He nodded to the sailors he passed. Most Pilots didn’t bother to notice they were even alive. But Sylbrac respected them. He’d been them, long ago, before his gift was discovered. They lived hard, brave lives and most came to an abrupt end out on the sea. He liked their rough honesty a whole lot better than the haughty arrogance of his Pilot brethren. At least he didn’t have to spend that much time with them. The Ketirvan occurred but once a year at the end of Chance when he was grounded anyway. The rest of the time he was onboard a ship where he belonged. Surely for these few days, he could put up with the conniving, gossiping, backstabbing, and blustering. Surely.
Sylbrac took a deep breath and blew it out, leashing himself tightly. It wouldn’t bother him so much if not for Jordan—if not for the tide of memories that rose to drown him. Damn, but he’d put all that behind him! Put his family behind him, the priggish, sanctimonious lot of them. All but Jordan.
The story of his brother’s death was murky. Murdered for certain—there was no doubt about that. At first it had been blamed on Lucy Trenton, a royal brat who had also been accused of smuggling and treason. But soon after Captain Marten Thorpe had been convicted as an accomplice. Sylbrac had never believed it. He’d sailed with Thorpe, had seen him and Jordan together. It just wasn’t possible. And then the story shifted. A Jutras plot against the crown and Jordan caught up in it. Lucy Trenton and Marten Thorpe framed, and too late to save them from the Bramble. That story didn’t seem believable either. But there was no way to get to the truth. That’s what chewed his innards. Even if he could go ask his father, the lord chancellor was a liar. Sylbrac couldn’t believe anything he said. And his mother…He’d as soon trust a Chance storm as a viper like her.
He climbed up along the headland, taking the cliff path through the trees instead of following the road. Below the tide was rolling in, the strand thinning with every wash of waves. Sylbrac broke into a jog. Fitch hissed her protest in his ear and dug her claws deep into the padding of his jacket. He left the path, pushing up the hill through the rhododendron bracken and broom bushes that cluttered the trees. He emerged just below the knob of a grassy hill, upon which perched the Dabloute. It was the most amazing building Sylbrac had ever seen. He never tired of looking at it. Carved from obsidian and alabaster, it looked like storm-whipped waves, rising high and falling, frozen in a timeless plunge. Sylbrac could almost believe that he might blink and the waves would finish dropping and be gathered back into the Inland Sea. There were no windows. The walls were cut so thin they were translucent.
He skirted around to the front of the Dabloute, feeling the tide rising higher in the bay. The Ketirvan would begin at the moment of high tide and the doors would be closed against latecomers. Much as he didn’t want to be here, neither did Sylbrac want to be locked out. Too much idiocy was likely to be written into guild law if he wasn’t there to lend a voice of reason. Or at least one of mulish obstruction.
The entrance of the guildhall was the upper half of a spectacular sylveth compass rose. The rays rose like a sunburst fifty feet in the air. The edges of each were gilded, and a dainty filigree overlaid the diamond glitter of the sylveth. Above them, twined in an erotic embrace, were Meris and Bracken, white on black. Their naked limbs grappled one another, though Sylbrac was never sure if they were cleaving lovingly to each other, or if Braken was restraining Meris to prevent her from running off to Hurn, her lover.
The entryway into the Dabloute was the center of the compass. Pilots moved through in groups, heads bent together, some laughing, some arguing passionately, others silent and stern. Sylbrac ignored them, striding ahead. No one called out a greeting, but several saw Fitch and made angry exclamations. Sylbrac smiled.
The inside of the Dabloute was as fantastical as without. The corridors were sinuous, the rooms oddly shaped. The ceilings disappeared into skurls and ripples, the floors rising and falling in soft undulations. There were no carpets or tapestries, no paintings or curtains. Rather every surface was carved into undersea shapes: knucklebones, fish, Koreion, vada-eels, celesties, and more. The sunlight from outside made everything seem to waver and move as if pushed by waves. Softly glowing sylveth lights set in the floors brightened the shadows. As soon as he passed inside, Sylbrac felt a soothing wash of peace. The Dabloute was the next best thing to actually being at sea.
He turned off from the main corridor, wanting a few minutes peace and quiet as he made his way to the Ketirvan. High tide was nearly fixed. He didn’t have much time. He hurried along, turning sideways at one point where the passage narrowed and then opened up widely. The walls were heavily rippled here, with clefts and nooks like undersea grottoes. He halted abruptly when up ahead he heard the sound of raised voices—a man and a woman arguing. He took a step forward, and then there was a shark crack! and quick, angry footsteps.
The woman who stormed around the corner was short and heavy-boned. Her face was square, her skin coarse and tanned with years of exposure to weather. Her nostrils flared and red spotted her cheeks, her mouth pulled thin with fury. The cuffs of her sleeves and the hem of her robe were edged with small silver compass roses with sylveth-drop centers. She was Eyvresia, the Pirena-elect. When she saw Sylbrac, she stopped short, her gaze flattening. Fine black lines like cracks in fine porcelain crisscrossed her eyes, weaving like a web through the whites. Before either had time to speak, more footsteps sounded behind her and she gathered her robe, darting past Sylbrac into one of the grotto nooks. She ground one white-knuckled fist against her lips, glaring back at him as if daring him to expose her.
She was followed grains later by a man who hardly came to Sylbrac’s chin. His short, curly gray hair was wild-looking, as if he’d been running his fingers through it. His black mustache and beard were clipped close, his brows set in a furious scowl. His eyes were also marked with fine black lines, only his bore far fewer than Evresia’s. Those marking Sylbrac’s eyes were darker and more numerous than either. By contrast to his own robes, however, the shorter man’s black robes were weighted by compass roses stitched in gold thread, one covering each side of his chest from collarbone to hip, another on his back. Sylveth discs gleamed at the centers.
He stopped short when he saw Sylbrac, his mouth twisting. On his cheek was a scarlet imprint of a hand. Sylbrac grinned. What had Pirena Wildreveh said to make the Pirena-elect hit him?
“What are you doing here?”
As if he was manure someone had tracked in on his shoe. Sylbrac’s smile flattened, his eyes narrowing as he reached up to stroke Fitch. Wildreveh’s gaze followed his hand and his mouth puckered as if he’d eaten a mouthful of salt. It was that snide expression that made Sylbrac step to block Eyvresia from view. She had hit the bilge-sucking bastard, and so she’d earned a reward. Not that he ever needed an excuse to antagonize Wildreveh.
“I’m on my way to the Ketirvan.”
“Not with that cat, you aren’t.”
“Oh, but I am. I’m not aware of any rules prohibiting cats. She’s such a quiet thing, I doubt anyone will even notice her.”
It was a bald-faced lie. Everyone would notice her. Her presence would be like a scream in the night, smoke in a darkened room.
“Then let me be clear. I forbid it. I want her out of the Dabloute. Now!”
Sylbrac’s brows arched. “I don’t believe you have such authority, Wildreveh.”
The other man’s jaw clenched. “I am Pirena of the guild. That’s all the authority I need.”
“I don’t think so,” Sylbrac said softly. He looked pointedly to Wildreveh’s cheek, where Eyvresia’s hand-print remained. “And anyway, you’re only Pirena until the end of Ketirvan. You’ve got no fangs to hurt me.”
The other man’s lips slid apart in a death’s-head grin. His square horsey teeth were stained brown and yellow. “Haven’t I? We shall see.”
With that he turned and marched away, his shoulders rigid. Eyvresia stepped out of the grotto, watching him disappear.
“I know you take great pride in anta
gonizing your fellow Pilots, but was that wise?”
Sylbrac glanced down at her. “What can he do?”
She shook her head. “I think it would have been better to know the answer to that question before you pushed pins into him. But it is certain that whatever it is he can do, he will.” Her brow furrowed as she looked at Sylbrac. “Watch yourself. You’ve no friends here to cushion the blow.”
Sylbrac only shrugged. He wasn’t worried. He should have been.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Diana Pharaoh Francis has written the fantasy novel trilogy that includes Path of Fate, Path of Honor, and Path of Blood. Path of Fate was nominated for the Mary Roberts Rinehart Award. Her story “In Between the Dark and the Light” recently appeared in Furry Fantastic. Diana teaches in the English department at the University of Montana Western. For a lot more information, including where to read her blog, maps of her worlds, updated news, and other odd and fun tidbits, go to www.dianapfrancis.com.
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