Nevertheless, the following night, she angered him again.
It proved all too easy. They followed the Sea of the Labyrinth westward, past isles large and small. As far as she knew, Qiyed had no destination in mind. He said nothing about Guild meetings or new human conquests. So she resorted to a proven irritant.
“Where do you think the Walker is right now? Do you have any idea where he was headed?”
She felt his muscles tense beneath her.
“What sort of ship were they on? From which isle does the vessel hail? Is the captain a merchant? A pirate?”
“Stop it.”
He kept his voice low, but couldn’t mask his ire.
“Stop what? You know Tirribin: we’re naturally curious.”
He grabbed her arms, pulled her off him, and threw her bodily across swells and troughs. She slammed into the water, the impact stealing her breath. For a fivecount she could do no more than hang below the sea’s surface, too hurt and stunned to move. As salt filled her nose and mouth, she kicked up and gulped at the air.
“I will not do this again, Droënalka,” he called from a distance. He had thrown her far. “I will not be pestered and provoked. Ask any more questions and you will die.”
“Any questions at all? I’m not allowed to ask about your history, or where we’re headed, or when I will get to feed next?”
“You know what questions I mean.”
“Ah, yes. The Walker. Are you jealous, Qiyed? Or is he closer than you have admitted, and you don’t want me–”
He allowed her no more than that. An invisible hand – magick again – forced her under and held her there. She thrashed, because he would expect no less, and because she was frightened. She didn’t wish to die this night.
Qiyed seemed intent on killing her. Her lungs burned, pressure built behind her eyes, her struggles grew more frantic. Even so, as fear and lack of air fractured her thoughts, she tried to push back against his magick. He was powerful, and she remained weak, or, more to the point, ignorant in the use of whatever power she possessed. She couldn’t overcome him now. But she sensed the limits of his strength, and had an inkling – born of instinct, or perhaps sheer hope – that she might use them to her advantage.
If he gave her that chance. He held her still, his magickal grip as uncompromising as stone. She didn’t think he would end her life, but with every passing moment, every strained beat of her heart, her certainty weakened.
Unable to endure any more, she released her held breath. Nothing. No surrender on his part. She had miscalculated. Water flooded her mouth and nose, her chest. Death, then. So be it.
When he released her, she could only lift her eyes to the sea’s surface, which stirred and shimmered like satin. Magick touched her again. Prodded her, to no avail. Then Qiyed himself was there, pulling her up and onto his back.
They breached and he shook her until her lungs spasmed and her stomach revolted. She vomited water back into the brine, coughed until tears ran over her cheeks.
“You are a fool,” he said, scornful.
Droë was too weak to answer, but in her mind she said, Perhaps, but you aren’t willing to let me die.
He carried her on, and for the rest of that night she spoke not a word. Nor did she provoke him the following night.
By the third night, she had recovered enough to challenge him again. She waited until they were on land. Another strand, this on one of the Bone isles. She defied him over a trifle: He gave her a bell to hunt; she insisted on two.
As they argued, he regarded her with suspicion. He might have understood that she sought to provoke him. Yet, he couldn’t help himself. The more she fought, the angrier he grew. She stood within his reach, and expected that he would lash out with fists and feet.
He didn’t. As before, he attacked with magick, raining blows upon her. When that failed to tame her, he squeezed her chest until she couldn’t breathe, which proved every bit as horrifying as being drowned.
Droë fought to inhale. Her heart and lungs ached again. Even so, she also considered Qiyed’s choices. No physical attack. Did he fear her strength? And his magick, while as powerful as ever, had grown predictable. She felt it as something akin to pressure, a hand pushing through her flesh to reach organs that were more vital. If she could shield her heart and mind with her own power, might she block his assaults? If she sheathed her entire body in magick, might she prevent his every violation?
She didn’t dare try. Not so soon. If she alerted him to what she had divined, he might find some new assault. All she learned, though, made his abuse easier to endure. And knowing he wouldn’t kill her, kept her worst panic at bay.
Eventually, he let her breathe again, and she agreed to hunt for a bell and one half. A compromise he accepted. Another lesson.
Over the qua’turn and more that followed, she continued to test, provoke, and retreat. More vulnerabilities revealed themselves. His magick could only reach so far. The one time she dared fight him physically, on a night at sea when she pestered him with questions, she discovered that she was indeed as strong as he, and quicker. She didn’t push her resistance far; she couldn’t risk having him leave her in the middle of the Aiyanthan Sea. Strong as she was, she couldn’t swim like an Arrokad. Yet, before she surrendered, she convinced herself that in a fight on land, without magick, she could overpower him.
Most satisfying, she realized that her mind was stronger than his. He, and all Arrokad, knew more of this world than she ever would. He had lived thousands of years longer, had explored every league of every sea, bay, and harbor between the oceans. By comparison, she remained a child.
But he was hostage to his temper, to his capacity for rage, to his need for control. Again she thought him far more human than he would ever admit.
In contrast, she trained herself to defy her temper, to curb her hostility for the Arrokad. She came to see him as pathetic and weak, and she grew more confident in her own abilities.
On this night, after they grappled briefly, she let him force her underwater. He didn’t rely on his hands to hold her there, but surrendered to his need for magick. She fought, because he would expect no less.
She didn’t panic. Panic is the enemy, she told herself. Hate is the enemy. Magick can only do so much. I need only myself to prevail.
She repeated these words to herself until he let her breathe. She didn’t swallow a drop. She thought she could have held her breath for an entire bell if necessary.
Panic is the enemy. Hate is the enemy. I need only myself to prevail.
Long after their fight ended, as they skimmed again over the swells, the words repeated themselves in her mind, like the invocation of a human priestess.
Panic is the enemy. Hate is the enemy. I need only myself to prevail.
The litany wrapped itself around her, a magick of her own making, armor against all Qiyed might do to her. When next she defied him – again at sea – the words strengthened her. They were proof against all he tried to do to her. She sensed his magick, recognized it, knew how she should react to it. He never realized that it didn’t touch her, that she could break free any time she wished. She fought and struggled and surrendered.
And within her mind and heart, she smiled, knowing she had won, content for a little longer to let him believe he controlled her. Soon she would reveal to him her mastery. She would know the right time when it presented itself.
She didn’t have to wait long.
Four nights after this last fight, Qiyed carried her past the forested isle of Tirayre, out of the Inward Sea, and into the Sea of Gales.
Throughout the day, awareness of… something lurked at the edge of her consciousness. Qiyed might have sensed it as well. He spoke less than usual, and he swam without his customary abandon.
Late in the afternoon, she realized what had been bothering her.
“Belvora,” she said.
He slowed and then halted, bobbing in the water, his face tilted to the sky. She searched for the winge
d ones as well.
He spotted them first and pointed. “Three. They always travel in threes.”
“Not always,” she said, drawing on a distant memory.
Qiyed didn’t argue, but swam on. Droë clung to him, peering back at the creatures, fascinated and unable to say why. They were no threat to her. They would never challenge an Arrokad, or, for that matter, a being such as herself, whatever she was. What had brought them here? Why would they circle above these waters?
“We should remain close,” she said after a time. “I want to know what they’re doing here.”
She thought he might see this as another challenge. Instead, he slowed again.
“Yes, all right.” He swam toward the Belvora, toward the southern shore of Herjes.
As night fell, they neared the isle. The winged ones soared directly above them. And now, other scents reached her as well, tantalizing, but elusive. As darkness gathered, she thought Qiyed became aware of them.
By then, she knew.
“Walkers,” she said.
“No.”
“I smell them. I taste their years. It’s Tobias, isn’t it? And the woman who travels with him?”
“It is not. We have to leave.”
She released him and pushed away. They were but a league or two from land, close enough that she was willing to risk the sea. “I will go no farther,” she said. “Tobias is here. I will see him.”
Droë began to swim toward the isle.
Magick grabbed her, lifted her from the swells, and hurled her through the air. She struck the sea with a resounding slap and a huge splash. She sank a few hands, but pushed herself back to air. Qiyed had tossed her to within a few hands of where he floated. She cursed her carelessness.
“Shall we fight again?” he asked, overconfident.
He would think her hesitation a symptom of fear. Let him. She fought herself. She didn’t wish to have this battle in water, but she would not allow him to pull her away from here. Not when she was finally so close to Tobias. Was she ready to reveal her strength and all she had learned?
Before she could decide, a new sound reached them: the dry crack of flintlocks. They stared into the night. Droë sensed Qiyed’s curiosity. He might not have been ready for her to find Tobias, but he did want to know what was happening with the humans and the Belvora. Perhaps they wouldn’t have to fight after all.
More weapons fire crackled. A Belvora shrieked. A death cry.
And then a sound neither had anticipated, a sound that changed everything.
She looked Qiyed’s way. “We have no choice now.”
“Do we not?”
“No, Qiyed, we don’t. If you won’t take me there, I swear to tell every Ancient I meet of your dereliction. Every one, for as long as I live.”
“I could kill you now.”
“You’re free to try; I’ll summon another Arrokad before you manage it. Or we can do this together.”
The slitted eyes narrowed, but only when his mouth twitched did she know she had prevailed.
“Climb on,” he said, turning his back to her.
She did.
He dove, dousing her, as if to punish. She didn’t mind. As they surged through the salt waves, toward bitter smoke and the smell of Walker magick, her pounding heart threatened to burst from her chest.
CHAPTER 33
18th Day of Kheraya’s Settling, Year 634
A qua’turn after Larr suggested that they seek a Bound device from pirates in the Sea of Gales, the Sea Dove made land in Vondehm, the royal city of Herjes, on the isle’s eastern shore. As in the Knot, the crew and captain had to await permission from city authorities before leaving the ship. This was a busier port, however, and they waited several bells before being approached by a uniformed man.
He was tall, muscular, his dark hair salted with white. Elaborate etchings covered the right side of his face, centered around his eye.
Captain Larr spoke with him on the wharf, a pouch of coins tied to her belt. The official remained stoic. Larr’s expression tightened through the encounter. In time, she paid him several gold rounds and ascended the plank to the dock.
Standing with Tobias, Mara gazed after the official as he followed the pier to the next ship. Men and women disembarked from the various vessels moored to the docks, but the only Herjeans she saw – the only people bearing the geometric etchings for which the isle was known – were men.
“That didn’t seem to go well,” Mara said, as the captain passed.
A frown lined the captain’s brow. “It wasn’t so bad. Their wharfages have increased.”
Mara quirked an eyebrow.
“Herjean men can be… unpleasant,” Larr admitted. “This is the only isle between the oceans where I’m made to feel presumptuous for captaining my own vessel.” She gave a thin smile. “Well, here and Westisle. No matter. We’re free to visit the city,” she said, raising her voice so the rest of the crew would hear. A cheer greeted these tidings. “Back on the ship by midnight.”
This earned a groan, but in moments, members of the crew were headed off the ship and into Vondehm.
“I have matters to attend to,” Larr said. “Some of it is of interest to the two of you. Would you care to join me?”
Tobias glanced at Mara. “I’ll stay with Nava. You should go.”
Mara agreed, and soon she and the captain had disembarked, and ventured into the heart of the royal city. Mara spotted more Herjean women here, all of them marked with those same etchings. The city itself resembled others she had seen during their travels. Beyond the squalor nearest to the waterfront, Vondehm might have been cleaner than most. Soldiers, in green and silver livery, patrolled the streets in numbers. Pairs of them, swords on their belts, muskets fixed with bayonets, stood on nearly every street corner.
Captain Larr showed no alarm at their presence. She walked with confidence, surveying the shops and peddlers’ carts that lined the lanes. They didn’t stop at any of them, nor did they linger in the city marketplace.
“Where are we going, captain?” Mara asked.
“To a smaller marketplace on the west end of the city,” Larr said, speaking as she might of the weather. “The main market caters to the city’s wealthy, and merchants who come here to get rich off them. This other is for traders and farmers and craftsmen who operate beyond the city’s walls.”
“So there’s more gold to be made in the main market.”
“Yes, but one of the traders at this other is a man I’ve known for many years. He traded with my father. And he has friends who…” She glanced around them. The street wasn’t as crowded as those nearest the wharves, but neither was it empty. “Who live west of here,” she went on, her meaning clear enough. “I sent a message ahead. He may have information for us.”
The back of Mara’s neck tightened as the captain said this. She looked over her shoulder.
“Is something the matter?”
“Probably not. I’m just not used to… to this place.” Or to treating with pirates and smugglers.
They walked on. Mara scanned the byways.
She expected this second marketplace to be different from others she had seen. Seedier. More menacing. It was neither. Had she not known that Vondehm had another market, she would have assumed this one served the entire city. Men and women, most marked with etchings, crowded around peddlers’ tables and carts, shouting for attention, waving purses or holding up coins they squeezed between finger and thumb. Children and dogs ran underfoot. The entire plaza smelled of woodsmoke and rotting greens, fried bread and dead fish.
Larr led Mara around the perimeter of the market, dark eyes peering into shadows, searching. After circling nearly the entire space, she muttered something Mara didn’t hear and angled into the crowd. After a few steps, she paused and leaned close to Mara.
“I probably don’t need to say this, but let me talk. Don’t say anything unless you’re spoken to. These are Herjean men, many of them. A few might hail from Westisle itself. Mo
st of them are asses. They’re quick-tempered, used to getting their way, and dangerous if provoked.”
“All right.”
Mara followed the captain to a broad table set beneath a canvas shelter. The table was covered with a random array of items: pistols, knives, blue bottles full of wines both pale and dark, strands of dried kelp, gemstone-crusted brooches, necklaces, and bracelets, and more. Mara didn’t see any chronofors or sextants, but she wasn’t sure peddlers would display such items. Three men sat in chairs behind the table, all of them marked with etchings, all of them wiry and olive complected. One was sleeping. The other two had eyes of pale green. They might all have been brothers.
The middle one wore a black shirt and matching breeches. The one to his right, who carved a piece of bone with a small blade, wore a leather vest over his bare torso. The shelter stank of stale whiskey, but those pressed around the wares didn’t notice or care. Larr halted behind the men and women closest to the table, and peered over their shoulders as they jostled one another and bartered with the two sensate men.
Mara stood with her, hearing more than she saw. The booth seemed a den of chaos, of argument and barely controlled violence. She sensed the peddlers were enjoying themselves.
At one point, Vest spotted Captain Larr and dipped his chin fractionally in recognition. No words passed between them. The peddler began haggling with a burly, bald man over a flask of dark liquor.
Shortly after, the man in the black shirt stood, and slipped out of the booth through a slit in the canvas. He said nothing and didn’t spare Larr and Mara a glance. A spirecount later, the captain touched Mara’s shoulder, gestured with a quick cant of her head, and led her away from the booth. They strolled to the next table, and the one after that.
Then they slipped between two booths to a sheltered patch of brown grass, out of sight of others in the plaza.
Black Shirt awaited them there. He was a full head shorter than the captain, and barely taller than Mara herself. A pistol hung on his belt, as did a large knife.
He flashed a dark smile at the captain, exposing crooked yellow teeth. “Seris.” He barely took notice of Mara.
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