Far from waking up to the voice of her bow suggesting, “let’s go hunting,” the next day proved as much work as the last, and proved her weeks of lifting herself limb-by-limb invaluable.
To test the bow, she drew it as many times as she could, and looked and felt for inflexibility along its length. She had thought them worked out the night before, but after a few full draws, Adria realized there were subtle places where the wood proved tenacious.
“Is it enough to matter?” she asked her uncle.
“Not so much now, perhaps,” he shrugged, and showed her how to use a wet stone and sand from the river to smooth out more of the surface of the wood. “But after a hundred or a thousand arrows, who knows? Where the bow does not bend, it will likely break.” He finished in Aesidhe, for the phrase held more music.
Again, the slow but steady stages... she counted twenty draws before she found weaknesses. And then perhaps thirty, and then more than forty, each time sanding a little more, here and there, and taking some rest, rubbing her upper arms, teeth clenched.
“After this, I think that drawing it to actually hunt will be a simple matter.”
Preinon laughed. “Then you’ve discovered the other purpose in this.”
Adria smiled, and continued until she could draw the bow a hundred times without finding any fault. And then again.
“Mateko,” Preinon called, after he and Adria had shared their noon meal. “Chóko uthhaku téli-koali leniwi michao óho.”
Adria blinked at the words, for though she understood it a little, he had relaxed the language in a way he rarely used with her. Aesidhe was a rather formal language. Regardless, the young man came over and joined them with a smile.
Preinon explained, “Mateko will take you out for some shooting practice, and show you how not to break or lose all your arrows. Once you have fired a hundred times, see what you think of your bow, and bring it back to be finished.”
Though it was easier than she expected, Adria nonetheless grew tired very quickly, and they took the shooting in bursts, trading off, aiming for the riper fruits of early-blooming trees, and gathering them when they fell, to add to dinner when they returned.
Her aim was good when she drew fully, but Mateko showed her how to shoot like a Hunter, pinching with her thumb and finger, to loose the arrow more quickly. Her aim was poor this way, at first, but soon normalized, and Mateko found a way to explain that this worked better overall, if the apples were tall as an elk, and ready to run.
Smiling as he held up two hands full of May apples — or whatever the Aesidhe called them, he asked, “Gna chóli wateko limiyati?”
“Yes,” Adria nodded. “I understand.”
It was almost like returning from a real hunt when they entered the camp, though their apples were not quite the prize an elk might have been.
“I won’t be able to move my arms tomorrow, I think,” she groaned to Preinon as she satisfied herself with one final smoothing of the bow.
He frowned. “Not even enough to hunt?”
She worried for a moment she might be breaking a tradition, but then he chuckled. “Tomorrow, you only need move enough to spread hot oil on the wood to finish it. I think a first proper hunt can wait.”
The next morning she carved a line on either side of the grip, then brushed oil over the length of the bow, staining it a beautiful honey shade. She used some of the sap to wrap a strip of leather around the grip, and tied it with twine until it dried and tightened. She strung it again and held it up to catch the light from between the branches of the newly-leafed canopy.
Preinon smiled at her satisfaction. “This will serve you a year, perhaps, depending on how quickly your arms and back grow in strength.”
Adria laughed. “I must make a new one every year?”
“Not likely...” He shook his head. “You will grow out of this bow faster than the next.”
“What will I do with this bow, then?”
“You will give it to a younger or smaller Hunter, if it is still good.”
“I hope that it is,” she said, a little proud. “But... not everyone makes their own bow, then?”
“No. Almost always the first, so that you learn,” he nodded “But we are not wasteful. If a bow is strong and will serve another, then it is passed on, as anything else.”
“What of the one I brought,” she wondered, uncertainly. “The black bow?”
He was thoughtful for a long moment, then said, without expression. “It will be some time before you have the strength for it. Keep it in your tent. We will speak of it another time.”
Adria only nodded in response, and her memories of Moresidhe and the aftermath of the attack resurfaced again. There is a secret here, as well...
Still, she did as she was instructed, and traded her still-unusable black Aeman bow for the Aesidhe bow of gold.
The Echo was a place of music, of rhythm, of routine and ritual. Wherever Adria walked or rested, looked and listened, the steps and words of sailors and of soldiers seemed driven by waves and wind.
The sails were never fully slack, the lines never loose, and the wood beneath them never gave a moment’s stillness. Crests and valleys. Gusts before an intake of breath.
Not all the Knights welcomed the rhythm at first. More than a few spent some time with head hung overboard, surrendering a recent meal to the great below.
At best, they found their balance when they drilled. Through this, at first met with haphazard footing by most, to a man in time they found the anticipation of an enemy attack a welcome impetus to find their sea legs.
Their Captain helped them well in this, adjusting orders to each list to stern or port. His name was Wolt and, though still young, Adria could see he had some knowledge of tactics — at least, those which the Knights typically employed.
“Step…” he urged to match the deck rising before them. “Left…” to counter a turn. “Shields!” to plant themselves. They’d land a little hard, but the noise of their boots, their shouts, or their swords clashed to their shields fit well with those of the sailors switching lines or tacking the aft sail.
Hafgrim soon learned to follow Wolt’s suit, and in his turn ordered them in similar form, his eyes upon the flag and sails to judge each motion.
Still, it seemed to Adria that the contingent was not only mostly rather young, but none too unified. Though they did as Wolt or the prince ordered, it was rarely without a hesitation, and often with exchanged sidelong glances. It was clear in the first day that neither Hafgrim nor Wolt knew all their soldiers’ names, and the Knights themselves too often sat alone in idle time, or in small groups.
That certainly does not inspire confidence, Adria thought, and she made it a priority to determine the source of this.
Adria spent little more time with Hafgrim in these days, and even less among the other Knights. She mingled with the sailors more, who nearly always showed her due respect, and yet did not consider her too above them to engage in conversation.
Most of them spoke Aeman passably, despite the obvious variation in their origin. Still, when they spoke with one another, as often as not they spoke an odd tongue that seemed an admixture of several languages and dialects.
Most of it seemed Aeman and Somanan at root, but with more than a few words and phrases borrowed from Kelmantian, and even some from dialects too variant for her to guess, or possibly a language she had no knowledge of whatsoever.
Adria enjoyed puzzling out what she could, and she tried to imagine when and how each word had crept into their speech — the wars and migrations, the developments of new technologies which brought sailors to new shores...
In particular, she enjoyed the songs they sang together. They were shanties, chants as much as songs, and really not so different from the ceremonial songs of the Aesidhe or even the hymns of the Sisterhood.
There were one or two among
the sailors who seemed to lead these songs, including the Chief Mate. They’d give a short verse, loud and clear, to which the sailors responded with a simple refrain, sometimes chanting, sometimes shouting and raising their arms — those who had a free one to raise.
And here was where the rhythm of the sea and the life of The Echo showed most boldly, though it dawned on Adria more slowly than the ocean sun.
Such odd phrasings, Adria thought, closing her eyes to listen. Not exactly regular. Sometimes faster, sometimes slower… sometimes even adding a beat in repetition.
I’m a haulin all me line aft to go, man
-I’m a whistle and a rhyme and a ho,
And a heave
-and a ho, man
I’m a washin up a wheel now, man
-I’m a whistle and a rhyme and a ho, and a ho, man
I’m a go I’m a go, man
-I’m a whistle and a rhyme and a ho,
And a heave
-and a ho,
And a heave
-and a ho, man
Frowning, Adria opened her eyes near the end, and only then realized the real purpose of these songs... each time the Chief Mate called “And a heave,” the sailors on a line did just that. Once, twice, however many times it took to do the job, before wrapping and knotting it off to the next verse.
Adria shook her head and laughed at herself. The songs are not simply to pass the time, but to measure it, to give rhythm to the tasks they share. And I closed my eyes…
It became clear that they had many different songs for very different purposes, though the words certainly did not always seem to apply directly to the task at hand. It was more the cadence that matched them, and to which lines were pulled or loosed, sails lowered and raised, booms turned or tacked to find fresh wind.
In fact, most of the lyrics were concerned with ladies left in port — ladies rather more closely associated to docks and taverns than hearth and home.
Even their use of the word ‘lady,’ Adria realized with a smile. ...seems a bit of a misnomer.
When opportunities presented themselves, Adria questioned sailors in detail about the workings of the ship, and she aided them in tasks when she believed herself able. The men proved honestly eager to educate her, and in fact she soon learned that they often held a certain disdain for those who took passage on ship but knew nothing of her working.
“Ye step foot on deck, ye should know ‘ow to man a line, sure, aye?” One of them winked when he found her an eager student.
She quickly learned a good deal about the workings and details of The Echo — a carrack, one corrected her, rather than a caravel as she had believed — and about her sailors. There were tales of lands as far west as Ieruscan deserts, of Somana’s great city on the sea, of Kelmantium slavers, and even of an island somewhere secret where many of them believed one might live forever.
“Yer own granddad, M’lady,” one of the elder among them grinned and winked obviously at his nearby mates. “He be livin’ jus’ like a king ‘imself, in a tall tower on a lonely lil’ scrap o’ earth where ravens carry nobody off again, be it home nor death.”
“Ah, well,” Adria smiled. “I say we turn this ship and head there then, right? We can all live forever on a great pile of gold.”
“Nae, Highness,” the sailor rejoined. “Alike as not ‘e’d send us runnin’ off. You know what they called him, now, aye?”
Adria nodded slowly.
“An’ how his Majesty’s Knights got their name,” another sailor nodded to the foredeck where her brother lead their spear drills. “He scared the piss an’ the gold out of ‘em that crossed him, when the waves about em’ burst into black fire...”
“Hush, man,” a third sailor answered. “Such things might run in the blood. One wrong look from ‘er ‘ighness and ye’ll might be pissin’ yerself...”
Adria had the good grace to redden for them, though she was no longer quite so embarrassed by such an utterance after four years among the Aesidhe.
Like the Aesidhe, The Echo’s sailors did not shy away from a joke at the expense of a princess. And like the Aesidhe, this was a sign of familiarity.
Several among them seemed to grow genuinely fond of her over the days at sea, though they always maintained a respectful stance when speaking or working with her when the situation demanded — when Captain Falburn, Wolt, or Hafgrim passed by or joined them.
Still, in the corners of her vision, Adria had seen more than one sailor watching her with an expression she might have described as less than savory, and she wondered if she were the subject of even more crude jokes whenever the sailors took their meal and drink together.
After all, Nature breeds vices and virtues in equal measure, and one cannot often tell the difference surely, Adria thought, grateful for the blades on her belt and boot. No doubt this is half the reason the Sisters and their Initiate remain below, leaving me the only woman on a deck full of sea-bound men.
Still, when she took the measure of each man, she felt confident that none among them would dare to actually accost her, especially when she saw the respect they bore their captain, and how Falburn watched over all with an air of near-omniscience. There was little doubt that the ship was his to command, no matter what prince may board, and that every man on deck accepted this as law.
Adria also found the pages and squires of the Knights to be somewhat less aloof of her presence than their masters. She spent some time in the hold, helping one or another of them in grooming the horses, hoisted from the beams above in slings to keep them from losing their footing. Adria always brought an apple or two. She took particular care over the gray she had briefly ridden, and who she hoped would remain hers when they gained port in Kelmantium.
“Starbrow,” the lad introduced as he did his best to rake away the worst of the fouled straw beneath the steed with the four-rayed mark above his eyes. Though slung, he just managed to stamp with his hoof as she approached, a little impatient for his snack.
The boy laughed as he took a brush to the almost solid gray coat. “I think he likes you, Ma’am. If you want to take him on deck for a ride, I won’t tell any one. Just try not to be noticed.”
Adria favored the boy with a grin, and shook her head. “It would be impolite to awaken the sleeping sailors. Besides, he looks as if he’d be satisfied to swim the rest of the way. I’ll just jump him over the railing, and meet you in Kelmantium... would you please let my brother know?”
There were, in fact, always sailors sleeping, Adria had been a little surprised to learn. There were only five quarters in the fore and aft decks, so most of the crew had been put out.
She and Hafgrim had been allowed their own rooms, and the Sisters shared one. Otherwise, only Captain Falburn and Josson, the Chief Mate, were afforded chambers, and Josson shared his with a few crew members — whoever happened to arrive there after their work shift to find an empty bunk.
Even Wolt and his Knights could not be said to be properly quartered — straw mats and hammocks lined one wall of the hold, no better than those of the sailors astern.
“Let princes ‘n diplomats have their bunks,” one sailor shrugged when Adria apologized for taking up quarters. “I’d as soon sleep nearest I’m needed whene’er need comes.”
The three Sisters and their green-robed Novice were surely the strangest of all aboard, which did not really surprise Adria. The young women had a peculiar affinity for one another, even given the circumstances and the nature of their order.
Adria had hoped to find an opportunity to speak with one of them alone, despite their reluctance to appear above deck, but when they did make a rare appearance, they were invariably together and decidedly dismissive of her presence.
To say they were careful with their speech was an understatement. More often than not, they spoke in tandem, and whenever one of the three paused to consider her words,
another was prepared to finish them.
“The wind is contrary today,” one might say, and the second would add, “though, in truth, this is no surprise,” and a slight pause before the last of the three concluded, “Given the turn of the stars.”
The effect was an air of determined vagueness, something between ambivalence and absurdity. After her first experience with them, Adria mostly gave up on learning anything from them at all. She certainly never idly inquired about the weather again in their presence.
Adria at least gathered their names — Criseda, Tiffan, and Osenne.
Exotic and mysterious, she smiled. Old Kelmantian. This was not strange in itself, for Taber herself was from Kelmantium, and their religion had its roots there, in some equally shadowy past within and before the War of Scars.
Most of the Novices, upon becoming full Sisters, named themselves similarly. But when, as a child, Adria had remarked upon this phenomenon to Taber herself, Taber had merely allowed for a pause, and then asked Adria where her own name might have originated.
Adria had been a little annoyed to realize that her name was Kelmantian as well. Until then, it had never occurred to her that personal names might be anything more than just a way to distinguish one person from another.
And it would not be until the Aesidhe that she saw the greater point, that the name might be what a person did — that it might more than simply identify them... it could arise from their identity. It might link someone to their past, and even suggest their future.
Adria is my name now, and only one among several, she liked to think. How I wear it will determine how future generations accept the name.
After so many moons of midnight raids, of snowdrift footpaths and cold winking stars, Adria often felt most awake in the after hours. The sailors, Knights, and Sisters who kept these hours tended to hushed groups and even solitude.
Josson, Chief Mate, kept these hours often. If there was a shanty, he called it lower, quieter, more a hymn or dirge, and the tasks were paced, slow changes whenever possible.
Heir of Scars I: Parts 1-8 Page 42
