by M. M. Perry
“I honestly thought travelling with us had changed him. Doesn’t sound like it has though,” Nat said around a snigger.
“No. Well, at least, not much. He did keep his word about warriors and their requests, though. He no longer asks for a favor in return anymore when it comes to that. In fact, he’s been quite generous in his dealings with warriors, and not just you and Gunnarr,” Viola said.
“He’s set up this pub. Have you seen it yet?” she asked.
“No,” Nat shook his head, “we’ve been a bit busy out of country lately.”
“I figured as much,” Viola continued. “Well, it’s quite a sight. I’m sure it took every ounce of goodwill towards warriors our last adventure earned to get him to let go of the coin that thing must cost him. Imagine how many ointments and unguents he’s had to go without to fund it. I mean, that place actually puts Swords Aplenty to shame. It even has a little inn attached, and all warriors stay and eat free,” Viola explained. “And as I’m sure you know, there are few things more attractive to a warrior than free drinks from a bottomless barrel. Things can get more than a bit… rowdy there.”
“Really,” Nat said incredulously, “I can’t believe he’d let such a thing sully his fine city. It must be on the outskirts.”
Viola snorted.
“It was. Well, the first one was, anyway. He had the first tavern built right at the outskirts, but had to build another a mile and a half away, and add the inn. Apparently they’d get so loud and unruly at the first one the sound of it was keeping him up nights in the city. Once the warriors finally had their fill of food and drink they would head in to the city to find a room for the night, singing in that loud, horrible out of synch way only drunk warriors can. So he built another tavern further out and an inn to go with it. Of course, once he expanded his generosity from free food to free food and board, even more warriors started showing up, and the overflow still ends up at the old tavern on nights that it’s standing room only at the new one, which is most of them.”
They both shared a laugh at that. Viola looked pensive as she stared vacantly at her cards, the game far from her mind.
“And… he is different when he’s around Melody. It’s like all the self-centered pompousness just drains away. When he’s with her, it’s almost like he’s a different person. At first I thought he was just putting on a show to impress her, but the more I see the two of them together, the more I think that when he’s with her, he’s genuinely a different person. It’s like her generosity and goodwill rubs off on him.”
Nat looked across the table at Viola’s far off gaze. He knew little of Melody, having only met her the one time shortly before Gunnarr and he embarked on their years-long journey to find Cass. He could count the number of times he’d seen Callan in person since then on one hand. Most of their communication had been through couriers and Viola. For all the king’s apparent self-centered worldview, he was keenly interested in being updated on their progress at finding Cass. Above all else, the debt he’d assumed that fateful day at Oshia’s temple weighed most heavily on his thoughts, and his commitment to repaying it was never in question. He spared no expense where finding Cass was concerned.
“What about you?” Nat asked, changing the subject before it wandered into melancholy territory. “Met anyone… special?”
Nat’s eyebrows wiggled suggestively as he caught Viola’s eyes. Her face blushed brightly.
“None of your business. And don’t think I don’t know what you’re up to. You’re just trying to distract me from winning,” Viola deflected, tossing a card at Nat.
“Oh ho!” Nat said, deftly snatching the card from the air as it sped towards his face, “now who is trying to be distracting?”
Before Viola could respond, she felt rather than heard the presence approaching from behind her. She saw the grin on Nat’s face tighten as his eyes fell on something just behind her shoulder. She turned to see the fisherman, Sam, standing there staring at them. Lit by lantern instead of harsh sunlight, Sam looked younger. The softer light was kinder to his weathered skin, softening the cracks and wrinkles. Viola knew it could be difficult to place the age of people whose hard lives were spent exposed to the elements. As far as she could tell, Sam could as easily be thirty as fifty. Just now, in this light, she wondered if thirty wasn’t closer to the mark.
Sam glanced from one to the other. Then he slowly put his finger up to his lips.
“Shhh,” he said. “You shouldn’t draw attention to yourself, if you know what’s best for you.” Viola was a bit taken aback to hear such a quiet, soothing voice come from such worn, cracked lips. It was so soft that she was surprised she could make out what he said over the gentle lapping of the waves on the side of the ship. But Nat and Viola did hear him, as clear as if he had cupped his mouth right against their ears.
“There be gods aboard,” Sam finished.
Gunnarr looped the thick leather strap around one of the handles of the ship’s wheel and then cinched the loop down tight, locking the ship on course. This time of year the waters of the Sorrows were calm. Although it made for easy sailing, it was a poor season for fishing, so they’d seen very few other ships on their voyage aside from the occasional small boat of an undoubtedly desperate fisherman who any other time of year would never have strayed so far into the Sorrows from the coast of Centria to their south.
Gunnarr walked to the edge of his massive ship and looked out over the waters. He could smell the subtle change in the sea air that signaled the seasons were just beginning to shift. He knew that meant they needed to sail out of the Sorrows soon, or risk a much more dangerous voyage. As the summer waters from the south moved north they would bring a great migration of hungry fish, traveling to their spawning grounds. This was welcome news for the fisherman near the coast, but dangerous tidings for anyone as far out to sea as they were. As the warm waters clashed with the cooler waters surrounding his homeland of Braldashad, the placid sea would quickly become churned by the massive storms the migration always presaged. Gunnarr knew they’d have a few more weeks of calm sailing at best.
Deep in contemplation, he did not sense he was no longer alone until his new companion spoke.
“You know, you should have taken me up. Not many men can say they’ve lain with a god.”
The voice startled him, but he gave no outward sign of it. He turned smoothly, alert but unhurried, his feet surreptitiously sliding into a ready stance while his hand drifted to the dagger on his belt. She was standing in the middle of the deck less than two quick steps from him. She was garbed in flowing robes made of a material so thin and soft it looked as if they had been woven from mist. They slid across her like a cloudy sky over the sun. Her hair was gathered in a loose braid, interwoven with strands of gold, its raven black stark against her pale skin even in the gloom of night. She wore it draped around her neck and over one shoulder like an exotic scarf. Her eyes were the same color as her mother’s, deep amber.
“Inez,” Gunnarr grunted, pointedly not removing his hand from the pommel of his dagger.
“Issa,” she said, smiling, “but I’m sure you remember that.”
Gunnarr did not respond. He knew better than to banter with gods. Cass was the only one he knew of brash enough to do so. One never knew just what might upset them.
“Not feeling chatty? Well, I suppose you are a busy man, so I’ll get to the point. Although, my offer still stands. I’d much rather hop in a hammock with you and see if the rumors of Braldashad men are true than talk anyway.”
Gunnarr still did not respond. Issa shrugged and sighed.
“Oh well. I suppose it would be impolite to poach my sibling’s lover anyway. Although, it would be more in character, according to all those tales you mortals trade about we gods and our proclivities. Speaking of siblings, I’ll get to the point. My sister, the wench you all love so much, is free. That annoying basilisk fart of a man, the king, will be getting word from his witch soon enough. He’ll probably be…”
Issa was cut off as Gunnarr rushed forward, forgetting who he was dealing with, and grabbed her forcefully. He gripped her upper arms tightly enough in his huge hands that any mortal creature would have winced in pain. Issa didn’t even flinch as he held her there, desperate to ensure the god didn’t vanish with the wind before he got his answers, as she had when last they’d seen each other.
“Where! Where is she?” he demanded.
Issa looked from arm to arm, eyeing the huge hands that held her in place.
“My, you are a manly thing, aren’t you,” she said silkily, tracing her fingers down from a knuckle along his arm, stopping at the cleft where the bulging muscles of his forearm and bicep met. “I could come to you as, I don’t know, a ray of light or something. Then, it wouldn’t technically be cheating on your lover. And unless I got pregnant somehow, which should be impossible, no one would be the wiser. And I promise you it would be the best beaming you ever had. Of course, you can’t really bank on anything when gods and magic are at play. I am, after all, the product of a dream so who am I to say what might come of such a union, other than bliss that is...”
Gunnarr lost the last of what patience he had.
“So help me, Inez,” he cut her off, “if you don’t tell me how to find her right now, god or not, I will make you wish you’d never been born.” Gunnarr growled.
Issa looked into Gunnarr’s eyes and frowned. There wasn’t a hint of lust or jest in them, simply an iron hard resolve.
“Fine,” she said as she brushed Gunnarr’s hands off as if they were no more substantial than dry leaves. Despite his careful stance the force of the seemingly delicate gesture sent him tumbling backwards. “Though I must say, you were more fun when you weren’t obsessed with searching for some half breed tramp. She is free, but she’s not out of danger. She is being watched. Closely. Oshia tired of her, as is his way. My sister, she’s cleverer than I would credit her. Still a mangy dog of a half breed, but clever. Instead of resisting him, which would have driven him mad, well more mad, with desire for her, she did whatever he asked, immediately and unquestioningly. And, the challenge of it gone, he quickly tired of her. He forgot about her. Probably distracted by his own reflection. He’s an idiot that way.”
Issa looked up and saw Gunnarr was losing his patience.
“Oh keep your shirt on,” she continued, “or not, as suits you,” she winked at him.
Gunnarr made an effort to calm himself. He knew that every rise she got from him only encouraged her further.
“Before he had a chance to do away with her, as he often does when he’s finished with a woman, she found an opportunity to slip away. And had that been all she’d done, she’d likely already be dead, just a smoldering smudge of flesh rotting wherever he’d struck her down when he finally noticed she was missing. But when she left she took something of his with her. Something he prizes above everything else. And as long as she has it, she’s safe. Well, perhaps not completely safe, but she needn’t worry about bolts hurtling down from the heavens and cooking her where she stands. What she took from him he can’t take back from her by force. She must give it to him freely. And if he kills her, it goes back to its original owner, which is not Oshia, nor is that something he’d want to happen. So his only resort is to trick her into giving it to him. You have to find her before he manages this, because if you do not, and he recovers his artifact, then she is dead.”
“Where is she?” Gunnarr asked.
“I don’t know.”
Gunnarr glared at Issa.
“No, really, I don’t. Oshia has shielded her from me. She may be free, but she is still heavily steeped in his magics. You don’t spend that much time in direct contact with a god without some intermingling of… essences. And so long as that connection lingers, he can exert some little control over her, including masking her presence from me. I can sense that both she and the artifact are no longer in Oshia’s temple,” Issa said, “but beyond that, you are on your own.”
“Is there anything you can do to help?” Gunnarr asked.
“I cannot be involved. Not directly anyway. If he senses me helping you, he’ll know that I know what is going on. He will gather allies and far more would rally to his cause than yours. I would not stand a chance against him, and it would endanger you as well. If he senses you trying to find her, he will just assume you are continuing to search for your lost lover. He won’t see you as a threat. You might not even register to him at all, such is his confidence. But the moment I move against him, he would realize my own motivations,” Issa said, “and it is too soon for that.”
Gunnarr paced on the deck for a minute before turning back toward Issa.
“How long ago did she leave the Temple?” Gunnarr asked.
“A week ago?” Issa said uncertainly. “I am still adjusting to having my godhood back, and time is such a nebulous concept. It’s difficult to say for certain. Perhaps longer.”
“A week? Perhaps more? I don’t understand…” Gunnarr said, “that should have given her enough time to find a messenger and send word. Even if she doesn’t know where I am, she could have contacted Callan…”
“I don’t know why she has not contacted you, or anyone else for that matter. And wondering about it won’t bring you to her any sooner. Maybe she’s just gone off you a bit in the last few years.”
Gunnarr refused to let her bait him, though he’d have liked nothing more than to toss the equally annoying and feckless goddess overboard at that moment.
“Can you not even point me in the right direction?”
“You are looking for the Djinn. That is my understanding?” Issa said questioningly.
Gunnarr nodded.
“Then you are going in the right direction. Continue on this path. The Djinn can help you. They have power like our own but are outside of our sphere of influence. You will need them, and many others, as allies if you are to battle a god. And believe me, if Oshia perceives you as a threat, you will have to battle him. He will not let this object fall into another’s hands if he can help it.”
Gunnarr began to ask another question but Issa vanished before he could utter a sound. He looked around and could see no sign of her on the deck.
“I hate it when she does that,” he said to no one in particular.
“Is she gone?” a voice called from below decks.
“Yes, Nat,” Gunnarr replied, “she’s gone.”
Nat scurried up the stairs, sheathing his sword as he climbed. A smile tugged at the corners of Gunnarr’s mouth. The young warrior had been waiting, ready to strike in the event he was needed. Gunnarr had trained him well.
“I told them not to come up. There is nothing you can do in a fight against a god. Better to save yourself, I said,” Sam said climbing the stairs next, Viola right behind him.
Gunnarr eyed the older man intently.
“How did you know there was a god up here?”
Sam just stared blankly at Gunnarr before turning and heading back down to the crew quarters. Viola, Nat and Gunnarr all shared a look.
“Are you still sure he’s okay to bring along?” Nat asked.
Gunnarr shrugged.
“I suppose we’ll find out soon enough.
Kali trudged up the hill behind Patch, her steps pounding into the earth beneath with more force than necessary, punishing it for being unhelpful. Her sojourn near the village hadn’t jogged any of her furtive memories. Her only hope at recovering her past, she reasoned, was to move on. Having no notion of where she currently was, she’d consulted Patch and he had verified what she’d already guessed—that they were, basically, in the middle of nowhere. Other than a few scattered not-quite-villages like the one they were about to leave behind, there was only one city of any size nearby, and that at least a hard days travel away.
“Then that’s where we’re heading,” she’d said. “Point the way, Patch.”
Patch had nodded his acquiescence and pointed to the west, over a range of rolling hills. Kali immedia
tely set in that direction at a brisk pace, Patch falling in beside her in the dim pre-dawn light. They’d travelled for the better part of a day without a murmur of conversation. The oddness of the silence hadn’t struck Kali at first. She’d been alone for so long, she hadn’t cultivated the habit of so many people, especially newly introduced to each other, of keeping up an incessant stream of banter. It wasn’t until they were cresting the final hill, and saw the city at its foot below them, that Patch finally broke the silence.
“I am curious,” he began, “as to why you choose this path. This city?”
“Maybe that’s where I’m from. I have to come from somewhere. People don’t just pop up out of thin air in the middle of nowhere. Since I don’t appear to be from the village I got these clothes from, it seems logical to head to the next nearest city.”
“All paths lead just as quickly to the future,” Patch replied enigmatically, “so all are equal. But I doubt you will find the answers you seek in that city, or that it is where you hail from.”
“What makes you think that?” Kali asked.
Having her plans challenged, and facing the idea of inaction again, gave rise to that nervous itch in the back of her mind. She unconsciously clutched at the amber stone resting in the pocket of her tatty pants. Patch noted the movement and stared openly at Kali’s hand.
“You’ll see when we get there,” he said simply.
Kali noticed Patch staring at her pocket and pulled her hand out, leaving the stone behind. She had also noticed the previous day how interested he seemed to be in the stone. He hadn’t mentioned it at all before or now—he just watched her thoughtfully whenever she handled it.
“Something interesting about my stone?” she asked, deciding directness was the best course of action.
“Hmmm?” Patch asked, looking up from her pocket, “Oh, yes of course. I noticed you carrying it. Unlike the clothes, which clearly do not belong to you, that bauble does. I was wondering its significance to you is all. You claim to have no memory of your past, yet you cling to that thing like it holds some significance for you. I find myself wondering how that could be. For something to have significance, it must have context, and you are, by your own admission, very short on context.”
