by Resa Nelson
Frandulane shivered with cold. “What would I do in the Far East? I don’t know the language. I have nowhere to stay. I won’t have much left after paying to get to the Midlands.”
“Are you willing to be quelled?”
Frandulane sank to the deck and hunched over. With fearful eyes, he looked at the boardwalk while the ship pushed away from it.
Following his gaze, Pingzi saw Skallagrim shouting at the brigands floundering in the water. He appeared to be unaware of the ship’s departure.
Pingzi sat on the deck next to Frandulane and mirrored his effort to hide. “Tell me now,” she said. “Are you willing to be quelled?”
Frandulane looked down. “I don’t know what it means to be quelled.”
“You must be willing to reconsider what you believe to be true. What you trust to be right and wrong. You must be open to becoming a new man.”
Frandulane sniffed as if on the verge of tears. “But how will I survive? How will I eat? Where will I sleep?”
“Leave that to me,” Pingzi said. “All that you need will be my responsibility as long as you are being quelled.”
“Your responsibility?” Frandulane sounded unconvinced. He looked up with a questioning gaze.
He doesn’t know who I am. He doesn’t realize it was my husband that his cousin murdered.
“It’s what a demon queller does.”
Frandulane uttered a soft laugh. “I never dreamed I’d ever meet a demon queller.” His tone turned serious. “Or that anyone would call me a demon.”
“But do you agree to be quelled?”
“What choice do I have?” Frandulane shrugged. “I agree to be quelled.”
Pingzi Po gave a satisfied nod. “Good. Once we arrive in the Midlands, we will go from there immediately to the Far East. Once we arrive in the Far East, the quelling will begin.” She yawned.
The intensity of last night’s portent and her body’s unexpected journey to meet her spirit here in Gott caught up with Pingzi. She felt as if she’d been run over by a cart and the horses leading it.
“I must rest,” Pingzi said, already half asleep. The demon queller then climbed below deck, leaving Frandulane hiding behind the railing while the ship sailed away from the port city of Gott.
* * *
Skallagrim continued to search the harbor waters for a sign of Frandulane. The mayhem caused by the screaming and thrashing of the hapless brigands in those waters confounded him. “Frandulane!” Skallagrim bellowed. “Be a man and show yourself!”
Skallagrim didn’t understand how a sudden gust could leave him unharmed while at the same time sweeping Frandulane and the brigands who betrayed him into the sea. He also failed to understand why none of the brigands knew how to swim. He paced around the end of the boardwalk and looked in all directions, still unable to spot Frandulane.
Several townspeople ran down the boardwalk toward Skallagrim. The young man leading what appeared to be his group of friends said, “We heard you shouting, Dragonslayer. We’re here to help.”
Frustrated, Skallagrim pointed at the men desperately trying to flail their way through the water to the boardwalk. “Those are brigands. They’re dangerous and should be subdued.”
The young man frowned. “They appear to be drowning.”
“Maybe we should let them.” Skallagrim gave a cold look to the young man. “They came here to kill me.”
The young man’s frown faded away. “My uncle’s ship is there.” He pointed at a large Northlander ship several steps down the boardwalk. “He always has plenty of extra rope on board. Leave the brigands to us.” The townspeople hurried toward the ship.
The brigand Perri moaned as he reached up to grip the edge of the boardwalk. Ignoring his fellow brigands, he hauled his fatigued body up onto the boards. Lying still, he panted like a fish.
It took only a few strides for Skallagrim to reach him. Placing one foot on Perri’s shoulder, Skallagrim shoved him off the edge of the boardwalk and back into the water.
“Frandulane!” Skallagrim roared once more.
Once the townspeople returned with rope in hand, Skallagrim felt confident in broadening his search. If Frandulane had succeeded in hiding among the floundering brigands, he’d be tied up soon enough. Skallagrim would examine the brigands after they’d all been hauled out of the sea to confirm that Frandulane wasn’t among them.
Skallagrim paced away from the end of the boardwalk, examining everything that fell into his sight. The lapping sound of the water beneath his feet made him peer through the gaps between the boards to make sure Frandulane didn’t lurk anywhere underneath.
He paused to consider that unlike these brigands, Frandulane knew how to swim. All Scaldings knew how to swim. Growing up on an island made that skill an inevitable one to learn.
For the first time, Skallagrim realized that Frandulane could have used the commotion created by the panicking brigands to swim under the surface of the water to escape detection.
The thought that Frandulane might have outwitted him enraged Skallagrim.
Picking up his pace, Skallagrim turned his attention to the docked ships. Noting that the ship Frandulane would have reached first was the same one in which he had arrived with the brigands, Skallagrim prepared to board and search it. But then he noticed something else.
The ship on which Skallagrim had booked passage to the Midlands no longer stood in dock.
Startled that he had failed to notice it leave, Skallagrim spun to face the edge of the boardwalk. Looking in the direction of the Midlands, he made out a ship nearing the horizon.
Skallagrim ignored his first impulse to convince the brigands’ ship to chase after the escaped vessel.
Just because my ship has sailed doesn’t mean Frandulane is on it. He could be hiding on one of the docked boats. Or he could have slipped past me and into Gott.
If I make a hurried decision now, Frandulane could get away. If I make the wrong decision, it could haunt me for the rest of my life.
Skallagrim decided to make his search methodical. First, he would search the brigands’ ship and then every boat. Next, he would check the captured brigands to make sure Frandulane wasn’t among them. Finally, he would enlist aid to scour the entire city of Gott and spread word in every tavern that Frandulane needed to be captured. If he found no trace of Frandulane, Skallagrim would then set sail for the Midlands to search for him.
With enough help from the good people of Gott, Skallagrim felt confident he could complete the search in the next few hours. If no one found Frandulane, Skallagrim would set sail today.
Satisfied with his strengthened resolve, Skallagrim boarded the brigands’ ship to search it. No matter the time or effort it required, he swore to rid the world of the man he blamed for the murder of his wife and father.
CHAPTER 17
Frandulane remained huddled next to the railing while the ship’s crew bustled. Once out of sight of the Northlander shore, the sea calmed and the ship sailed through the gentle waves with ease. The crew’s work lessened, and one of them sidled up to Frandulane.
The crew member appeared to busy himself, but even to Frandulane’s unexperienced eyes the man didn’t accomplish much of anything other than find a reason to make conversation while acting busy. “It seems to me,” the crewman said, “that you’ve still got a problem even though there’s plenty of silver on your arms to solve it.”
Baffled, Frandulane said, “What problem?”
The crew member re-arranged a pile of oars that already looked to be in order. “That Far East lady telling you what to do? I never before heard of a Northlander man letting a woman boss him around like that.”
Frandulane felt his pride pierced as if by a well-shot arrow. “If I don’t do what she says, I’ll be killed.”
The oars rattled against the deck as the crewman kept re-arranging them. “The others say you’re a Scalding. Don’t Scaldings know about shapeshifting? I thought all Northlanders knew how to do that.”
A flicker of hope sparked inside Frandulane. “I heard some uncles talk about it when I was a boy, but those memories are faint. What do you know of it?”
“What I hear.” The crewman coughed and then aimed to spit over the railing, falling short. He ignored the failure and returned his attention to the oars. “It’s usually only Northlanders who believe shapeshifting works. No one else does. Except for this one place in the Midlands, just south of Daneland. I hear there’s an alchemist in Copenville that knows all about shapeshifting and has the potions to make it happen. Seems to me all you have to do is shapeshift to solve your problems.”
Frandulane strove to recall his dim memories of what his uncles had said about shapeshifting, but everything was too vague. “If I could shapeshift, what would I turn into? A deer? Or a bear? What if a hunter shot me?”
The crewman laughed. “What kind of Northlander are you? That’s not how shapeshifting works. Sure, there are fairy tales about people turning into animals, but that’s not what the Northlanders say.”
“Then how does it work?”
The crewman lowered his voice. “There seems to be some kind of potion you eat. Maybe drink. Then it’s all up to you imagining what you want to look like.”
Frandulane felt even more baffled. “Imagine? How does that happen?”
“You picture how you want to look in your mind. For example, they say blacksmiths shapeshift to make their arms and chest bigger so they can do their work easier.” The crewman looked up at the sails towering above their heads, billowing in the breeze. “If I could do it, I’d make myself as tall as the masts so I could check the sails if there’s a problem—instead of having to climb up and risk my neck.” The crewman screwed a pointing finger against his temple. “But it’s all about thinking about the way you want to look.”
Frandulane shook his head in frustration. “Making my arms bigger or standing as tall as a mast won’t do me any good.”
“You’re not paying attention,” the crewman said. “There are all kinds of ways to change how you look. Right now, it’s obvious you’re a Northlander: you’ve got blond hair, pale skin, and your height towers above everybody else. If you take that shapeshifting potion and imagine yourself to be a Midlander, for instance, you can shorten your height, turn your hair from blond to black, and give yourself an olive complexion.” The crewman smiled. “You begin to see the possibilities?”
The spark of hope inside Frandulane flickered into a flame. He nodded.
“Right now, it’s obvious you’re a Scalding.” The crewman pointed to his own eyes. “Nobody but the Scaldings got lavender eyes. If you take that shapeshifting potion and imagine your eyes to be brown, then they’ll become brown.”
“Who is this alchemist in Copenville?” Frandulane said, now alight with the anticipation of a foolproof way to evade Skallagrim’s murderous rage. “And how do I find him?”
“Her name is Lopaire, and I can draw you a map.” The crewman looked at a large silver ring on Frandulane’s hand. “For a price.”
Without hesitation, Frandulane removed the ring and put it in the palm of the crewman’s hand.
CHAPTER 18
Exhausted from the unexpected journey from her bed in Zangcheen to the port city of Gott, Pingzi Po expected to fall asleep as soon as she made her way below deck and found a pallet on which she could rest. Just as she anticipated, Pingzi drifted into a sound sleep immediately.
The last thing she expected was to have another portent so soon after the most recent one. Under most circumstances, weeks or even months passed between portents—not hours.
Pingzi dreamed she walked in the busy streets of a port city inhabited by Midlanders. But the sight of one familiar Northlander stood out in the crowd.
Frandulane!
For a moment, Pingzi assumed the ship had arrived in the Midlander port and she’d somehow lost track of Frandulane. But a shimmer of blue light caught the corner of her eye, and she scanned the horizon. Everywhere she looked, a wall of pale blue light stood at the horizon, signifying she stood within a contained realm.
I’m dreaming.
Yesterday, her dead husband Hsu Mao had met her for the first time in a portent, and she thought he would always be her guide.
Maybe this isn’t a portent. Maybe it’s just a dream.
Or maybe Hsu can only reach me when my body rests in the Far East.
Satisfied that she stood inside a dream—and possibly a portent—Pingzi approached Frandulane. Before she could speak to him, she realized he addressed a Midlander woman in her language. A young boy clung to her skirts.
“If you’d bothered learning how to speak Northlander, it would have been easier on you,” Frandulane said to the woman.
“Northlander.” The woman spat out the word. “It’s a terrible language. It’s convoluted and makes no sense.”
Pingzi circled around them, but Frandulane gave no indication that he saw her.
He’s either too engrossed in conversing with this woman or I’m invisible to him.
Pingzi pondered the situation.
But is this Frandulane’s past? Or will it be his future once we arrive in the Midlands?
“We’re still days away from home,” the Midlander woman said to him. “What are you going to do to get us there?”
“Nothing. It’ll be easier for you to find work here. There should be plenty of farms around the city and plenty of cows that need milking.”
“First you drag me to Tower Island. Why drag us back to the Midlands if we’re not going home?”
Tower Island?
Pingzi knew Tower Island was home to Scaldings, Frandulane and Skallagrim included. But only Scaldings were welcome on that island. They allowed no one outside their family to live there unless they were farmhands or servants.
The Midlander woman didn’t address Frandulane as if she were his servant.
Frandulane smiled. “Maybe you’ll be a better wife to the next man. Assuming you don’t lie to him.”
This must be Frandulane’s wife and child.
Now certain that no one could see her, Pingzi leaned into the conversation.
“You make no sense.” The woman pointed at a stable down the road. “Mandulane is too young to ride. We’ll need a cart.”
Frandulane pushed up his sleeve to show his silver bracelets and then spoke taunting words.
The woman snatched the bracelets and headed toward the tavern with the boy in tow.
Pingzi examined the expression of self-satisfaction on Frandulane’s face.
“I see now that there are many reasons why you must be quelled,” Pingzi said, even though she knew Frandulane couldn’t hear her.
What Pingzi saw and experienced existed only inside the realm of her portent, not in the mortal world. She also sensed that what she saw had already happened. Nothing could be done to change the past.
Turning her back on Frandulane, Pingzi followed his wife and young son into the tavern.
But once Pingzi stepped through the doorway, she found herself inside the one-room interior of a much smaller building. A counter stood by the door, and all of the walls in the room were lined with shelves crowded with all sorts of glass bottles, clay pots, and other containers.
This isn’t a tavern. It’s an apothecary. But where’s the alchemist?
The milkmaid and her son stood just in front of Pingzi and appeared to be alone in the small room. The milkmaid called out “Hello.”
A middle-aged woman with braided dark red hair popped up from behind the counter. “I didn’t hear you come in. How can I help?”
“I need a potion for forgetting.”
Pingzi circled behind the milkmaid.
Forgetting? What does Frandulane’s wife want to forget?
The alchemist asked the same question.
The milkmaid looked at her son. “The past.”
She’s not the one who wants to forget. She’s asking the alchemist to help her son.
Although frustrated with Frandul
ane, Pingzi felt fondness toward his wife for striving to help the boy.
Mandulane peered over the counter.
His mother said, “Why don’t you go look at all the pretty bottles?”
“That’s not a good idea,” the alchemist said.
Although Pingzi had little experience with alchemists, she’d met both the royal magician and the royal astrologer in her home city of Zangcheen in the Far East. She knew such specialists must be trusted.
The world held a treasure of magical things that looked like innocent flowers or weeds or nuts or seeds. When ingested individually, they typically caused no harm. But blending such natural things in precise ways could result in great good or great harm.
Mandulane plopped onto the floor, and the alchemist leaned over the counter and kept an eye on him. “There are different ways to forget,” the alchemist told Frandulane’s wife.
Pingzi examined the many shelves while the wife explained the potion wasn’t for her, and the alchemist advised letting her son forget without aid. Pingzi paid sharp attention when the wife explained that her son’s memories of having lived on Tower Island might be too distressful to forget without help.
“Scalding,” the alchemist said, as if wanting to verify she hadn’t misheard.
“Not by blood,” the milkmaid whispered. “By marriage. Over now.” She removed the silver wedding ring from her finger, placed it on the counter, and pushed it toward the alchemist.
Surprised, Pingzi stepped forward to make sure the ring looked like one a man would give to his wife on their marriage day.
She’s ending her marriage to Frandulane. She’s leaving him.
Spinning around in surprise at the sound of a loud crash, Pingzi saw Mandulane sitting among the shards of a broken jar. Clumps of dried grass and large black pods surrounded him. The alchemist warned him not to touch anything and spoke of contamination.
Pingzi pondered the alchemist’s words.
