the large tiller when needed. He stood as if rooted to the wood of the deck, feet wide apart, weight shifting with each move of the ship, his eyes peering into the gloom above. He watched, listened, each sense tuned to the ship’s rhythm. Arutha knew he had not slept for two days and a night, and most of this night as well.
“How much longer?” Arutha shouted.
“One, two days, who can say?” A snap from above sounded like cracking spring ice upon the river Crydee. “Hard aport!” Amos shouted, leaning heavily into the tiller. When the ship heeled, he shouted to Arutha, “Another day of these gods-cursed winds buffeting this ship, and we’ll be lucky if we can turn and run back to Tulan.”
They were nine days out of Tulan, the last three spent in the storm. The ship had been relentlessly pounded by waves and wind, and Amos had been in the hold three times, inspecting the repairs to the keelson. Amos judged them due west of the straits, but couldn’t be sure until the storm passed. Another wave struck the ship, and it shuddered.
“Weather break!” came the shout from above.
“Where away?” cried Amos.
“Dead starboard!”
“Come about!” ordered Amos, and the helmsman leaned against the tiller.
Arutha strained his eyes against the stinging salt spray and saw a faint glow seem to swing about until it stood off the bow. Then it grew larger as they drove for the thinning weather. As if walking out of a dark room, they moved from gloom to light. The heavens seemed to open above them, and they could see grey skies. The waves still ran high, but Arutha sensed the weather had turned at last. He looked over his shoulder and saw the black mass of the storm as it moved away from them.
Moment by moment the combers subsided, and after the raging clamor of the storm, the sea seemed sudd
enly silent. The sky was quickly brightening, and Amos said, “It’s morning. I must have lost track of time. I thought it still night.”
Arutha watched the receding storm and could see it clearly outlined, a churning mass of darkness against the lighter grey of the sky above. The grey quickly turned to slate, then blue-grey as the morning sun broke through the storm. For the better part of an hour. Arutha watched the spectacle, while Amos ordered his men about their tasks, sending the night watch below and the day watch above.
The storm raced eastward, leaving a choppy sea behind Time seemed frozen as Arutha stood in awe of the scene on the horizon. A portion of the storm seemed to have stopped, between distant fingers of land. Great spouts of water spun between the boundaries of the narrow passage in the distance. It looked as if a mass of dark, boiling clouds had been trapped within that area by a supernatural force.
“The Straits of Darkness,” said Amos Trask at his shoulder.
“When do we put through them?” Arutha asked quietly.
“Now,” answered Amos. The captain turned and shouted, “Day watch aloft! Midwatch turn to and stand ready! Helmsman, set course due east!”
Men scrambled into the rigging, while others came from below, still haggard and showing little benefit from the few hours’ sleep since they last stood watch. Arutha pulled back the hood of his cloak and felt the cold sting of the wind against his wet scalp. Amos gripped him by the arm and said, “We could wait for weeks and not have the wind favorable again. That storm was a blessing in disguise, for it will give us a bold start through.”
Arutha watched in fascination as they headed for the straits. Some freak of weather and current had created the conditions that held the straits in water-shrouded gloom all winter. In fair weather the straits were a difficult passage, for though they appeared wide at most points, dangerous rocks were hidden just below the water in many critical places. In foul weather they were considered impossible for most captains to negotiate. Sheets of water or flurries of snow blown down from the southernmost peaks of the Grey Towers tried to fall, only to be caught by blasts of wind and tossed back upward again, to try to fall once more. Waterspouts suddenly erupted upward to spin madly for minutes, then dissolve into blinding cascades. Ragged bolts of lightning cracked and were followed by booming thunder as all the fury of colliding weather fronts was unleashed.
“The sea’s running high,” yelled Amos. “That’s good. We’ll have more room to clear the rocks, and we’ll be through or dashed to pieces in short order. If the wind holds, we’ll be through before the day is done.”
“What if the winds change?”
“That is not something to dwell on!”
They raced forward, attacking the edge of the swirling weather inside the straits. The ship shuddered as if reluctant once again to face foul weather. Arutha gripped the rail tightly as the ship began to buck and lurch. Amos picked his way along, avoiding the sudden wayward gusts, keeping the ship in the westerly trail of the passed storm.
All light disappeared. The ship was illuminated only by the dancing light of the storm lanterns, casting flickering yellow darts into murk. The distant booming of waves upon rocks reverberated from all quarters, confusing the senses. Amos shouted to Arutha, “We’ll keep to the center of the passage; if we slip to one side or the other, or get turned, we’ll stave in the hull on rocks.” Arutha nodded, as the captain shouted instructions to his crew.
Arutha fought his way to the forward rail of the quarterdeck and shouted Martin’s name. The Huntmaster answered from the main deck below that he was well, though waterlogged Arutha held tight to the rail as the ship dipped low into a trough and then started to rise as it met a crest. For what seemed minutes the ship strained upward, climbing and climbing, then suddenly water swept over the bow and they were heading downward again. The rail became his only contact with a solid world amid a cold, wet chaos. Arutha’s hands ached from the effort of hanging on.
Hours passed in cacophonous fury, while Amos commanded his crew to answer every challenge of wind and tide. Occasionally the darkness was punctuated by a blinding flash of lightning, bringing every detail into sharp focus, leaving dazzling afterimages in the darkness.
In a sudden lurch, the ship seemed to slip sideways, and Arutha felt his feet go out from under him as the ship heeled over. He held to the rail with all his strength, his ears deafened by a monstrous grinding. The ship righted itself, and Arutha pulled himself around to see, in the flickering glow of the storm lanterns, the tiller swinging wildly back and forth and the helmsman slumped down upon the deck, his face darkened by blood flowing from his open mouth. Amos was desperately scrambling upright, reaching for the lashing tiller. Risking broken ribs as he seized it, he fought desperately to hang on and bring the ship back under control.
Arutha half stumbled to the tiller and threw his weight against it. A long, low grinding sound came from the starboard side, and the ship shuddered.
“Turn, you motherless bitch!” cried Amos as he heaved against the tiller, marshaling what strength he had left. Arutha felt his muscles protesting in pain as he strained against the seemingly immobile tiller. Slowly it moved, first an inch, then another. The grinding rose in volume, until Arutha’s ears rang from the sound of it.
Suddenly the tiller swung free once more. Arutha overbalanced and went flying across the deck. He struck the hard wood and slid along the wet surface until he crashed into the bulwark, gasping as wind exploded from his lungs. A wave drenched him and he spluttered, spitting out a lungful of seawater. Groggily he pulled himself up and staggered back to the tiller.
In the faint light Amos’s face was white from exertion, but it was set in a wide-eyed, manic expression as he laughed. “Thought you’d gone over the side for a moment.”
Arutha leaned into the tiller, and together they forced it to move once more. Amos’s mad laughter rang out, and Arutha said, “What’s so damn funny?”
“Look!”
Panting, Arutha looked where Amos indicated. In the darkness he saw huge forms rearing up alongside the ship, blacker shapes against the blackness. Amos yelled, “We’re clearing the Great South Rocks Pull, Prince of Crydee! Pull if you wish to ever see dry land again!”
Arutha hauled upon the tiller, forcing the balky ship away from the terrible stone embrace mere yards away. Again they felt the ship shudder as another low grinding sound came from below Amos whooped. “If this barge has a bottom when we’re through, I’ll be amazed.”
Arutha felt a gut-wrenching stab of panic, followed immediately by a strange exultation. He found himself seized by a nameless, almost joyous feeling as he struggled to hold the ship on course. He heard a strange sound amid the cacophony and discovered he was laughing with Amos, laughing at the fury erupting around him. There was nothing left to fear. He would endure or he wouldn’t. It didn’t matter now. All he could do was give himself over to one task, keeping the ship heading past the jagged rocks. Every fiber of his being laughed in terror, in joy at being reduced to this lower level of existence, this primal state of being. Nothing existed save the need to do this one thing, upon which all was wagered.
Arutha entered a new state of awareness. Seconds, minutes, hours lost all meaning. He struggled, with Amos, to keep the ship under control, but his senses recorded everything around him in minute detail. He could feel the grain of the wood through the wet leather of his gloves. The fabric of his stockings was gathered between his toes in his water-soaked boots. The wind smelled of salt and pitch, wet wool caps, and rain-drenched canvas. Every groan of timber, smack of rope against wood, and shout of men above could be clearly heard. Upon his face he felt the wind and cold touch of melting snow and seawater, and he laughed. Never had he felt so close to death, and never had he felt more alive. Muscles bunched, and he pitted himself against forces primeval and formidable. On and on they plunged, deeper and deeper into the madness of the Straits of Darkness.
Arutha heard Amos as he shouted orders, orchestrating every man�
��s move by the second. He played his ship as a master musician played a lute, sensing each vibration and sound, striving for that harmony of motion that kept the Wind of Dawn moving safely through perilous seas. The crew answered his every demand instantly, risking death in the treacherous rigging, for they knew their safe passage rested solely upon his skill.
Then it was over. One moment they were fighting with mad strength to clear the rocks and pass through the fury of the straits, the next they were running before a stiff breeze with the darkness behind.
Ahead the sky was overcast, but the storm that had held them for days was a distant gloom upon the eastern horizon. Arutha looked at his hands, as if at things apart, and willed them to release their hold upon the tiller.
Sailors caught him as he collapsed, and lowered him to the deck. For a time his senses reeled, then he saw Amos sitting a short way off as Vasco took the tiller. Amos’s face was still mirthful as he said, “We did it, boy. We’re in the Bitter Sea.”
Arutha looked about. “Why is it still so dark?”
Amos laughed. “It’s nearly sundown. We were on that tiller for hours.”
Arutha began to laugh too. Never had he felt such triumph. He laughed until tears of exhaustion ran down his face, until his sides hurt. Amos half crawled to his side. “You know what it is to laugh at death, Arutha. You’ll never be the same man again.”
Arutha caught his breath. “I thought you mad there for a time.”
Amos took a wineskin a sailor handed him and drew a deep drink. He passed it to Arutha and said, “Aye, as you were. It is something only a few know in their lives. It is a vision of something so clear, so true, it can only be a madness. You see what life is worth, and you know what death means.”
Arutha looked up at the sailor standing by them, and saw it was the man Amos had pitched over the rail to head off the mutiny. Vasco threw the man a frown as he watched, but the man didn’t move. Amos looked up at him, and the seaman said, “Captain, I just wanted to say . . . I was wrong. Thirteen years a sailor, and I’d have wagered my soul to Lims-Kragma no master could pilot a ship such as this through the straits.” Lowering his eyes, he said, “I’d willingly stand for flogging for what I done, Captain. But after, I’d sail to the Seven Lower Hells with you, and so would any man here.”
Book 1 - Magician Page 59
