by J. C. Staudt
Halbrid laughed. “What are you without your magic but an old man in cowhide armor?”
Draithon saw his father’s fists clench and unclench.
“Little, perhaps. Yet I’ll not give up on my daughters.”
“I do not wish you ill, Darion of Linderton,” said the king. “Should you find your own way to the mainland, so much the better. Yet I must act as I always have. With the interests of my people and my island in mind.”
“I understand.”
Draithon did not think Father did understand. Likely he was only being polite. Was this how one was expected to speak to a king? With courtesy over honesty? If that was so, Draithon decided he’d stay far away from kings. This was madness. He couldn’t believe his father was letting it happen.
“There is one place else you might try,” said Halbrid, “before you resort to outlawing yourself from my lands through theft. To the south and east, a day’s hard march over the hills, there lies an old ruined castle overlooking the sea. They call it Skelside. Therein you’ll find a conclave of magi whose powers may yet hold sway. Theirs is the only place on Ralthia which seems to have avoided Dathrond’s sorcery.”
“Do they have a boat?” Darion asked.
Halbrid gave a wheezing chuckle. “They’re possessed of something better still. The knowledge of certain spells capable of creating folds in the mage-song.”
“So as to allow a person to step from one place to another,” said Darion.
The king nodded. “I always said it would be my last resort if ever I were trapped here with no other means of escape. Perhaps that’ll come to pass after all.”
“Magics this powerful come with pitfalls.”
“I’ll not deny it’s a gamble.”
“It would be ill to consider such a course without knowing the particulars.”
“Then don’t consider it,” said the king. “Your choices are your own.”
“Either way, I am grateful for your counsel.”
Halbrid grunted. “Either way, indeed. May you take the wiser path.”
“If only I knew what that was. Be well, your majesty.” Darion bowed again and led the others out.
Triolyn seemed hesitant to leave. He offered Halbrid a sweeping bow and said, “Fare you well in the conflict to come,” before following the others from the throne room.
“What was that all about?” Darion asked him as they left the palace.
Triolyn shrugged. “In some strange manner, he reminds me of my father. Curious thing, really. I haven’t thought of my old da in ages.”
“Were you close?” asked Draithon.
“Very. Before he died. Two of a set, we were. That’s what my mum used to say.”
“Don’t be fooled,” said Darion. “I can assure you Halbrid is not your father.”
“I don’t think that would’ve gone quite so badly if he were,” said Kestrel.
Darion frowned. “My reputation isn’t such a boon as it once was, apparently.”
“Forget I mentioned it,” said Triolyn. “He was familiar, is all.”
“I think it’s nice he made you remember him,” said Alynor. “You seem very fond of him.”
“That’s fitting,” said Kestrel. “They’re both about as helpful as a stick in the gizzard.”
“Look who’s turned sour all of a sudden.”
“I don’t mean to be adverse. It’s only that I carried high hopes for this king, and he let us all down. I’m not hopeful about where this leaves us with respect to finding our way across the sea.”
“A ship is our only chance, as I see it,” said Darion. “I would hesitate to involve your children in any spell that would move them from one place to another, as Halbrid suggested. They’re too young to dabble in such uncertainty.”
“I tend to agree. I say we split up and scour the docks. It couldn’t hurt to ask around, could it? I’m sure we’ll find someone who needs the coin. We assume no one will take us on as passengers, but we won’t know until we ask.”
And so they did. The going proved as rough as the king had predicted, though. Draithon made the rounds with his mother. Every ship’s captain treated them with varying degrees of disdain.
“I do apologize for the inconvenience, but I’ve decided I shall stay here to defend my kingdom,” said one.
“Get buggered,” said another.
“Have you the gold to buy me a new ship? That’s what it’ll take,” said a third.
When they reconvened several hours later, they found the others had encountered the same difficulties.
“No one’s going anywhere,” said Triolyn. “We’ll have better luck with the mages.”
“Or,” said Darion, “we can take matters into our own hands.”
Alynor was shocked. “You don’t truly mean to steal a ship, do you?”
“Not just any ship. That one.” Darion pointed to the single-masted cutter a short way down the docks.
“That ship is flying the king’s banner,” said Kestrel.
“Aye. It’s the Cove Runner, one of Halbrid’s personal vessels.”
“It looks awfully small for a warship.”
“It isn’t a warship. Nor will he take it into battle with him. He’ll take his carrack, Stormfeather.”
“What does he need with the little one, then?”
Darion smiled. “Precisely.”
Chapter 15
“So you’ve never been to Forandran?” Norne asked through the shroud covering his face.
Maaltred blinked against the biting sand and coughed as the wind whipped past to erase their footsteps behind them. “No.”
“It really is the most beautiful city in the realms. Maybe even the world. Just wait until you lay eyes on it. All this will be worth the struggle.”
Maaltred doubted that. They’d been fighting sandstorms since Drythorne, and this one was the worst yet. He didn’t see how a few buildings were going to compensate for the drudgery of trekking across the desert while chafing in his every bodily crevice. Forandran may very well be beautiful, but he’d have trouble noticing if Eril and his cronies didn’t turn up.
Drythorne’s docks had been nearly empty when Norne and Maaltred debarked the Seadrake. They’d soon learned this was due to the recent departure of the Dathiri fleet, which had launched for Ralthia two days prior. Maaltred supposed the attack on Deepsail must’ve gone well for Olyvard to have arranged an assault on a second kingdom so soon afterward.
The sphere pulled at Maaltred’s every moment now, waking or sleeping. The constant thinness in the air had been wearing on him for some time. He felt robbed of substance, even after regaining his appetite and gorging himself upon meal after meal. He’d traded seasickness for sun rash and dampness for thirst. At least he was finally leaving the ocean behind.
Norne’s ramblings about the City of the Gods were of no interest whatsoever to Maaltred. Still, he would humor the vicar for now. Anything to get his mind off his aching feet and sand-cast robes. “What’s it like?”
“There are no words,” said Norne. “And I mean that with all sincerity. Domed towers. Gilded temples. Priests and proselytes of every god and goddess you could ever imagine. They say more money flows through Forandran each year than up and down the Hightrade.”
“How is that possible?”
“Tithes, my friend. Tithes. The lifeblood of the church. Adherents of the faiths are quick to donate large sums in hopes of receiving their god’s favor. There are hundreds, you know.”
“Of what? Gods?”
“Best of luck picking the right one to donate to, eh? Some folk choose as many as they can afford. Priests use the tithes to build great houses of worship in tribute to their patron, each one larger and more decadent than the last. They’re all trying to outdo one another, you see; to attract the faithful in ever-greater numbers using evidence of their god’s plenty. Thus has the cycle continued for half a thousand years. Today the city is home to some of the most skilled architects and builders alive. And travelers l
ike us are blessed with a gorgeous city to enjoy. Maergath may be Dathrond’s capital, but Forandran is its crown jewel.”
“It certainly sounds like a lovely place.”
“Everything scaled has an underbelly. Forandran’s biggest flaw is its rampant corruption. Inevitable when large sums of coin are exchanged with little oversight, one might conclude. Churches with the proper credentials are spared the king’s taxation, and are thus free to choose how their funds are disbursed. Donors to the faiths may believe they are giving to the gods, but the recipients of their tithes are people.”
“Were one intent on amassing a fortune, seems they might do worse than in the temple business.”
“Funny you should use the word business. That’s often how it ends up; the business of worship. Festivals and religious ceremonies like the one coming up next week are often held in the streets, largely for show. There are plenty of deals to be made behind closed doors during a large event like the Festival of Atonement. I’m betting Eril intends to collect a tidy sum for the Ulther girls in one manner or another.”
“What do you think he means to do with them?”
“His intent is irrelevant so long as we find those girls in one piece. Should we return to Maergath empty-handed, the king will have our heads on spikes beside the bloody Warcaster’s.”
Over the next few days, the dunes flattened. Tufts of grass appeared more frequently as the sand became soil, and the harsh desert winds blew fairer. At last they caught sight of the Dathiri River, wide and gleaming beneath the beating sun. Spreading for what must’ve been leagues across the opposite bank lay the city of Forandran.
It was just as Norne had said. His words couldn’t possibly have done justice to a city so magnificent to behold. Steeples stabbed the sky; bells in belfries rang clear across the plains as if to herald the day’s arrival. Footbridges arched high above the streets, bearing people and horse-drawn wains in neat lines like ants on the march. Maaltred was used to the ramshackle stone and log cabins inhabited by farmers and tradesmen across the Eastgap. Forandran’s structures were smooth and precise, graven marvels of sweeping design and soaring height.
“Finding two young girls in a city this big is going to be impossible.”
Norne cast him a sidelong glance. “Not if you know where to look.”
“You know the sorts of places Eril might go to solicit a trade?”
“I told you I used to live here. I am not proud of the circumstances.”
The river was rushing and turbulent when they arrived at the east bank. A crowd stood at the entrance to a ferryman’s dock, clamoring to be taken across on his flat-bottomed barge. The ferryman was seated on a bench behind the gate with his feet propped on the rope railing, scraping out the bowl of his pipe. Maaltred and Norne approached the crowd and consulted a woman in a plain brown dress holding a wooden cage with two red-feathered chickens inside.
“What’s going on here?” Norne asked.
“He’s refusing to take anyone across. Says the river’s too rough. Now I’m stuck here and can’t get home.”
“I don’t understand,” said Maaltred. “Won’t he lose the day’s wages if he doesn’t take fares?”
“The ferries operate under Lord Chancer’s authority,” said the woman. “The man earns his wage whether the ferry runs or not.”
“I’ll talk to him,” said Norne. “Perhaps I can change his mind.”
Yet again, the sphere proves more trouble than it’s worth, Maaltred thought as he followed Norne through the crowd.
The ferryman was stuffing a pinch of tobacco into his pipe when they came to the rope cordon at the front. He turned his back to them and spoke a few soft words, then held his thumb and forefinger above the pipe. A frown creased his brow. When he repeated himself, Maaltred ascertained he was singing. A spell.
Norne heard it too. He cleared his throat. “Well met, good sir. I wonder if I might lend a hand.”
The old ferryman turned. “Have you a flint?”
“Better,” Norne said with a smile. “Bring it here.”
The ferryman hesitated, then leaned forward with the pipe.
Norne summoned the wild-song and waved his fingers. A wisp of smoke rose from the bowl and dispersed in the wind. “Quickly, now. Stoke it.”
The ferryman puffed until the cherry glowed bright within. “My thanks. That’s no spell I’ve seen before.”
“It isn’t your sort of spell.”
The ferryman took stock of the robes Norne and Maaltred were wearing. “I s’pose it wouldn’t be. Fellows like yourselves oughtn’t be caught out with the mage-song.”
“What’s a magician like you doing in charge of a ferry? Surely there’s a better post for you than this.”
The ferryman gave a bashful retort. “I’m no magician. I’ve ever known but one spell, and that I learned many years past. Hadn’t tried it in some time, truth be told. Thought I might amuse myself, given the unpleasantries of the day. Seems I’ve forgotten it.”
You haven’t forgotten it, Maaltred might’ve said. And I bear the cause of your unpleasantries in my pack. “We’re told the waters are too rough for your ferry to pass safely across the river.”
“Aye, that be the truth. Unless you mean to go for a swim. Yesterday I hadn’t the heart to dump these folk downstream on their arses. What with all the griping today, I’ve begun to reconsider.”
“Might a little extra coin persuade you?” Norne asked.
“I’m certain it would. Toss me the silver and hop in,” he said, gesturing toward the rapids. “Promise I’ll enjoy the view. Swears it by me mother’s name.”
Norne laughed along with him. “How about this? You hold my coin purse for me. I think you’ll find it’s quite heavy. Should your barge capsize as we cross the river, you can keep the whole purse. Should we make it upright to the west bank, I’ll pay you thrice what’s owed in fares for myself and my cohort, here. You’ve nothing to lose.”
“Nothing save my barge. If I lose that, I lose all. Lord Chancer will be none too pleased when I float to sea with his fares in my pocket and his ferry reduced to driftwood.”
“A blessing from our goddess Yannui will ensure us safe passage to the other side.”
“You lot are as mad as everyone else in this city. Forever beseeching the gods for things you can bloody well do yourself.”
“There’s never a better time to beseech the gods than when one is certain of one’s success.”
“Certain, are you? Right. Show us your purse, then.”
Norne did. The leather strained against the drawstring with the bulk of his coin.
“Gods be praised,” said the ferryman. “That’s my mind changed.” He whistled and flicked a finger to summon the three polemen seated on the bank. “Hoist the line. We’re crossing.”
The polemen stared in confusion.
“You heard me.”
“We’ll never make it,” said one.
“Aye, and a gold piece for each of you when we don’t.” He tossed the pouch hand to hand before knotting it to his belt.
The polemen shot to their feet. They gathered round a wooden guide wheel and began to crank it. The mechanism rotated, lifting a rope from the depths of the river. The rope stretched taut between two posts on opposite banks, anchored to the floating barge by a line and pulley. The ferryman unlatched the gate and ushered the waiting crowds forward. “Everybody on. I’ll take your fares. That’s it. Step lively.”
Maaltred and Norne were the first aboard. A throng of passengers pressed in behind and forced them to the outer edge, where a rope railing on wooden posts constituted the sole barrier between them and the drink. “Not so many,” Maaltred cried. “Not so—” He grunted as a jostling elbow caught him in the ribs and shoved him against the ropes. He flailed his arms for want of a handhold, but it was too late. He was falling.
Norne caught him by the pack an instant before he would’ve flopped overboard. “Careful there, Brother Maaltred. I may lose my wager, but
I’d sooner keep you.”
Maaltred steadied himself on the railing. You’d sooner keep the sphere, you mean. Olyvard King would’ve lamented its loss more than mine.
Passengers continued to board, rocking the barge with their weight. The polemen locked the winch and boarded last, slipping along outside the ropes to occupy a corner each. There was a jolt and a creak as they shoved the ferry off its moorings to tether on the guide rope stretching from one riverbank to the other. They heaved; the pulley wheels squeaked, and the barge progressed a few fathoms.
The passengers fell silent. Maaltred could feel the current driving against the upstream side of the vessel, pushing it downward and threatening to wash overtop. It was like the Howling Whore’s rowboat all over again, only instead of drowning straightaway, he could look forward to being dashed upon the rocks beforehand.
“Look sharp,” shouted the ferryman. “Runaway ship.”
A small sailing ketch was headed downriver at a fast clip. Though its sails were furled, its mainmast was tall enough by far to snag the ferry’s guide line on its way past. Maaltred wasn’t sure how the ketch would fare, but the ferry wouldn’t last long.
“Aar losshe mah ningath hru luun,” Norne chanted, as the passengers began to scream.
The three polemen looked to their leader. The ferryman’s pipe fell from his lips, bounced off the deck, and plonked into the river. He glanced from the guide line to the oncoming ketch. “Heave, ye sluggards. Get your arses moving.”
The polemen obeyed without hesitation. They fell into a quick rhythm, racing to shove past the ketch before it arrived. Upstream, Norne’s spell took shape. A circle of calm water formed in the ketch’s path. Then the water began to flow in reverse.
Maaltred blinked to be sure of what he was seeing. It was no illusion; the circular patch of river was moving against the current. The water drained from the circle until only dry riverbed remained. He’s running the ship aground, Maaltred realized. In the middle of the river.
Someone aboard the ketch noticed too. The vessel veered sharply to avoid the dry patch, putting it further ahead of the barge’s path. Now the poleman had a larger distance to cover before the ketch arrived. Meanwhile, spectators were gathering on shore to watch the impending disaster.
