by Dana Marton
I made sure to smile. “I brought water. How are you faring?”
“When we reach port, will you sell us at a slave market?” she demanded.
I put the bucket between us and slowly sat on the floor with my legs crossed, making no gestures that could be interpreted as threatening.
“We are headed to Sheharree, a Shahala harbor. You must know that my people, the Shahala, keep no slaves.”
She watched me with distrust. “The Shahala keep no army either.”
“’Tis not a Shahala army.”
“Whose army is it, then?”
“Mine.”
Her eyes widened, but in another moment, they narrowed again with suspicion. “The Shahala have no warrior queens.”
I smiled. “I am neither warrior nor queen.”
Her little girl peeked from behind her mother, looking light enough to take flight. Her matted hair was so dirty, I could barely tell the color.
“I am Nessa,” she peeped up for the first time.
“Greetings, Nessa. Did you sleep well?”
As the girl nodded, the mother relaxed a small measure. “I’m Ina. M’lady,” she added.
“Did you lose your husband in the attack, Ina?” I asked gently.
Anger filled her eyes instead of tears. “He was but a goatherd, m’lady. They didn’t need to kill him none.”
The mother and child eased forward from the corner at last, and I thought they might yet sit with me and tell me more of what had happened on Rabeen, but Marga pushed her bushy head through the door, and Ina and Nessa drew back with identical screams.
I rose to nudge Marga back.
“The water is yours,” I told Ina before stepping after the tiger. “If you need anything else, send someone to find me.”
Not that she would. She would neither leave the room nor talk to one of our soldiers willingly. I would come back and check on them later.
Marga and I walked to the storage room I had been sharing with Batumar for most of the journey. Now a soldier stood guard in front of the door, which meant Urdy was still in there. I had once again spent the night by the prince’s side, as his fever had spiked shortly before midnight. Batumar had shared our storage room with Urdy, for the warlord would not let the dwarf out of his sight.
I shot the guard a questioning look.
“The dwarf is not to leave the room today.” The man shifted on his feet. “He is not to have visitors either, my lady.”
I did not have to ask on whose orders.
I did not challenge the poor soldier, who was clearly uncomfortable, but continued on to exchange a few words with Prince Graho, then hurried down a narrow passageway to grab two bowls of leftover goat stew from the galley before I went to find Boscor on deck.
“The wound is much better, Lady Tera,” the chronicle keeper assured me after thanking me for his meal. “You have worked a miracle.”
His eyes were clear, no flush on his cheeks, his wound pink, not red. No fever. No infection. I had treated him the night before with my newfound herbs.
“The pain should lessen each day as you heal more fully,” I told him.
He must have been hungry, but he ate with no hurry. In fact, he took the time to say a silent prayer first, bowing his head. He had a quiet dignity that reminded me of the old Guardians of the Forgotten City, whom I greatly missed.
I stayed to talk with him and eat my meal in his company, my gaze wandering to the men who were back at swordplay after their midday break. Our storm-tattered sails sagged in the weak wind, the masts creaking as if even the timber was tired of the long journey. Yet the soldiers threw themselves into training harder than ever.
“How fare the mother and child?” Boscor asked.
“Resting.” At least, I most sincerely hoped.
“And the crown prince of Landria?” Boscor winced as he asked. “I overheard talk of his surgery.”
“Recovering as we speak.” The wind blew tendrils of my hair into my face. I pushed them back. “You could keep him company. He is impatient to rise and join training, but it would be best for him if he stayed put for a while longer yet.”
The chronicle keeper shook his head. “My opinion on going belowdecks holds. Climbing the ladder would hurt too much. And I am not having myself carried down on a soldier’s back. I would prefer not to be dropped. I do not wish to add a broken neck to the list of my injuries.”
He had said as much the previous evening and had spent the night on deck. As the night had been clear and he had not been in the way, nobody objected.
He finished his stew and placed the empty bowl next to himself. “I am most glad that the gods favored me by putting me in your path.” He folded his hands over his belly, linking his fingers. He cleared his throat, and watched me with hesitation before saying, “But, my lady, are you certain about the assassin?”
Oh. Was the assassin’s presence the true reason why Boscor would not go belowdecks?
“With both his arms broken, he cannot do much harm to anyone,” I told the chronicle keeper.
Boscor nodded but did not appear relieved. I had to remind myself that he was not a military man. I had been surrounded by soldiers for so long, I had grown used to the fearlessness with which they viewed the world. I could not expect the same from everyone I met.
“You must be eager to see your home again, Lady Tera,” the chronicle keeper commented after a little while, his tone heavy with melancholy. He must have wondered if he would ever return to Rabeen.
“I fear for our people,” I confessed. “I cannot stop worrying about what might have happened on Dahru while we were gone.”
The lines on Boscor’s face deepened as he squinted against the sunshine. Sympathy filled his voice. “Rabeen darkened your hopes.”
“Aye.” The aftermath of the massacre…I could not push the images from my mind. They tore at my spirit.
Think not of darkness. Think of hope.
We were so close to home. Nearly there. We had food and water once again. And no ship-killing gales. Sailing Mirror Sea could not, in any way, be compared to sailing the wild ocean with its hardstorms.
“Your island has its Kadar warlords and their keeps and castles,” Boscor encouraged. “Dahru is not near as defenseless as Rabeen was.”
“When we left Dahru, its defenses had already been breached by five hundred Kerghi mercenaries who came through the island’s Gate,” I reminded him, drawing my cloak tighter around me against the strengthening wind.
He drew up a graying eyebrow. “Do you think more have come through since?”
I shook my head. “At the cost of his life, the old Guardian of the Gate closed the Gate. When we left to gather this army, the enemy sat on the mountain behind their makeshift fortifications, and the defenders of Karamur sat behind the city wall, the two armies equal in force.”
“And neither could attack the other, because to do so, they would have to move out into the open and expose themselves, put themselves at a disadvantage.” He scratched his chin thoughtfully. “So, you set out to increase your numbers and tip the scales.”
Such a simple plan. I swallowed my last spoonful of stew as I nodded.
“Karamur is protected by five hundred of our soldiers, and we bring five hundred more.”
“How did you ever reach the mainland? Only the pirates brave the hardstorms.”
I allowed a small smile. “We sailed with the pirates. Under assumed names. We met Prince Graho on the way. He was traveling in disguise himself, as a merchant.”
Boscor listened with rapt attention as I regaled him with the full journey. “My lady, I must write this down. The tale must be saved for prosperity. It belongs in the chronicles.”
“Let us survive this war, and then we shall write about it,” I promised.
This he accepted, humming and nodding, as if already planning how to lay out the chapters.
“We might have brought an army,” I said, setting my empty bowl aside, “but pushing the Kerghi off the isl
and will still be a bloody battle. They are soulless mercenaries, hardened by decades of fighting, merciless. And who knows, they might have broken the stalemate and overtaken Karamur by now. The Kadar might not have troops in the fortress city anymore. At the very least, since the Kerghi captured the Kadar fleet, it is very likely that they had taken Kaharta Reh. There is battle aplenty before us, and we know so little. I am weary of the killing and death.” I paused, then added, “If I had the power to vanquish one thing from all the world, it would be war.”
Boscor looked back toward Rabeen, although the island had long ago disappeared in the distance. His eyes grew unfocused. “Then you must vanquish fear.”
“Fear did not destroy Rabeen.”
“Fear is the father of hate. We hate what we fear,” he said as he turned back to me. “And hate is the father of violence. We want to destroy what we hate.”
“Can we not love each other?” I thought for a moment. "If fear is the father of hate, is courage the father of love?”
“Understanding is the mother of love. To seek to understand others is the beginning of loving them, of having compassion for them. Love is the mother of courage.”
I was not certain about that.
He must have read the thought on my face, for he asked, “My lady, have you read The Book of Siege?”
“No, Grandfather.”
“The ancient tome is at the library of Karamur.” He sighed, probably thinking the enemy might have it by now. To his credit, he decided not to discourage me by voicing that opinion. He tilted his head as he watched me. “Still, you must have heard of some of the famous sieges.”
“Dining in the High Lord’s hall, I could not have escaped the retelling of such had I tried.”
He smiled. “What stories do you remember?”
“The story of Emila, Queen of Mistron. When the siege of Mistron Castle grew desperate, she exposed herself on purpose to the green plague. Then she stole out of the castle in the middle of the night and allowed the enemy to capture her.”
I tried to remember the rest of the tale. “The Gradnian king raped her before giving her to his men. He died a week after she did. And then his sons, and then half his army. The other half returned home and carried the plague with them. The Mistronians waited until the plague spent itself, then took Gradnia. The Mistron King renamed the Gradnian capital Emila, in his queen’s honor.”
Boscor nodded with satisfaction at my familiarity with the story. “Might you remember any other tales?”
Sails billowed above. Our ship sailed on smooth water, the sailors moving around us in no particular hurry. The world seemed at peace. I embraced the moment, for I knew too well how brief such peace was, how fleeting.
I hugged my knees, turning my face into the wind. “I know the story of the siege of Ramlan. When the siege force set a fire in front of Ramlan’s gate to burn down the fortress, a hundred of the fortress guards jumped from the wall on top of the fire to smother the flames with their own bodies.”
As Boscor smiled, encouragement warming his eyes, I remembered yet another famed siege.
“Lord Karnagh once told me a Selorm tale. When Lord Meber of the Selorm and his people were near starved in a siege, some of the people of the city volunteered to be cut down to feed the battle tigers with their own bodies. With the tigers’ renewed strength, Lord Meber marched out his gate and swept away the enemy.”
Boscor asked, “And do you think, my lady, that Queen Emila was courageous in exposing herself to the green plague, then allowing the enemy to capture her?”
I did not have to think. “Most courageous.”
“How about the hundred guards who jumped into the fire from Ramlan’s walls?”
I had fallen into fire from the wall of Karamur. I remembered the pain well. My fall had been accidental. To do that on purpose…
“Aye,” I said. “The guards were courageous.”
“How about those who sacrificed themselves to feed the battle tigers?”
“Aye.” A shudder ran through me, my gaze cutting to Marga as the tiger stood by the railing. She was watching fish jump from the sea, her tail twitching.
Boscor asked, “And what made these men and women act the way they did, with so much courage?”
I suddenly understood his meaning. “Love for their kingdom and people. Love for their families.”
The chronicle keeper nodded. “In all the tales of all the courageous acts I have ever heard, the most courageous people always acted out of love. Neither hate nor greed can ever give a heart such strength. So, I say, my lady, that love and courage are most closely related.”
I thought of Ina, hiding in that crevice on the cliffs, starving and nearly too weak to stand, but still jumping in front of the tiger to protect her daughter.
From love comes courage.
I breathed in the salty air and thought about how much I loved Batumar, and our people, and the men on the ship who had pledged their lives to our cause.
My strength renewed.
“Heart be brave,” I whispered into the breeze.
Chapter Ten
(From Rabeen to Sheharree)
I was still sitting with Boscor when Urdy ambled over and sat down next to us with a nervous smile.
“My lady. Master Boscor.”
I had been changing Boscor’s bandages, but now I checked around for Batumar. I did not want him to see Urdy with me and misinterpret our proximity.
The warlord had two of our men bring Urdy up from the hold earlier, then deposit him well out of arm’s reach from us. They had not done it gently. Nor had anyone shown the slightest kindness to the dwarf since.
I saw several men bumping into him on purpose as they strode by, jostling his broken arms. Others gave him wide berth. The sailors, a superstitious lot, made signs with their fingers to ward off evil every time they passed him.
If Urdy had not arrived on the ship at Batumar’s order, I was certain by now he would be on the bottom of the sea.
The assassin’s attempts to befriend our soldiers and sailors at every chance did not help matters. His offers of help to braid rope with his toes were rebuffed with curses.
I met his wary gaze. “I was going to see to your arms next.”
He relaxed at my words. Had he thought I would send him away?
Boscor, on the other hand, stiffened. The chronicle keeper drew back, casting Urdy an uneasy glance. “They say, my lady, that you only see a blue assassin when you are about to die, a heartbeat before your death. It is a queer feeling to be so close to one.”
An expression of defeat clouded Urdy’s face. “I am not a very good assassin.”
I moved closer to him so I could check whether the wrappings on his splints had loosened and needed tightening. I probed his arms from wrist to shoulder. He winced but did not complain. So much gratitude shone in his eyes as to make me feel embarrassed.
“How did you come to your profession?” I asked. “If you don’t mind telling.”
He hesitated before responding. “A morden came to our village. He wanted to buy small children.” Pain flashed in his eyes. “My father brought me forth, saying the man would find none smaller than I.”
“Mordens train assassins,” the chronicle keeper put in, his tone carrying distaste. “They have rival schools on the smaller, nameless islands on the edge of the ocean.”
At my questioning look, he added, “The chronicles are full of dire warnings about the Islands of Assassins. I never thought I would see one of their kind on Rabeen.”
“I but meant to travel to the mainland with some pirates,” Urdy mumbled.
He had explained his presence on Rabeen before, but only now did I think about what it truly meant. I had believed our crossing of the wild ocean to be a rare thing, the possibility known to few. But maybe a lot more people than I had thought knew about the crossing, a lot more people than I had thought braved the storms.
“I did not realize how many ships are crossing the hardstorms these da
ys.” Unease filled me. For centuries, isolation had been our greatest protection. “Do you think,” I asked the chronicle keeper, “that the hardstorms are weakening?”
“Most certainly. They are nothing like the storms of my youth. But the wild ocean is still not nearly safe enough for merchant ships. The loss of valuable cargo is too great a risk. More pirate ships cross these days, though, for certain.” His gray eyebrows pulled into a disapproving frown. “I heard rumors at the slave market that Emperor Drakhar will soon be sending slavers.”
I shuddered. Leave it to the emperor to use every opportunity for his dark purpose. May the spirits defeat him.
“Why, do you think, are the hardstorms weakening?” I asked. “The emperor has a powerful sorcerer at his side, or so they say. Has the sorcerer brought about the change?”
“I could not say, my lady.”
Urdy shifted on the boards. “I do not understand wars.”
He was watching the soldiers train. “Why go to the trouble of a bloody battle when one man can poison half an army in a single night? A drop of the venom of the silver scorpion into every boot, absorbed into the skin as feet sweat. Or a handful of porrem seeds cooked into a spicy soup that disguises the taste. Or the odorless and tasteless saliva of the rekk lizard. A few drops can poison an entire well and not kill the men until the next day, so thousands can drink before they realize anything is amiss.”
I stared at him, appalled.
The chronicle keeper frowned as he shook his head. “Are those not the secrets of your morden? I thought assassins tell no tales.”
Urdy winced with embarrassment as his gaze cut to us. “As I said, I am not a very good assassin.”
I was about to comment, but movement on my right caught my eye, and I turned in time to see Prince Graho’s head pop up from below. He climbed up to the deck with care, two of his guards close behind him. They followed the prince as he limped over and slowly lowered himself to the planks between me and Urdy.
His skin was pale in the sunlight, his face too carefully schooled. His fever was gone, but the site of his surgery must have pulled and hurt with every step.
