by Cat Bruno
With eyes full of questions, he told her, “As she grows, so will her power. You must learn to control it.”
“Perhaps the diauxie will be able to teach me how,” she sighed in response.
Nahla said no more as she strolled from the room, her long, layered skirt swaying as she moved. When the door was once again closed, Aldric moved until he stood in front of it, his hands clenched at his sides. An ashen hue colored his skin. Not fully recovered, he had said little since the palace. Still, Caryss knew that he would further weaken himself if she required it.
He watched her until she asked, “What is it?”
“Are you so certain that she can be trusted?”
“What choice do we have? If she betrays me, then she will have to answer for it. And not just to me.”
Aldric looked up, wide-eyed, but understanding, and stated, “Conri.”
“Do not speak his name to me,” she hissed, backing away from him.
As if he was the mage he once was, Aldric boomed, “He is the babe’s father, Caryss! Even if you have not seen him in a few moons, he will come once the girl is born. You must ready yourself.”
“Do you think I forget?” she cried.
In a softer voice, she told him, “Let him come. He will see that I am Bronwen no more.”
Those words were the last that she spoke before Nahla returned. Both Aldric and Sharron stayed silent as well. The king slept, unbothered by all that surrounded him, unaware of what would come.
*****
9
As he walked, his thick, leather boots crushed low-lying, lush ferns beneath black-toed tips. Atop the ferns lay fallen Poinciana blossoms, as orange as a setting sun. Had his eyes not been skyward, he would have noticed how the vivid flowers carpeted the ground, leading him from forest to sea.
Overhead, a painted gray sky hung low. Around him, the air was wet, clinging to his skin and beading across his face and arms. His hair fell long and loose down his back, braided and reddened with clay.
He traveled alone, as he always had, swinging a scimitar in front of him, the curved blade clearing a path out of the high grass. Trees stood, scattered to either side of him, but their trunks looked thin and vulnerable compared to him. The sleeves of his tunic had been torn free, exposing large, well-muscled arms and shining brown skin.
At his waist hung two more swords, neither curved. On his left hip, he carried a narrow blade with a thin handle, the tip both fine and sharp. Tied at his other side was a broadsword, sheathed in dirtied leather and nearly forgettable in its plainness. However, it was the sword that lay across his broad back that most noticed.
The sword was vast, strapped tightly against a faded and tight tunic. Hanging from the frayed, plaited edges of his hair to the middle of his legs, the sword was long and, wider than his hand, thick and unsheathed. The blade itself did not shimmer or shine, but the steel was clean and sharpened. The hilt was made of well-worn leather, softened by moon years of use, but unadorned.
Few could lift it, not that he would even let them try.
None of his other swords had been named, but the Greatsword had been a gift to him, forged by a blacksmith from across the Three Seas, and had come to him bearing a name. Otieno dared not change it after hearing the story of the goddess of war for whom she was named.
Enyo.
A huntress who, along with her brother, roamed lands far to the east. While her brother was stronger and more skilled, her bloodlust was unmatched. Or so the blacksmith had told him, many moon years before. While the man’s gods were not his own, Otieno had listened, and, at the tale’s conclusion, did not change the sword’s name. None but he knew it, although some called her by her other name.
Bloodlust.
Reaching up, Otieno traced the blade with scarred fingers, smiling in memory. Dropping his hand back to his side, he let the falling water wash the blood from his fingers. In mist and rain, he continued on, the scimitar slicing through the high, wet grass once again. Even as hours passed, the blood remained. For the diauxie could see that his hands would always be stained red.
*****
By the time that Nahla returned, the sky had lightened and the sun hid just below the horizon. King Herrin still slept, and each time Caryss felt his life pulse it was steady but slow. She knew that the poppy milk that he had been given at the palace would soon wear off, and he would wake, yet knew not how he would fare. She and Sharron had discussed their options, and both agreed that they would have to wean him from the milk slowly.
Caryss, jumping from the King’s side, rushed to her and begged her to tell them what had occurred.
Dropping the much lighter coin purse onto a small table near the door, Nahla told her, “As soon as you are ready, you should hurry to the docks. The man is named Hestor, and while his ship is smaller than many others, he has made the journey to the Cove hundreds of times. He has business further south, but has agreed to drop you at Bautista, the main port on the southeastern edge of Francolla, the largest of the islands. With fair weather, you should arrive within a quarter moon, or, at most, a half-moon. Hestor has long been a client of mine, and, while he does not know who you are, or whom you travel with, he will be discreet. For a fair price, I have bought you passage and meals. Aside from Hestor, there will only be three others aboard, two men who have long been in his employ and a woman who cooks for them. She is an Islander who might offer you some assistance once you make port.”
When Nahla noticed Caryss ready to speak, she shook her head and raised a gold-rimmed arm.
“After you pass those doors,” Nahla said, pointing behind her, “I would advise you to trust no one. Name the King as your ill father who seeks warmer lands. It is not so far off and has been known to happen often. Keep the dark mage hidden as well, for my people have long known how to spot dark magic. Keep to yourselves, even once you arrive.”
Aldric began to question the woman, but she ignored him, taking a seat among the pillows on her large bed and watching as they gathered what little they had. Most of their belongings were still at the first inn, yet they had no time to retrieve them, nor did any think it wise. Caryss suspected that Aldric had more coin than he had given to Nahla, enough, even, to replace all of their belongings.
Once more Caryss asked about the diauxie.
“He is known to have a fondness for Francolla, which is why I instructed Hestor to take you there,” Nahla stated, unmoving from the bed. Caryss knew that her mage-sight, although true, had unnerved the Islander.
From across the room, Caryss called to her “I owe you much, more than I will ever be able to repay.”
The room grew hushed until Aldric stated, “We must go, while the King still sleeps.”
Before she reached for the door, Caryss paused and turned back to Nahla. She could not leave without once more telling Nahla of the babe.
“Nahla,” she began, “I know not where the mage-sight came from. Nor do I know how it will come to be, but I was not wrong. You will bear a son. A son of the Tribe. Both kin and friend to my daughter.”
Silence followed as Nahla said nothing, but her soft eyes told Caryss much.
In the Islander’s light brown eyes, oval and lined in kohl, Caryss saw acceptance.
She knows I speak the truth.
*****
Surrounded by the Vollaxo and Lisania Rivers, which emptied into the Three Seas, the King’s City had been a center for trade and commerce for hundreds of moon years, which had funded its growth and development. The piers wrapped around the city, but the docks in the northeast corridor were the most used. While the group would have preferred to depart from the lesser-used southern docks, they had little choice and hurried past newer moorings fitted with iron and rope.
As they neared the older docks, paint-chipped and rusted quays greeted them. Searching for Hestor’s ship proved simple enough for there were few that had southern-styling. Along a group of slips near the end of the piers, many of which looked as old as the King’s City itself
, they came upon the small, multiple-sailed boat. But what set it apart was its sun-yellow mainsail, and they had hurried to it as glowed in the faded, early morning sky.
Caryss eyed an intricately knotted rope holding the boat to the pier and a ladder hanging from its side. With a look to Aldric, she asked, “How will we get the King aboard?”
“There must be a ramp about.”
The mage stepped in front of her and grabbed the hanging ladder as it swayed. Sharron, just behind them, pushed the King. His cart, muddy and creaking, had not fared well across the bricked roads and would not last much longer.
“Go on ahead. I will wait with the King,” she told Sharron.
When last Caryss was on a boat, moon years before while at the Academy, she had quickly grown ill, vomiting until her stomach heaved and nothing remained. Looking at the boat brought a new fear into her.
Her mouth suddenly dry, Caryss called up to Sharron, “Have you any ginger root?”
The other healer was in the center of the swaying ladder, but managed to cry, “I used the last of it before we reached Rexterra.”
Remembering the bit of coin she had in a pouch at her waist, Caryss pointed to the central square and addressed Aldric, who stood atop the boat, “I am going to hurry back. I won’t survive the journey well without ginger.”
The king still slept, so she left him in the cart and ran back, following an orb-lit path until she was near the area where food stands nearly outnumbered ships. Caryss glanced around, noticing all varieties of fish, most she did not recognize, as well as breads and cheeses, fruit and vegetables. The smells were overpowering, and her stomach churned, forcing her to raise a hand to her mouth. Finally, near a wooden stall laden with fresh-caught fish, she spotted a large pile of ginger root, clumped together and uncut.
Reaching into a small pouch at the edge of her belt, Caryss grabbed several coins and crossed to the stall. As she neared, she noticed a woman grinding dried peppermint leaves, sending a sweet scent into the air and masking the fishy odor that seemed to be everywhere. She watched as the woman took the crumbled mint and mixed it into a thick, pale paste. For a moment, Caryss smiled, recognizing what the woman did, having often done the same for many moon years.
In Common, she asked, “How much for five bundles of the ginger?”
Without looking up, a voice croaked, “Twenty pence.”
Caryss looked at her coins and grabbed the two smallest, setting them within an arm’s reach of the woman.
“Have you ever thought to add sage to the tincture? In combination with the mint, it relieves even the worst head pains, especially ones brought about by bad nerves.”
The white-haired woman’s grinding stopped, and she glanced at Caryss with eyes that matched the dull waters beneath the docks. As if she had never seen a Northerner, she scanned Caryss from head to feet, before settling on her belt, and the many pouches that hung from it. Nervous under the woman’s scrutiny, Caryss moved nearer to the booth, reaching for the ginger until she held five large bundles. Before she could leave, the woman addressed her.
“Sage, you say. I will have to try that. What brings you to the King’s City, healer?”
Stuttering, Caryss replied, “My father is ill, and I am trying to find a cure for him.”
With a cackling laugh, the vendor told her, “The King’s City will only make him worse. Our streets are crowded and our air is heavy with coal and soot. I have never left, so I know more than others. You must not be well-trained if you cannot see the danger that surrounds you.”
“I am taking him from here. To warmer lands,” Caryss explained, backing away. With a forced smile, Caryss thanked the woman and ran off, clutching at the knotty stalks of ginger as she fled.
When she neared the boat, she noticed Aldric pushing the King up a wooden ramp, and she caught up to them quickly, breathing heavy. Her life pulse throbbed unevenly against her shirt as she looked about nervously.
“I hope to never return here, Aldric,” she muttered, as they both now stood on the hull. Between them lay the King, still covered by Nahla’s blanket.
Before Aldric could reply, a man approached. He was not what she had expected, and Caryss haltingly asked, “Are you Hestor?”
With a wide smile missing a few teeth, the man bowed deeply and joked, “The one and only. You must be Nahla’s girl. When she said that I’d know you by your hair, she did not lie!”
His tone was warm and his smile genuine, and Caryss laughed.
“You are as bright as a sun rising over still waters, my lady.”
“I hope your skill as a captain is as fine as your charm, sir,” Caryss teased, enjoying the man’s glee.
“They are rivals, I am told,” he answered, before waving his arms wide. “May you enjoy my castle while you are aboard. We will depart shortly.”
“We must leave at once, captain,” Aldric interjected.
Caryss glared at the mage, although he seemed not to notice.
Within moments, though, the ramp was raised, and the smaller of the crewmen had climbed down the ladder. Next, he untied the four thick ropes that still held the ship onto the dock. When all four were untied, he walked to the end of the boat and pushed it, before jumping into the water. A few strokes later, he was climbing up the ladder. Caryss watched as he and the other man grabbed long wooden beams and pushed the boat even further from the pier. As the ship distanced itself from the dock, Caryss closed her eyes and let out the breath that she did not know that she had been holding. The king was still dozing and she stepped close enough so that she could kneel beside him. Grabbing his hand, she brought it to her lips and gently kissed it.
Into the lightening sky and with the wind blowing her long coppery hair against her reddened cheeks, Caryss whispered, “Keep us safe, daughter.”
Unseen, the captain watched. With his back to a guardrail and his hand on the tiller, Hestor looked across the hull to where she knelt. Shaking his head into the crisp breeze, he wondered who the girl was, especially since King Herrin had no daughters.
*****
Through a window across the room, the morning sun slanted and shined onto the bed, casting a yellow haze onto the sleeping man. His eye was blackened and a thick streak of crosses lined his upper cheek. As he rolled to his side, Crispin paused, reaching swollen fingers to rub at the sides of his forehead. After lifting his head for a moment, it fell hard against a pillow.
Groaning, his fingers dabbed at the slice under his eye. He had not thought the healer would strike him and had not seen the shining weapon until it had been too late. Thinking of the girl, he wondered if she was awake, for the hour was late and the sun high, yet he felt as if he had had too many ales. Behind him lay the girl, pressed against the wall. Before turning to her, Crispin readied himself and tried to find words to explain why he had spoken so harshly. Half a life spent at the Academy had not prepared her for life in Rexterra, nor anywhere else, he thought.
If I had used the blade, you would be dead, she had told him.
Crispin knew that she had not been wrong. He had recognized the flash of the dark-bladed dagger and could feel the power humming through it as she struck. How she had come to have the blade was as mysterious to him as the girl was herself. Drawing a deep breath, he again lifted his head while swinging his legs until his bare toes struck the floor.
He was going to have quite a bit to explain, especially the injury to his face. Even now, his cheek pulsed, reminding him of his folly. With his clothes scattered across her room, Crispin rose to retrieve them. Once dressed, he crossed the room. For a moment, he hesitated, wondering if the healer would regret what had happened between them.
As if he was boy of fifteen and not a man grown, Crispin reached for her, his fingers slightly trembling. Pulling back the blankets, Crispin laughed gruffly.
*****
10
As Otieno neared the shoreline, the air swirled stronger around him, sending his braids across his face and shoulders. His snakelike hair
curved and slapped at him, but the man paid them little notice as he slowly edged the water, leaving long boot markings in a trail behind him. The sun was high and bright and the sky nearly cloudless. The wind was unusual, a Northern wind, not the warm, moist air that usually circled the Southern Cove Islands, causing a shiver to rip through his body.
Looking over his shoulder, Otieno checked to see if he was being followed, but only noticed a string of fishing boats bobbing in the water and children at play in the surf. When he neared the children, a small boy ran toward him, kicking up foam as he ran through the bubbling sea.
After a day of rain, the sun had remerged, lightening the sky. Otieno’s step seemed lighter too as he slowed it, watching the bare-chested child approach. Skin reddened by sun and surf, the boy glistened, stopping just steps in front of the diauxie. Noticing the boy’s light brown eyes upon him, Otieno’s lips opened, exposing straight teeth stained brown from chewing cacao leaves.
“Have you ever seen the dance of swords?”
The boy’s wide eyes stared at the diauxie, moving from the small scimitar held by Otieno to the broadsword and rapier tethered at his belt. The boy trembled, as if overcome with chills, and said nothing, yet his eyes told Otieno much. Taking several steps back, Otieno bowed, his braided hair falling thick over his face. When he lifted the curved scimitar, sparks of light spread across the sand, beckoning the others to watch. Soon, Otieno was surrounded by sea-soaked children.
With their gazes upon him, he began to dance, just as he did each morning and evening with none around as witness.
The scimitar, with its womanly hook, moved through the salty air as if it swayed to the sounds of the sea. Above him, the sword circled. When he brought it near his waist, Otieno spun, flipping the scimitar from hand to hand, fast and smooth. Not once did he falter, even as his spinning intensified.
