Awakener

by J. C. Staudt

  “My mum and dad use magic, and they aren’t unfair to others.”

  “Not everyone behaves so graciously, I’m afraid.”

  Ryssa gave him a knowing look. “Like Master Triolyn. He gets vexed about lots of things.”

  “Is he one of your father’s bandits?”

  She shook her head. “He’s an archer.”

  “I see. And he does magic?”

  “No. Only hunting and tanning and complaining about things.”

  “I see.”

  Ryssa pointed to the sphere. “How does it work?”

  “Well,” said Maaltred, contemplating how best to describe it. “Imagine if someone were to push you to the ground and hold you there. It would be very hard to stand up, wouldn’t it?”

  She nodded.

  “If you think of nature as the one being held down, and magic the one doing the holding, this sphere solves the problem. It helps nature stand up.”

  “But magic and nature don’t push each other. They’re friends.”

  “Did your father tell you that?”

  “No. Mum did.”

  Vicar Sullimas was moaning in his bunk, wracked by fever dreams. His wound had begun to stink, and there was insufficient cloth aboard ship to change the bandage daily as Norne would’ve liked. When he’d dressed the wound two days prior, Norne had gagged at the stench. Maaltred had only given the wound a brief glance, yet he hadn’t been able to forget the puffy red skin or the slickness of the black-green rot. Now there were flies buzzing overhead.

  Truth be told, Maaltred was surprised Sullimas had survived this long. The old fool, he often thought. Norne can cure him, yet he refuses it, knowing full well he isn’t getting any better.

  Footsteps approached down the hall. Maaltred covered the sphere and tucked it into his pack seconds before Norne entered the cabin with Eril, Blinch and Briynad. They were all laughing, carrying bowls of onion stew and red summer wine in wooden cups. The smell of the stew made Maaltred hungry and sick at the same time.

  “And do you want to know the most amusing thing about the whole situation?” Eril was saying. “She wasn’t even a candler.”

  Norne howled with laughter. “She wasn’t—she was—” He lost it and doubled over, spilling hot stew on his fingers. He was so busy laughing he didn’t seem to care. He set the bowl on the floor and wrung his hand, then wiped it clean on his robes. His laughter woke Vyleigh, who rubbed her eyes and stretched, then lay watching him from her bunk.

  Maaltred was struck by a long-forgotten memory from his boyhood. You must protect her, he heard his father’s voice say. She is your sister. She will look to you. A moment of empathy overwhelmed him as he thought of Darion Ulther’s son, the boy whom Roke’s arrow had slain. A boy who had died trying to protect his sisters. Maaltred hadn’t been able to protect Tanielle from the vile magics of the Korengadi. Was this how he’d chosen to make amends for his failure? On this ship, with these hostages, under the watchful eyes of three strangers who’d quickly styled themselves as friends? “I’m afraid your joke went straight over my head, Eril,” he said. “On that note, I don’t believe you ever mentioned the name of the church you’re headed to in Forandran.”

  Eril put down his spoon and drank a sip of wine. “No, I don’t believe I did.”

  “I’ve never been to Forandran, you see, so my knowledge of the city is admittedly scant.”

  “It’s a lovely place,” said Norne. “Most beautiful place I’ve ever lived.”

  “You lived there?”

  “For more than year. In fact I was just telling Eril about my time in the sacred city. I always say Forandran is where I learned to make mistakes.” He laughed. “I made plenty in those days. Haven’t stopped since.”

  “I should like to hear about it sometime,” said Maaltred. “So you were saying, Eril…”

  “I wasn’t saying anything, actually.”

  “In answer to my question about your destination.”

  The elf shot him a black look. “It’s a small congregation. I doubt you’ve heard of it if you’ve never been to Forandran.”

  “Try me, in any case.”

  “Don’t pry, Brother Maaltred,” said Norne, working at his stew. “It’s impolite.”

  “No harm done,” said Eril. “It’s only that I tend to avoid overpraising any religious affiliation. We’ve built our ministry with the needs of the clergy in mind—holy men and women of all stripes—and we must thereby advocate for neutrality in our work.”

  Servants of the Dusk indeed, Maaltred thought. A dusk which refuses to make itself apparent. But then, isn’t that how the dusk would prefer things? He wanted to know who these people were and what they were about. Yet he’d pressed the issue as far as he dared. “Fair enough. A mysterious approach, to be sure.”

  “We all have our mysteries. Don’t we, Brother Norne?”

  Norne looked up from his stew, a brown runnel dribbling down his chin. “Indeed. Indeed we do.”

  That night Sullimas’s condition worsened. Eril and his two companions were elsewhere when the old vicar began to groan and convulse. Ryssa and Vyleigh stared in silence while Maaltred and Norne went to his bedside.

  “That’s it,” said Norne. “I’ve seen enough. I’m curing you. Lie still.” He lowered the blanket and began to part Sullimas’s robes.

  Sullimas grabbed him by the arm and wrenched him near. “You are not to do this. I forbid it.”

  “Vicar, I will stand by and watch you suffer no longer. You’ll die if I don’t cure you.”

  “Slain by a traitor’s blade,” said Sullimas, his voice faint. “As it should be.”

  “What in all the realms would make you believe that?”

  “I’m finished. One way or another, my time is at an end.”

  “That simply isn’t true,” Norne tried. “Leastwise, it doesn’t need to be.”

  “Let me go, Brother Norne. Someday you shall understand.”

  “This journey will not claim you. Let me aid you.”

  Sullimas yanked him closer still. He spoke through gritted teeth. “For the last time… leave me to my fate. I’ve struck too many bargains with forces beyond estimation to depart my obligations unscathed. Should you try to cure me, the cost will be greater than either of us could hope to pay. I would not burden you with such a charge. I believed I would recover from this wound, but I must now accept that my wishes have not come to pass. Be wary. Be on your guard. The men sharing our cabin are too specious by half. I trust them not. Neither ought you.”

  Norne placed a hand over Sullimas’s, where the old vicar was gripping the collar of his cloak with vice-like fingers. Sullimas let go, allowing Norne to sit up and take a breath. “I believe you, old friend. I’ve put my trust in you many times before, and you’ve never led me astray.”

  “Make haste to Maergath. You must arrive there before the Warcaster does, in order that the king’s ransom should hold true. His plan is already in motion. Its fruition hinges upon your success.”

  “Maaltred and I will see this task completed. Rest in that knowledge. And I’ve no doubt the news out of Deepsail will be favorable by the time we make landfall. Soon Dathrond will hold sovereignty over the whole of the five realms.”

  Sullimas smiled weakly. “As the king has ever dreamed.”

  “May the achievement of his dream find yours fulfilled as well.”

  “My time for dreaming is past. Yet I pray the world does indeed come to prosper under the birth of Dathrond’s empire. My final wish is that the goddess might guide my path as I return to the earth from whence I came.”

  Norne clasped Sullimas’s hand and bowed in prayer. Maaltred bowed his head too, though his eyes wandered to the two frightened little girls watching from across the cabin. This is for you, Tanielle. I’m doing all of this for you. Orothwain will fall, and no longer will magic’s power reign unopposed over those too weak to stand against it. Your death was not in vain. Dathrond’s empire will put to rest the things of the past, and your
daughter will live in a world free of fear and injustice.

  When Norne’s prayer was done, Maaltred looked up. Sullimas lay serene, his eyes closed, his fingers stiff, his chest still. Norne stood and went to fetch the captain.

  ***

  Vicar Sullimas Pileit was buried at sea the following day, with Captain Womarr conducting the last rites and Norne consecrating the body before the crew dumped it overboard in a casket of raw pinewood. Maaltred wanted to be sad. He would’ve found it poetic if Sullimas’s death had shaken him to the core of his being. Yet he could find no sympathy for a man who had rejected another chance at life, whatever the reason.

  Likewise, Norne shed no tears during the proceedings. He appeared unaffected in the least, and spoke Yannui’s favor without breaking down or expressing emotion of any kind. Maaltred pitied him, though he also admired him for showing such poise after having lost someone so dear.

  Sullimas had been right, though; all that mattered now was getting Ryssa and Vyleigh to Maergath before the Warcaster arrived. Should they succeed, Olyvard would be free to release the girls in exchange for their father’s surrender. All would be well, and Maaltred could head home with a clear conscience and a bit of silver in his pocket.

  He couldn’t wait to be with his family again. To resume his normal life and leave this all behind. He wasn’t so naive as to hold out hope for the rich reward Olyvard King had promised him. He only meant to escape the king’s notice long enough to pack his things and see himself away before anything else was asked of him.

  On the evening before the Seadrake was set to land in Drythorne, Norne entered the cabin with a cup of hot tea for Maaltred. “I’ve brewed this up for you special. It’ll calm your stomach. Give you your strength back quicker when we land. You’ll need it if you’re to brave the desert.”

  Maaltred found it strange that only now, a fortnight into their second sea voyage, Norne would offer him a tincture for his seasickness. He sat up and took the steaming cup in hand, desperate to try anything that might help. “Why didn’t Sullimas let you cure him?”

  “Yannui teaches us to conduct our lives with temperance. We pay a price when we overindulge. Sullimas wore the scars of overindulgence in places not readily seen. He was so far gone, there was a chance I might’ve assumed some of his risk, were I to heal him. He spared me that price.”

  “Yet you were willing to pay it for him.”

  “Vicar Sullimas was not like most men. Even unto death, he was prudent where most would be incautious; steadfast where most would crumble.”

  Maaltred sipped his tea.

  “There you are. Drink. You’ll feel better.”

  It was warm, and good. Maaltred took a long draught, then handed the cup to Norne. “That’s all for now. I mustn’t overindulge, must I? Not until I can keep more than bread and water down.”

  “Right you are. Give it a few minutes and finish when you’re ready.” Norne set the cup on the floor. “How do you feel?”

  “Better, I think.” Maaltred rested his head on his pillow and closed his eyes. A flush of warmth ran through him, followed by a plunge into pleasant relief. The churning in his gut settled. Though the ship still tossed and swayed, somehow he no longer cared. He listened for Norne’s voice, but every sound blurred until it was thin and faraway.

  Some time later he woke with a start. He was still lying in the same position, though he couldn’t remember falling asleep. The cabin was dark, his head foggy. Norne was snoring softly in the bunk above him. Best of all, the ship was no longer moving.

  Maaltred stood up, grabbing the bedpost to steady himself through a rush of dizziness. Rather than wake Norne, he donned his robes and made his way abovedecks. There he was pleased to find himself gazing out over the town of Drythorne, its earthen structures of sunbaked mud standing along the coast like sculptures. The Seadrake lay at anchor, lashed to the docks while the tumultuous waters of the Aeldalos seethed behind her.

  Breathing a lungful of the fresh desert air, Maaltred gripped the railing and thanked Yannui for returning him safely. There were dust devils picking up across the sands and tall waves rolling in off the ocean, signs of the sphere’s influence. Yet with a firm footing beneath him and a full sleep behind him, Maaltred felt he could face any challenge the sphere might bring. He scanned the deck for Ryssa and Vyleigh, expecting they’d also come topside for a look around. Then he remembered Sullimas was no longer around to oversee the girls, and Norne was still asleep in the cabin.

  After checking the whole deck and finding only sailors present, he rushed downstairs and woke Norne. “Where are they? Where are the girls?”

  Norne woke in a flap, blinking and stammering. “Who? What?”

  “Ryssa and Vyleigh. They’re gone.”

  “Where?”

  “I don’t know. When was the last time you saw them?”

  “I—I can’t remember. I’m sure they haven’t gone far.” Norne looked around. He slid off his bunk and checked the other beds and hammocks. “It would appear our cabin mates are gone, too.”

  Maaltred cursed. “We’ve got to search the ship.”

  He barreled down the passageway, peeking into every cabin and hold. When he encountered his first sailor, he grabbed the man by the shirtsleeves and put him to the question. “The two small girls who were with us. Did you see where they went?”

  “I did,” said the sailor. “Off the ship. They went with your friends, first thing this morning.”

  “My friends?”

  “The elf and his two giants.”

  “They’re quarter-giants. And they’re not my friends.”

  “Apologies. I reckoned they was with you. What with you all being in the same cabin and such.”

  “They left first thing this morning, you say?”

  “Aye. Just before first light.”

  Maaltred bolted for the cabin and ran straight into Norne as he was emerging.

  “Here,” Norne said, handing him his pack. “I’ve gathered everything.”

  They made for the captain’s quarters. Maaltred pounded on the door twice before Womarr answered, dressed for shore leave in a blue woolen overcoat and tan leggings. “What is the meaning of this?”

  “You’re well-acquainted with Eril, Blinch, and Briynad, are you not?”

  “They’ve passengered on my ship a few times. That’s the extent of my relationship with them.”

  Maaltred knew that was a stretch. “We’ve reason to believe they’ve kidnapped the two children who were in our care.”

  A look flashed across the captain’s face. It ended in a concerned frown, but Maaltred swore he’d seen something else there. “I know not what they may have done, nor where they went.”

  “Yet you know they’ve left the ship.”

  Womarr paused. “I’d assumed all passengers debarked shortly after our arrival.”

  Of course you had. “They told us they were headed to Forandran. Is this true?”

  “They mentioned the Festival of Atonement,” added Norne.

  “I’ve told you, I don’t know,” said Womarr. “Though if that’s the truth, they’ve time to dally. The festival doesn’t start for a fortnight.”

  “How would you know that?” Maaltred accused. “You helped them, didn’t you? I overheard you talking with them when they came aboard. You told them about the girls then. It’s obvious you’re in league. Servants of the Dusk, and all that.”

  “Do not misconstrue me, fathers; nay, hear me out. I only meant to warn them they’d be sharing their cabin with children.”

  “You said they might be interested in them. What did that mean?”

  Norne lifted a hand. “Calm down, Brother Maaltred. Please. We won’t get anywhere like this.”

  “We’re already not getting anywhere. Meanwhile, Eril marches across the desert with our hos—with our charges.” Maaltred cleared his throat.

  Womarr offered him a shrewd smile. “Seems you’ve suffered a slip of the tongue. Who are you, truly? To whom do those c
hildren belong?”

  “They are ours to mind,” said Norne. “Come, Maaltred. It’s time we were going.”

  “Going where? Surely you don’t mean to return to the castle without Ryssa and Vyleigh.”

  “Not at all,” said Norne. “I mean to go to Forandran and find them.”

  Chapter 14

  It was the first time Draithon had ever ridden on a seagoing ship, and he was beginning to wonder how many other experiences he’d been missing out on. The cog was broad and cumbersome on the waves, no smooth ride like the ships in Father’s stories, where vessels like the elven longship Windcutter went bounding over the whitecaps on a keel as sharp as a knife’s edge. Yet the sensation of scudding across the seas with the wind at his back and the sun on his face exhilarated him, even on a bulky craft like the Trident’s Grace.

  Draithon had been frightened of the tiny rowboat the harbormaster had lent Father for the meeting with Captain Magrendiger. He’d taken to the waves right away, though, and now he was ashamed of his former reluctance. His parents were faring well, given their prior experiences with sailing. Mistress Axli and Master Kestrel came from a lack of seagoing experience altogether, yet they and their boys were adjusting. That was more than Master Triolyn could say for himself.

  The archer hadn’t stopped looking green since they came aboard. He was eating well, and hadn’t been sick, but every time the ship lurched over a particularly large wave he seemed to catch himself and gulp back a taste of something. While Draithon spent his days on deck watching the sailors work, Triolyn could most often be found low in his hammock, sleeping late and retiring early.

  Though Lund and Lupin were handling the seas well enough, Kestrel and Axli struggled to keep them occupied during the long hours between mealtimes and bedtime. The older boy was at that inquisitive age where everything was new and the world was waiting to be discovered, but he’d also begun to develop a defiant spirit which often put Axli on edge. The Grace had delivered its cargo to Cliffside Harbor and wouldn’t be picking up more until Ralthia, so Captain Magrendiger had elected to stow the passengers in the ship’s empty cargo hold. Their sleeping arrangements were meager, but at least there was plenty of room to spread out.