by Mel Odom
“A fish,” Quarrel whispered.
In truth, the assembled piece did look very much like a fish. Wick lifted it from the floor, amazed at the way it held together, as if it had always been of a piece. He turned it over, switching the side of the tiles that showed fish cresting the waves with their tails turned for the blank one on the other side.
Only now the other side wasn’t blank. Words were written there. The language was the high trader tongue from the Silver Sea. He translated, amazed that the words rhymed even in the common tongue.
Fair blows the wind,
Driving iron men and wooden ships.
A hero far from home,
Unafraid to die alone.
Say his name, friend,
And ride the fierce Silver Sea as she dips!
“What does it mean?” Quarrel asked.
“Captain Dulaun,” Wick said.
Nothing happened.
The little Librarian looked at the young mercenary. “Say his name.”
Quarrel hesitated.
“Say his name,” Wick repeated.
“Captain Dulaun,” Quarrel whispered.
Immediately, the inscription on back of the fish lit up in roping, bright blue veins. Wick felt the piece vibrate in his hands. “Again. Louder. Put your hand over the inscription.”
Dropping his hand over the inscription, nervousness showing bright in his eyes, Quarrel licked his lips. And he spoke the name of the hero of the Silver Sea once more. “Captain Dulaun!”
Abruptly, the fish piece flew from Wick’s hand, sliding out from under Quarrel’s. In an eyeblink, the fish elongated into a boarding plank. One end of the plank dropped against the floor and the other fell against the frieze.
Wick tried desperately to catch the plank, certain that it was going to destroy the image wrought from hundreds of stone pieces. He missed. The end of the plank fell into the frieze, coming to a shuddering rest on the edge of the artwork like it was a window ledge.
Fog spewed from the image.
Suddenly, the noise of crashing waves filled the underground chamber, followed immediately by the salty smell of the sea. Heat swept some of the chill away, warming Wick as he gazed up at the fog-covered frieze. He could no longer see the images there.
“Come aboard!” a deep voice rang out.
15
Captain Dulaun
Quarrel slid his bow over one shoulder, then took up his blades. He started forward.
“Where are you going?” the cat asked.
Placing a foot on the boarding plank, not even looking back at Alysta, Quarrel said, “To see where this takes me.” He walked forward, leaning into the incline. The fog reached for him, softening his image as it took him into its embrace.
Alysta hesitated only a moment, then followed, quietly padding up the board.
Unwilling to remain behind, though drawn more by curiosity than by a fear of being left behind on his own, Wick reached down and took up the nearest lantern. He stepped onto the board and followed it up.
The fog swirled into him until he couldn’t see. The rhythmic sound of waves crashed against the prow of a ship. Seven steps later, he felt the familiar up and down sway of a vessel at sea.
Then he was through the fog and could see the blue sky open around him. He stood on the ship’s deck and knew that he was nowhere near Wharf Rat’s Warren.
Quarrel and Alysta stood in front of the ship’s captain. There was no mistaking him.
Captain Dulaun was an unassuming man. Sun-streaked brown hair that blew in the gentle wind and a warm brown-eyed gaze looked average, not heroic. He wore a mustache that curled on the ends, and he smiled as if he’d never seen a sad day in his life. His clothing was plain, black boots and breeches, a red shirt with belled sleeves.
“Welcome, my friends,” Dulaun said.
“This can’t be,” Quarrel whispered, dazed. “You’re dead. You died a thousand years ago.”
Dulaun smiled again. “Of course I’m dead. Otherwise you wouldn’t be here now seeking Seaspray.” He laid an affectionate hand on his sword hilt.
“How did you arrange this?” Alysta asked.
“Magic, of course. Borrowed from Seaspray and linked to me through my family.” Dulaun clasped his hands behind him. “You are my family. At least one of you. Otherwise you would never have figured out the secret of the frieze and would not have been able to activate the spell that allows you to come here.”
Family? Wick thought. Then he realized another of the truths that had been staring him in the face. He gazed around at Dulaun’s crew. The captain’s men all looked battle-hardened and ready.
Beyond them, the Silver Sea shimmered under the midday sun. An albatross glided through the cloudless blue sky. The white canvas sails trapped and held the wind, mastering it as the ship continued to crash through the waves.
Dulaun walked to the ship’s prow. “Come. Come. I’ll tell you how you came to be here. But first I would show you my world. Hopefully it’s still your world.”
As if hypnotized, Alysta and Quarrel trailed after Dulaun.
“Due to the construction of the spell and certain constraints that are part of the nature of time,” Dulaun said as he gazed out to sea, “I can answer your questions here and now, but I won’t remember them.”
“Who made this spell?” Alysta asked.
“A wizard named Rivalak.” Dulaun sounded pleased.
“Rivalak,” Wick said, “was one of Dulaun’s contemporaries.”
“More than a contemporary,” Dulaun insisted. “He was a friend.” He gazed at Wick. “And who might you be? I know you’re no relative because you’re a dweller. Not unless something went truly and drastically wrong with my lineage.”
“No, I’m not family,” Wick answered. “I came here with these two. As an advisor.”
“Splendid.” Dulaun smiled again.
Wick had to wonder what the man had been doing before they arrived. Dulaun was too pat, too sure of himself. Even before the Battle of Fell’s Keep, Dulaun’s self-confidence had caused fights that had sorely tested him upon occasion.
“Why are you here?” Wick asked.
“Because of this.” Dulaun whisked the sword from his hip, slashing the blade through the air. “You know my blade?”
“Seaspray,” Wick answered. “It has the power to call on the magic of the waves.”
Seaspray was a gleaming length of steel three and a half feet long. Doubleedged and inscribed with runes that blazed blue even in the bright light, the sword commanded instant respect. The guard above the hilt was shaped like two dolphins swimming around the blade. They had sapphire eyes and lines of carved gold filigree. It was beautiful.
“Aye.” With a flourish, Dulaun returned the blade to its sheath. “There are many who want this sword. But no one can have it but one of my descendants. That’s why this place was made.”
“Where are we?” Alysta asked.
Surprised, Dulaun knelt and reached for the cat. “A talking cat?”
Alysta drew back, flattening her ears and hissing a warning.
“She’s not exactly a cat,” Wick said. “Her name is Alysta. She’s one of your descendants.”
Surprised and dismayed, Dulaun stood. “That’s impossible.”
“It’s the truth,” Alysta said.
Dulaun shook his head. “But a cat can’t wield my sword.” He looked at Wick. “I have no issue to give my sword to?”
“You do,” Quarrel said.
“You do,” Wick said. “It was her touch that activated the spell in the frieze.”
“‘Her’?” Alysta looked at the young “man.”
“This,” Wick said, “is your granddaughter. Rose.” He knew it could be no other.
“You?” Alysta padded around to better survey Quarrel. “You are Rose? I left you and your mother when you were so young.”
Quarrel looked at Wick then, and her eyes were soft. “You knew?”
“Not until you put the puzzle together,” Wick said. “
I talked to Karbor the leathermaker. He told me that he adopted the daughter of friends who were related to Captain Dulaun.”
“My granddaughter,” Alysta whispered. She padded up to Quarrel. “You are Rose?”
The young woman smiled, but there was sadness in her eyes. “I am. But that was the name Karbor gave me when he found me and kept me hidden. I am Quarrel now, and I will be Quarrel until the day my parents’ murderers are brought to justice.”
“I’m your grandmother.”
Quarrel’s eyes widened. “Alysta?”
“Yes.”
“We thought you were dead.”
“I very nearly was.” The cat touched her chest in a very human gesture. “After this happened, I couldn’t return. Then I heard your parents were dead. When I returned then, I found no trace of you. I believed you dead as well. Until that night Karbor talked of rescuing you—only to lose you again.”
“Captain Gujhar’s men came for me,” Quarrel said, “but I escaped.”
“Your mother,” Alysta said pridefully, “trained you well.”
Quarrel smiled. “She always said she had a good teacher.”
“You are my descendant?” Dulaun asked. “A girl?”
Quarrel looked at him and lifted her chin in reproach. “I’m a woman.”
Dulaun laughed and shook his head. “You’re a slip of a thing. If you’re sixteen I’ll eat my boots.”
“I’m seventeen,” Quarrel said, “and I won’t be made sport of. Not even by you. My mother gave her life to save me so that our line would be complete to take up your sword once more.”
The captain shook his head. “You won’t get my sword, girl. You would only take it from this place and lose it.”
“How dare you!” Alysta hissed angrily.
Quarrel moved before Wick knew she was in motion. In an instant, she doffed her cloak in the warm breeze that propelled Tolamae through the Silver Sea. Her long blond tresses were tied back and hung below her shoulders. She was all suppleness and grace—and her sword leaped into her hand like a live thing. Her body fell into perfect line behind the point, which hovered only inches from Dulaun’s right eye.
The crew drew their weapons and started forward at once.
Captain Dulaun held up his hand and stopped the sailors in their tracks. His lips twitched into a smile. “All right, child. You’ve got fire in your belly. I’ll admit that. But you’re not good enough to challenge me.”
Without a word, without warning of any kind, Quarrel followed her blade and nicked Dulaun’s right ear. Bright crimson blood dripped from his lobe.
“Don’t disrespect me,” Quarrel said. “I’ll kill you. My mother gave her life to live out your legacy. You died at the Battle of Fell’s Keep, and you lost your sword.”
“I … died?” Dulaun pronounced his sentence in grave dismay.
“Yes. At the hands of Lord Kharrion’s goblinkin.”
“No!” Wick shouted. “Don’t tell him anything of the future! If you change the past, none of us might be here! If Captain Dulaun isn’t at the Battle of Fell’s Keep, the evacuation of the south won’t take place! Or more might be lost! You could change the course of the war! Lord Kharrion could win!”
Too late, Quarrel realized what she might have done.
Dulaun held up a hand. “There’s no reason to worry about that. This place, this moment, it’s all stolen. Rivalak engineered this spell so that this crew and I will never remember these visits.”
“‘Visits’?” Wick repeated.
Touching his bleeding ear, Dulaun nodded. “When the sword is lost from my descendants, it can be returned here for safekeeping till one of them comes to claim it. The magic of this spell won’t open until the riddle is solved, and only my descendants can trigger it.” He wiped his crimson-stained fingers on his shirt. “Now, where were we?”
The captain’s question was deceptive by design. Even if Quarrel wasn’t going to reply, she at least thought about it. That was enough time for Dulaun to rip Seaspray from its sheath and take a step back. His blade crashed against Quarrel’s.
Without a word, the battle was joined. Steel met steel, and the ringing clangor filled the air, beating back the noise of the creaking canvas and rigging.
Then the cheering began. The sailors rallied around their commander, calling on him to give greater and greater effort.
Quarrel fought well past her years. Her reflexes were honed and certain, unflinching in spite of Dulaun’s attack. The captain smiled, arrogant and filled with confidence. He knew his skill in a thousand battles and more, and was in the prime of his life. The Battle of Fell’s Keep lay months or years in his future.
Despite her youth and speed, Quarrel gave ground more often than Dulaun did. They fought in a tight circle, and Wick knew from his research and reading of swordplay that it was Dulaun’s skill and expertise that drove the fight. Neither combatant seemed willing to be the first to call enough. Sweat streamed down both of them.
Then Dulaun flicked his blade, stepping up the pace and tempo. He slammed Quarrel’s sword aside with more power and authority. In another blinding pass that was too fast to follow, the Silver Sea captain suddenly had his blade at Quarrel’s throat.
Quarrel froze, looking up at Dulaun fearlessly. “If you’re going to do it, get it over with,” she stated.
Laughter burst from Dulaun’s lips. He reversed his sword and handed it to her, hilt first. “You’re blood of my blood,” he acknowledged, “and fit enough to carry the sword of your ancestors.”
Slowly, Quarrel took the proffered blade. Holding it in front of her, the blade pointing at the sky, she admired the sword.
“It’s beautiful,” she whispered.
“It is,” Dulaun agreed. “And now—it’s yours. Take it and use it in good health against your foes.”
Lowering the sword to hold at her side, Quarrel looked at the sea captain. “What about you?”
Dulaun smiled at her. “I’ll go on to whatever fate has in store for me. There’s no other way.”
“But you’re going to die.”
“Everyone dies, girl,” the captain said softly, but this time there was no disrespect offered in his words. He smiled. “Even if this spell were not crafted in the way it was, and I could remember meeting you after you are gone, I can’t change who I am. Wherever I die, however death comes for me, I trust that I chose to be there because of the man I am. I couldn’t turn away from that.”
“It’s worse than death,” Quarrel said. “At the Battle of Fell’s Keep, you’re betrayed. By one of those that you assume is your ally.”
Some of the lightness vanished from Dulaun’s smile. “Then I hope that my descendants stand truer for me than some of my friends.”
“You shouldn’t go there.”
Dulaun shook his head. “There’s no other way for me, Quarrel. I chart my life by the same stars I always have. If I were to remove those stars from the heaven, what would be the reason for living?” He took a breath. “I’d rather die than surrender. But tell me one thing.”
Quarrel tried to speak and couldn’t. Tears glimmered in her eyes and trailed down her cheeks.
Wick felt the heat of tears on his own face as well. Their presence surprised him. He looked at the young captain and his crew. He knew from his reading that Captain Dulaun and his men had always acquitted themselves bravely against pirates, enemy crews, goblinkin, and sea monsters. But they would soon be sailing to their deaths. Would it truly have been the same if they had known that? Looking at the man, Wick believed that it would have been.
“What?” Quarrel asked in a voice tight with pain. Wick knew the young woman wasn’t just facing Dulaun’s loss, but those of her parents as well.
“My death,” Dulaun said. “Did I die well? Was it for something I would have been proud to die for? And did my death make a difference, or was it all a waste?”
“You helped save a great many people,” Alysta said. “Lord Kharrion’s goblinkin forces would have slain
them all if they’d been able. Your sacrifice, and that of your companions, it made a difference.”
“Good.” Dulaun smiled again, nearly as cocky as he’d been when they’d arrived. “That’s all I’ve ever asked.” He looked at Quarrel. “Be true to the spirit of the sword and it will never let you down.”
“I will,” Quarrel said.
“Now go, and may the Old Ones watch over you.” Dulaun placed his hand on the hilt of Seaspray sheathed at his side. Quarrel still held her own version of the sword. For the moment, with the power of the spell, the sword—past and present—existed in the same time and space.
The gray fog rose suddenly around Wick, Alysta, and Quarrel, obscuring the Silver Sea and the blue sky. The fog seeped into the little Librarian’s lungs, bringing with it the biting cold of the buried keep.
He blinked, and they were once more standing in front of the frieze. Only Seaspray hanging at the end of Quarrel’s arm testified that the incident had happened. The walkway had disappeared and the pieces containing images of the fish had returned to the frieze.
“We’re back.” Quarrel examined the sword, which gleamed like it was newly minted in the lantern light. Blue fire ran along the edges and the runes.
“But not any safer than we were,” Alysta said.
Quarrel sheathed the sword and took up her bow. She looked at the cat. “It’s true? You’re my grandmother?”
Alysta padded over to Quarrel and placed a paw against the young woman’s boot. “I am. But when I knew you, your name wasn’t Quarrel.”
“No,” Quarrel agreed, kneeling down and touching the cat’s head and scratching. “I was Nyssa.”
“Yes.”
“I chose my name after my parents were killed.” Sadness touched her pale blue wolf’s eyes. “My father nicknamed me ‘Quarrel’ because he thought I was argumentative. He always insisted that I came by my nature honestly, that I got it from my grandmother.”
Alysta preened. “That’s true. You did.”
“He thought my querulousness was a bad thing.”
“Well,” the cat said warmly, her breath gray in the cold, still air of the chamber, “your father was a good man. You’ll never hear me say anything else but that. However, he was a man after all, and not always capable of the best judgment when it came to the nature of young women.” Her eyes blinked at Quarrel. “Frankly, I like the way you are.”
