by C. E. Murphy
It was the work of stone witches. It had to be. They alone would have the skill to shape the fountain itself. Some among them would be able to mine for the salt, even to set it flowing freely if they could find a vein of loose enough salt rock. But to make it run continuously for ten years—more than ten years, because the lake was too big to be poisoned overnight—to make it run that long spoke of inconceivable power.
Never mind how they had gotten it there: Rasim's best guess was they'd grown it on the lake floor, which meant either witches with deep-reaching skills, or they'd had water witch assistance, so they could come deep like he had, and grown their fountain from close by. Otherwise they would have needed to bring it secretly and drop it in, which seemed impossible. The fountain's size meant its weight would be too great for any but the largest ships, none of which could make it to the landlocked, mountain-top lake anyway. Even reaching for fanciful thoughts, Rasim couldn't imagine a sky witch with enough strength to fly the fountain out to the lake.
He'd receded from the fountain as he hung in the water thinking. The magic working within it simply pushed him away, palpable pressure even with water's weight to compete with. Rasim stayed there, drifting where the stoneworking magic pushed him, until he began to shiver with cold. Reluctant to leave because his curiosity was nearly bigger than his fear, he finally turned away and began to swim upward again.
There was no way a single water witch, even one far more powerful than he was, could destroy the fountain. Maybe if it was frozen and warmed repeatedly, quickly, until it cracked and shattered, but not even Guildmaster Isidri would be able to do that. Not alone, at least. A stone witch could break it apart, but he wasn't even sure if the salt spew would stop if the fountain itself was broken. Dumbfounded and out of ideas, Rasim surfaced only a short distance from where Inga and Lorens awaited him.
He tripped, leaving the lake. Now that his weight was his own to support, not the water's, he felt thick and heavy and moved clumsily. He was colder than he'd realized, his thoughts slow. Lorens and Inga stripped his clothes off—wet after all, because he'd let his magic go in the last few seconds—and buffed him dry with thirsty soft cloths. He couldn't even object as they dressed him in dry clothes, nor thank Inga when she pressed a mug of hot mead into his hands. They asked nothing of him, only guided him back down the mountain and into the palace, where a fire's heat began to thaw his bones.
It felt like a long time before he was able to lift his head from over the mead, or to meet the royal siblings' eyes. Longer still before his tongue finally loosened and he was able to voice the conviction that had come to him as he'd swum back to the surface.
"You're under attack," he whispered, "and I think you have been for thirteen years."
Chapter 18
The council didn't convene until after sunset. By that time Rasim, well-fed and warm again, wanted nothing more than to sleep. Not that he thought he could, with dread excitement giving him heart palpitations, but he had used too much magic in too much cold that day, and his body was weary even if his mind wouldn't stay silent.
He hadn't expected to see the magnificent muraled room again, much less from a nervous stance just beside Inga's chair. There were far more people at the table than there had been the day before. All of them were in an uproar, shouting to make themselves heard. Only Lorens and Inga weren't bellowing. They were listening, heads tilted to catch key phrases. It was clear the council had been told about Rasim's suspicions, and equally obvious they wanted to hear it directly from him.
Assuming they ever stopped yelling so he could be heard. Rasim shifted nervously. Inga reached out but didn't touch him. It still soothed him, and he released a long slow breath, letting tension escape through it.
The two or three council members closest to them noticed Inga's motion. They turned their attention to her, falling silent for a moment, and like a cascade, so did everyone at the table. Within a handful of seconds the debate was nothing but a memory, and the princess had done nothing but move a few inches. Guildmaster Isidri, Rasim thought, would approve.
Inga, softly so that they would all have to pay attention to really hear her, said, "It appears we and Ilyara are under coordinated attack. I've spent the afternoon going through missives and letters from other heads of state. I remain uncertain if this attack has spread elsewhere, but the time line shared by Ilyaran incidents and our own difficulties seems clear.
"Ilyara suffered the greatest fire in its history almost immediately after their heir was born to their queen, my aunt Annaken. Our own water supply began manifesting signs of salt almost two years after that, and only became undrinkable some months later, but this young man is an Ilyaran water witch, and he assures me the sabotage began considerably before we realized its effects."
Voices rose again, a sudden thunder of sound. Rasim clenched his stomach muscles, holding himself still as Inga made another small motion. "This is Rasim al Ilialio," she said when the council had quieted again. "He was orphaned by the Ilyaran fire, and was an inadvertent guest of our friends in the eastern wing. It's he who discovered the reason for the saltiness of our drinking water. Rasim?"
He explained the fountain at the lake's bottom as clearly as he could, even stopping to answer questions about how he'd been able to dive so deeply. Someone asked how he'd been able to see in the depths, and he spread his hands helplessly. "The rocks glowed. I'm not a Stonemaster. I don't know what kind of rocks glow, but if someone went down to work under the lake, they'd need light. It looked to me like they just left it, when they were done."
The question he couldn't answer, though, was how the fountain had come to be there. "Witchery," was all he could say. "I can't see how else it would have gotten there. But I don't even know what kind."
"We have no witches," someone objected.
Rasim shrugged. "We have thousands. Someone hired or bribed them to do work like this. I didn't think any of the guild would be so..." He struggled for a word, finally saying, "mercenary," uncertainly.
Gales of laughter rose up, comments about Rasim's innocence and naïveté darting around the table. The man who'd spoken before said, "Everyone's got a price, boy," through a grin.
Rasim, hot-faced with embarrassment, stuck his jaw out and glared at the man, but couldn't argue. He could, though, say, "Do you?" and glower belligerently at the man. "Is there something you want badly enough to poison or burn a city to death?"
The man's laughter faded, as did everyone else's. "I might agree to it to save my childrens' lives," he answered softly, after thinking it through. "But that would be coercion, not deliberation, and this stinks of a plot, to me."
"We're bound by blood to the Ilyarans," a woman as old as Isidri said. "We've had no marriages into other kingdoms in decades, not since those terrible winters—"
Rasim glanced at Inga, who murmured, "During my great-grandmother's reign, there was a great deal of intermarriage between royal families across different kingdoms. It was thought to help keep peace. But then a dozen queens and princesses died in childbirth, and their children with them. For three years there was no summer. It seemed the gods had spoken against us, and we all retreated to our homelands, unwilling to risk our mothers and sisters." She nodded at the woman who'd spoken. "Rekka was a child then."
"Oh." Rasim nodded. He'd studied about those summers, though his teachings had said nothing of punishment by the gods. Instead, stone and sky witches, watching the clouds and winds, had concluded that somewhere very far away, a volcano of unprecedented size had erupted. For years the clouds had carried ash, and the wind's patterns had been nearly visible to ordinary men, never mind to the sky witches whose lives were dedicated to the study of wind and clouds. The ash had blocked the sun's heat and light from coming through. Three of the guilds called them the Cold Years. The fourth, the Sunmasters' Guild, called them the Dark Years.
Rekka was still speaking, emphasizing the marriage between Annaken and Laishn. "I'm not saying the marriage was a bad idea—"
&
nbsp; An almost inaudible chuckle went around the table, suggesting Rekka had said many times that the marriage had been a bad idea. She ignored the laughter. "—but it could have frightened the other kingdoms. Some of us have long memories, but others might just see their countries sandwiched between Northern raiders and the Ilyaran fleet. I said this when the match was made," Rekka said heavily. "I said that we ran the risk of making others move against us. I wish I had not been right."
A fleeting thought darted through Rasim's mind: that Rekka, or someone like her, might be trying to make certain she was right. Trying to ensure that Ilyara and the North, that the islands and the continent, all remained isolated.
An isolated country would be easier to defeat than one with allies and friendly neighbors. That thought carried more weight, shocking Rasim so badly he startled. That was the sort of thing a strategist would consider, not a journeyman sea witch. Maybe Asindo had been right: maybe, when he got home, Rasim should ask for a tutor from the Sunmasters' Guild. Or maybe he should bury himself in rebuilding the fleet, and never think again about things beyond his scope. The idea was appealing, but somehow Rasim didn't think he would really do it.
Lorens finally spoke. "Either our spies are very poor, or our enemy is very subtle. If there's movement against us, we should have some sense of it, not be left sitting here agape at the very idea."
"No." Rasim edged forward to put his fingertips on the long table. "I mean, yes, we should know about it, but I think we should be really careful now. We shouldn't let anyone outside of this room know we do think there might be a plot. That should make fishing it out easier."
A table's length of amused adult faces examined him. Rasim controlled the urge to stamp his foot. Someone else in the room must have thought of what he was saying. It wasn't his fault if he'd simply said it first, before someone older had the chance. "Nobody but the guildmaster in Ilyara knows where the fleet went. We set sail by the dozens all the time to fish, so there's nothing unusual in so many ships having left at once. And if they never made it here—"
His voice cracked and he had to swallow. "If they never made it here, then there's no one in the north to wonder why a third of the Ilyaran fleet landed on their doorstep. I didn't say anything to Donnin's crew about why we were sailing north. So it's just us who know there may be something going on, and that gives us the best chance to be—to be sneaky," Rasim finished a little desperately. He didn't know what being sneaky might entail, but he was only a journeyman, not a master or council member or queen.
Lorens, smiling, said, "I couldn't have said it better myself," and the man who'd spoken earlier snorted, apparently prepared to be unimpressed with the idea even if Lorens had said it.
Rasim, looking at the man, realized with crystal clarity that if the traitor was in this room, he might betray himself by acting on information only the council had. That would be priceless, if it could be made to happen. He would have to suggest it to the royal family and see if there was a way to tell different stories to different council members so their actions could be tracked back to them.
The man quirked an eyebrow at Rasim, looking as if he followed Rasim's thoughts. Guilty, Rasim jerked his gaze downward, then looked up again to see the man grinning. He was darker than most of the others, which meant he had brown hair instead of blonde or orange, as some of them did. Rasim, scowling, decided he didn't trust the man.
"Rasim's presence presents us with an opportunity to send ships south," Inga said. "His slaying of the serpent can be used as an excuse. We'll be a distraction: if we have enemies in Ilyara's heart, they'll be concerned at our presence and may make mistakes. If we have allies, they may make overtures. I'll need my mother's blessing to pursue this, but I think over the next few days we can assume her approval and prepare so that when word arrives we can leave on the next tide. Rekka, Derek, Lorens, Tersa, come with me, please. I'd like to discuss our options. Rasim, thank you. You're dismissed."
More surprised than he knew he should be, Rasim was jostled by the dark man passing him by along with the others who had been named. Within a minute or two, the chamber was clear, leaving an Ilyaran orphan alone under the murals.
Chapter 19
At home, Rasim would be part of the intensive preparation to sail. In the Northlands, he spent three days being ignored, shunted aside, and stepped on by tall Northerners who never quite noticed him. Twice he tried to find Donnin's crew. The first time he got lost in the massive Northern palace, and the second, found Gontur guarding an enormous double door. Their lack of a common language did nothing to hinder Rasim's understanding that the giant Northern guard would not allow Rasim through. It seemed likely the islanders were on the door's other side, but even if he'd had Desimi's water magic, there was no real way to move Gontur and visit Carley.
It was clear, though, that the pirates were prisoners and Rasim was not. He finally stopped trying to convince Gontur to let him in, and returned to the council chambers, where he'd spent long hours staying out from underfoot and studying the astonishing murals. There were accurate depictions of the sea serpents, which made him think the other monsters were as real as the serpents had been. One of the afternoons he'd spent in there, an artist had come in to draw him. Now there were charcoal sketches on one of the walls, Rasim's underwater slaying of the beast starting to become part of legend. The idea was equally horrifying and thrilling. Rasim snickered, staring at himself drawn as a warrior, and a woman's voice responded: "Do you think you don't belong?"
Rasim flinched so hard his feet left the ground, and came down clutching his chest as he wheezed with surprise. Inga was tucked into one of the council chairs that had its back to the door, rendering her invisible until she leaned forward. Her usual smile was faint, and she gestured for Rasim to take a seat across from her. Feeling slightly absurd, he climbed into one of the large chairs and tried to imagine himself a Northern councilman. It seemed no more likely—less likely—than being painted onto a wall of monster-slaying heroes. "I knew a boy who would think he belonged up there, if he'd killed a serpent. Desimi. He was a lot stronger of a witch than I am, and he..." Rasim swallowed. "It would've been important to him that it got painted. So everybody would know what he'd done."
"It's not to you?"
Rasim shrugged uncomfortably. "It's so big it doesn't seem like anybody would even believe me if I said I did it. I'm small and don't have much magic. I'm not a very impressive hero. I guess I like knowing I did it, that I can. That I could. But I wish I hadn't had to. I wish it had never attacked us and I wish none of my friends had died."
"Yes, of course." Inga sat quietly a moment, considering the rest of what he'd said. "Rasim, do you understand that you could—you could probably do nothing else the rest of your life, except be the boy who slew the serpent?"
Horror slipped down Rasim's spine, making him sit up straight. "Why would I want to do that? I would be bored all the time. I mean, I bet maybe Desimi would've liked that, but—" He made a face of dismay.
Inga laughed. "Some people prefer to live on their past glories. They find it easier. I'm glad you don't like the idea. I think you would miss a great deal of adventure."
Rasim slid back down in the chair. "I don't know if I need any more adventure. I've already had a lot."
"Mmm. Does that mean you'd prefer not to sail with the ship I send to the islands, to help Captain Donnin's people?"
Surprise so sharp it felt like his heart stopped beating coursed through Rasim. His face and hands went cold, then heated up again with hope and delight. "Really? You'll help them? I know they probably don't even really deserve it, but—"
"Pirates and brigands generally don't." Inga's mouth drew down with severity, then relaxed as she sighed. "But pirates and brigands don't often have a worthy goal in mind, or a loss so great it's driven them to their ends. Besides, I understand you've negotiated a war treaty with Donnin, and if I help her that treaty will extend to me. Don't look so surprised, Rasim. We have no way of knowing if our e
nemy is within our midst, within your people, or somewhere else entirely. Donnin's crew and by extension the army we mean to win for her are almost certainly the only innocent—and I use the word advisedly—outsiders I can bring into this."
"Does she know yet? Have you told her?"
"I thought you might want to. I've kept you apart from them deliberately, but I think they'd welcome you, especially bearing good news."
"That would be great." Rasim bounced in his chair. "One ship? How many soldiers? How many sailors? I wish I was a better witch, but a ship of Northmen will put them off for certain. Donnin must have some idea of how many men her enemy commands—"
"I've spoken to her about it," Inga agreed. "He maintains an army of good size, for a single landholder. Two hundred men. All I can spare for Donnin's cause is a single ship of fifty men, all able fighters. She has thirty or so on her crew, and you."
"I'm not worth a hundred men. I'm not worth ten. Desimi would've been." Rasim looked at his hands unhappily.
"Desimi was one of your shipmates," Inga asked quietly. Rasim nodded, and she said, "A friend?"
"Not really. I'd just known him my whole life."
Inga nodded, seeming to understand, then stood. "Gontur will let you past, now. Tell Donnin she and her people will be escorted to the harbor, and to prepare themselves. We set sail in the morning."
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Confusion, then cautious hope, filtered over Captain Donnin's features when Rasim stepped into the pirates' quarters. They were nice, although not as nice as Rasim's, and large enough for most of the crew to linger in one room. Many of them came to their feet as he closed the door behind them, their expressions less tempered than Donnin's. Their anticipation weighed on the air as heavily as magic.