“Dragon does not like fools,” Master Kielson said.
“Some of the others were fools, too,” Camwyn said. They had discussed the actions of a line of kings over the long years—some wiser and some more foolish.
“The question is, Camwyn, are you wise or a fool? You yourself?”
He glanced aside. The paladin sat at the end of the table, rubbing wool fat into a strip of leather. She looked up with a smile but said nothing. “I think … I think it is being a fool to claim wisdom, like claiming a sword or a boot as one’s own. For no one is perfectly wise but the gods—or maybe Dragon, if Dragon is not a god. But I know some things accounted wise, and I try to see ahead to the flowers of a seed, and the fruit of that flower, and the seeds it leaves. I could not do that when I woke, but I am learning.”
Master Kielson nodded. “And what must a man do to remain as wise as he is?”
“Learn more,” Camwyn said. “Become wiser. But learning means mistakes, and mistakes are not wise.” He paused, scratched his nose, and went on. “I think … if I could see more ahead … I would make fewer mistakes. But sometimes you can’t wait to think to the end of time.”
“True, and well said. We have discussed all the past kings in the House of the Dragon: Which do you think was wisest?”
“Camwyn III,” Camwyn said. He listed his reasons.
“And which the most foolish?”
“Pelyan. He was not only lazy, mean, and a drunk, he drove out that other one, the bastard.”
“Do you know what became of the bastard?”
“No—do you?”
“Indeed yes. In another land he became a peer of the realm; he is a notable military commander and has met Dragon, who considers him somewhat wise.”
“As wise as Camwyn III?”
“No … but wiser than Pelyan or the one who became Chancellor.” Master Kielson stood up and stretched. “Well, Camwyn, my work here is done, I believe. You are competent in reading; you have learned the language of the house, and from here, I believe you can educate yourself.”
“Alone?” Camwyn stared. “Sir—what I learned is that I need help.”
“And you will find the help you need, I’m certain, but for now, it is time for me to go to another student who needs me more now than you do.” He nodded toward Paks. “And you still have work to do with this lady before Dragon returns.”
Camwyn bowed, and Master Kielson bowed in return, then left and—when Camwyn looked—walked up the path that led past Mathor’s house to … where? Camwyn had never gone to the top of the slope … Was there a town beyond? Why had he not wondered that before? And why had he not wondered that the season seemed, as it had when he first came, late spring. The spindly-legged foals were now much larger, able to gallop with the herd … but nothing had changed in the land itself. Day after day had slipped past; he had no count of how long he had been there.
“Well, Camwyn, are you ready for a ride?” Paks grinned at him.
What could he say but yes? He nodded, said the word, and followed his last teacher out of the house, down the path along the creek.
Two horses waited there. Paks always rode the same horse, a red chestnut. Today a dark horse, almost black, waited for him. Both were saddled.
“They have saddles,” Camwyn said, then felt stupid.
“Your balance is better, but now you need a different exercise,” Paks said as she mounted. “Do you remember how to use stirrups?”
Camwyn did not. The saddle looked higher—no way to jump and throw himself across it. The stirrups—what was he to do with them? Paks coached him; the horse stood patiently, and finally he was up. It felt unnatural—he couldn’t feel the horse’s muscles moving under him.
“You can fight riding bareback,” Paks said. “But it’s a lot easier to fall off or be pulled off.”
In a few days, Camwyn rode confidently in the saddle, though he still rode bareback at times. He knew he was stronger. Though he did not remember where he had learned it, his muscles seemed to know sword work, and Paks taught him new things as well. She also had him run on the hills, up and down and across the slopes, and through the woods until he no longer stumbled and fell or had any fear of heights whether he stood on a tree’s limb or at the edge of a cliff many times his height.
“Did you know me before?” he asked her once. “Do you know where I came from?”
“I know what the gods show me,” Paks said. Her gray eyes seemed to see far beyond his vision, into another world, perhaps. “And I know what you are now, because you have shown me.”
It was not the answer he wanted—not really an answer at all when he thought about it—but he knew it was the only answer she would give.
Bannerlíth, Prealíth
Coming from the elvenhome to Prealíth’s ordinary forest had been a shock, like a dip in cold water. Almost, Dorrin wanted to turn back, reenter the elvenhome, and stay there forever. But with the outside world had come that sense of urgency again. In Prealíth, the trees showed autumn colors, though still mixed with green. If she was to sail this season—and she must—they should make haste to the coast before it ended.
Days more travel lay before them even though they picked up the pace, riding more swiftly. Forest frayed into farmland with scattered patches of woods, and they had dirt lanes to ride on and farmsteads and villages where a coin would buy a night’s lodging and dinner. Finally, from a hill, Dorrin caught her first sight of the Eastern Ocean, a dark blue line against the lighter sky.
As Dorrin and her escort neared the coast, the land descended; the city of Bannerlíth seemed to flow down the last hills in a torrent of white and red to encircle its harbor. Dorrin reined in and looked down at the city and then out to sea. The ocean looked much bigger this close. She had only the vaguest notion how far it was from this shore to the distant continent from which the Seafolk had come, from which Kieri had escaped. On this afternoon the sea looked almost black-blue in the distance, but nearer to shore it had a cold green cast. Rocks and larger islands lay offshore to the north; to the south she could just see the loom of the Eastbight, a vague line in the haze.
Her stomach tightened. Now the real journey began. All across Lyonya she had been safe in the bubble of the elvenhome, guarded from any harm by the King’s Squires who escorted her. Even in western Prealíth, she had felt safer than here, where her world as she knew it ended and the unknown began. From Bannerlíth, she must go on alone.
She shook herself out of that mood and reviewed her resources. The loose jewels were well hidden, sewn into the lining of her doublet. Kieri had provided the kind of small box he said sea passengers usually carried, and the regalia fit into it underneath her spare clothes. She had a letter from him to the Sea-Prince, and this was the right season to sail from Bannerlíth to the Immerhoft Sea.
She lifted her reins. “It’s a lovely city,” she said. “At least, seen from here.”
“It is indeed,” said Berne.
The city gate was nothing more than an arch with a pole across the track and two men in green and blue lounging in the shade of a tree.
“You’re from Lyonya!” one of them said. “I remember you. Message for the Sea-Prince?”
“Yes,” said Berne.
“And who’s that?” He pointed at Dorrin.
“Someone the Sea-Prince wants to meet,” Varne said.
“Go on, then.” The two men lifted the pole from its brackets, and they rode through.
The track steepened as they went on, finally turning into paved streets that wound back and forth across the slope between whitewashed buildings: houses, shops, and—below—obvious warehouses on the same level as the harbor. Finally they came to the Sea-Prince’s palace. Built of white stone, it stood nearer the harbor than the top of the hill, with a colonnaded front and a broad terrace of stones set in a pattern of fish and birds. The King’s Squires knew the way to the entrance and were recognized; they introduced Dorrin as “a close friend of our king’s.”
Dorrin spent that night in a palace guest suite as lavish as any in Vérella but very differently styled—uncluttered, with a small balcony giving a view of the sea. She had eaten dinner with the Sea-Prince and his family—his shy young wife and a small boy. The service was simple: a fish on a platter, some steamed grain, and a deep dish of strange-looking things, strings and bag-like bits and—a moment of horror—eyes.
“What is that?” she asked.
“A treat,” the Sea-Prince said. “Only at this season can we get the small ones. Look—” He picked up something that looked both impossible and disgusting to Dorrin. “Cut it into small pieces, like this, and dip it in the green sauce. Or the yellow.”
Dorrin would rather have kept to the fish and the grain, but he looked at her with such enthusiasm that she accepted the horror on her plate and cut off chunks the size he recommended. Dipped into the sauce, it tasted vaguely charred, but the sauce was delicious.
The child, she was astonished to see, ate another of the things, biting off pieces of the stringy parts with obvious pleasure.
“What do you call it?” Dorrin asked.
“Two-hander,” her host said. “Because we have ten fingers on two hands, and it has ten legs. They aren’t like our legs, but it moves with them.”
After dinner, she asked the Sea-Prince about taking passage on a ship to the Immerhoft ports.
“Which ones?” he asked.
“The western ones,” she said.
The Sea-Prince did not ask why but stared out at the sea for a long moment. “Only a few ships will go this time of year,” he said. “Early autumn is the season of the best winds, yes, but also the season of great storms. You are not experienced with ships?”
“Not at all,” Dorrin said.
“You will need a very good ship and a very good captain. And you have no attendants. That is easier in some ways, but—there are no women sailors on the ship I am thinking of.”
“I have been a mercenary,” Dorrin said. “Being the only woman will not bother me.”
“Well, then. Tomorrow I will introduce you.”
The ship the Sea-Prince took her to—Blessing, a regular on the route between Bannerlíth and the southern ports—was sailing the next day. Dorrin had seen ships like it in the Immer ports: the high front and rear, the bluff bows. Its gray-bearded captain, introduced as Captain Royan, nodded to the Sea-Prince then stared at Dorrin. “Is you dress like that all time?”
“She’s from Tsaia,” the Sea-Prince said, as if that explained everything.
“But is man wears such and a sword.”
“There, some women do.”
The captain shrugged. “May be better. Come aboard. See cabin.” Dorrin walked around things like tree stumps with ropes wrapped around them, past boxes, barrels, clay pots, and a stack of furs, carefully stepping where the captain stepped. The cabin, in the high aft section, was small but had a window. Under the bunk—a plank shelf with a rim—was a chamber pot fitted into a niche and a space big enough for her box, with a removable board across the front. At the head of the bunk was a niche with a jug; it, too, had a wooden slat that held it in place. On the opposite wall were cubbyholes behind a sliding door.
The Sea-Prince asked questions she had not known to ask: the length of the voyage (at least three tendays, maybe more in bad weather), whether she needed to supply her own bedding (yes), and rations (optional, affecting the price of passage). Dorrin agreed to the price and—at the Sea-Prince’s advice—chose to provide her own rations.
Food and bedding were available in a chandler’s across the wide stone dock. Before midday, she had seen her new bedding and stores taken aboard Blessing and gone back to the Sea-Prince’s palace to retrieve her baggage. She ate a leisurely luncheon with the Sea-Prince’s wife and child, as he was meeting with others.
“I wish you fair voyage,” that lady said. “And as this is your first, here is a remedy for seasickness.” She handed Dorrin a small round box. “Dried leaves of a seaside plant, taken in sib, should help. Laran never gets seasick, so I’m certain he didn’t mention it.”
Dorrin opened the box and looked; the furry gray leaves smelled strongly, though they did not look attractive. “Thank you,” she said. “Thank you both for all your help.”
One of the servants carried her baggage down to the harbor for her. More people crowded the dock, both bringing cargo to the ship and unloading another that had just arrived. Dorrin edged through the crowd, avoiding piles of cargo waiting to go aboard—bales of wool, bundles of cloth, boxes. At the gangway, the captain waited, a clerk beside him with a tally board.
“Ready to board, then?” he said. “Is that all you’re bringing? Good … Gith … come take the passenger’s box to the cabin. Come on, now, over you come.” Once she was aboard with her bundle and the sailor had picked up the box, he said, “To your cabin now, if you please, and stay out of the way until we’ve got this lot stowed. Things will quiet down later. We will eat together this evening.”
Dorrin followed Gith to her cabin, where a thin mattress and folded blanket now lay on her bunk and boxes of her provisions took up half the meager floor space. He pushed her box under the bunk and slid the plank through slots to secure it there. Then he pointed to the roll of netting along the side of the bunk.
“You know how to put that up?”
She had no idea what the netting was for and said so.
“Storms,” Gith said. “Hooks here.” He showed her. “And here, on the bulkhead.” He gave her a gap-toothed grin.
“Thank you,” Dorrin said. Surely she wouldn’t need a net.
“Your meat’s in the galley already,” Gith said. “And when Cap’n says it’s clear, Cook wants to talk to you about your meals. Maybe move some of these boxes later.”
Dorrin thanked him, slid the cabin door closed, then looked out the window above her bunk. Her cabin was on the water side of the ship; she looked across the harbor, then down at the green water below. Down there, someone rowed a small boat, about the size she’d seen on rivers, back and forth along the side of the ship. The cabin felt stuffy; she left the window open and opened the door again. A short narrow passage led to the deck outside, from which came the noise of men at work. She took off her doublet—far too warm—folded her cloak for a pillow, and lay down on the bunk to wait out the time until the captain came.
“We’ve another passenger,” the captain said at dinner. The captain’s cabin, much bigger than her own, took up the entire width of the ship at the rear, with room for a dining table that would seat six. He leaned back in his chair and smiled at Dorrin.
“He ate ashore?” Dorrin asked.
“Oh, no. Not in your class. He’s working his passage back south. Missed his ship, he says, being ashore with a toothache, but he’s a sailor right enough. Hands like shoe leather; feet, too. I made him run up the rigging and throw a few knots to be sure he could. I don’t expect you’ll notice him, and as he’s crew, he’s not supposed to speak to you.” He set his hands flat on the table. “Now, about that—ship has rules, and even paying passengers must follow them.”
“Certainly,” Dorrin said.
“You’re welcome on deck, but there’s a dark line—blackwood—you must not cross unless I give permission aft of the mainmast. Between that line and the cabins back here, you can walk back and forth for exercise or sit on the deck or a coil of rope if there is one. But if I tell you to go below, that means into your cabin, and it will be for a reason. You’ve never sailed, you said, and it’s all too easy for a land-legs to fall or get in the way.”
“I understand,” Dorrin said. “Stay on this side of the black line.”
“I may invite you to the upper deck, but you must not come up without my invitation. You may come into the passage between the cabins, but you may not come into my cabin without invitation.” Dorrin nodded, and he went on. “Even if a hatch is opened, you’re not to go down in the hold without permission. It’s not for trash or the spill of your pot. Gith wi
ll empty that, but otherwise you’re to keep your compartment tidy so that when the ship rolls, everything stays in place. And don’t leave things about, outside your cabin. Gith will tap on your door at mealtimes if you’re in your cabin; you can ignore the bells and other signals the crew needs.”
Dorrin discovered that everything on the ship had a different name than it would have had on land. Doors were hatches, walls were bulkheads, floors were decks—all of them, not just the top one, as she’d thought. Windows were ports, confusing because instead of heart-hand and sword-hand, the ship’s sides were port and starboard. What she called ropes were lines or cables or halyards or—in a few cases—ropes, and most of them had another specific name as well. Every sail had its own name. Every mast had its own name, and so did other parts of the ship. Days after they left Bannerlíth, she was still struggling to remember which was which.
The ship moved not just through the water but on the water. Dorrin had heard of ships “rocking” and had thought of them as like a seagoing rocking chair, but it was more complicated than that. The ship could, at any time, lean one way or the other or a combination of the two, and it was never completely still and level. Nor was it quiet. She had imagined, seeing the ships on the Immerhoft Sea from shore, that they glided along without a sound. But there was one noise or another all the time, in rhythms it took her days to understand. Shouted commands, shrill whistles, the thud of bare feet on the deck as sailors obeyed, the creaking of wood as the ship tilted this way and that, the flap of sails when they changed direction or the wind did, the splash and gurgle of water along the ship’s sides, the bell that rang the turning of the glass, the louder gong that called crew and passengers to meals. At first Dorrin alerted to every shout—shouts ashore meant some emergency—but here they meant nothing to a passenger.
When Captain Royan invited her to come to the upper deck, she could easily see the Eastbight, its mountainous mass jutting into the ocean on the sword—no, the starboard—side. The ship kept well away from it, so she could not see any details.
Crown of Renewal Page 42
