The Voyages of Trueblood Cay

by Suanne Laqueur

  Fen wisely hung back and built a fire before taking the plunge. He had it roaring and crackling when his charm splashed onto the bank, shaking themselves dry. Teeth chattering and hungry enough to chew their arms off. Fen went to bathe while the others wolfed down supper.

  It took a lot of food to feed the demands of kheiron muscle. They didn’t eat meat—their human appetites craved it but their equine digestion refused it. Standing around the fire, the Finches passed leather bags full of bread, dried fruit, cheese, tablets of butter and sugar, and dozens of little cakes made from beans and protein-rich grains.

  As Fen shook the icy water off his body, his newest warrior, Lenge, came back to the stream to drink. Her cropped hair lay sleek and dark over her skull. Minute twitches beneath her chestnut coat betrayed the adrenaline hanging around her veins. A ghostly pallor in her face told Fen she was still struggling with what they saw in the slave pens and brothels today. The boy she’d flown back to Zeuxis had been in horrible shape.

  “You did well,” he said.

  Her chin nodded curtly, lips pressed tight.

  Fen let her be. He dried himself at the fire and ate. A wineskin was passed, making the loud kheirons get louder and the quieter ones more withdrawn. Jero disappeared inside his tattered copy of the Truviad, while Lisbel and Tomar disappeared behind some trees to fuck the last of the stress away.

  Fen took the wineskin over to Lenge. “Here. Get some of that in your blood.”

  She coughed after the first chug, then drank deeper and drew the back of her hand across her mouth. “Thanks.”

  “First time is the hardest.”

  Again the short, tight nod before she drained the rest of the skin.

  “No shame if you don’t want to do this again,” Fen said quietly. “I understand.”

  Tears spilled from Lenge’s eyes and her arms crossed tight about her body.

  “If this is the first and last time you fly with the charm, you have nothing but my respect.”

  “Oh I’ll do it again,” she said. “I’ll do it until it doesn’t have to be done anymore.”

  “Good girl.”

  “It’s just…all built up inside. Like part of me is still in the air.”

  “I know. You need to come down now.”

  “Help me?”

  He hesitated, plumbing the request to see if it was for short-term physical help or long-term connection. He opposed the latter. He didn’t care what his charm did with each other in the dark, as long as it didn’t interfere with their mission, but he had personal rules about intimacy. One rule, actually: avoid it.

  He studied the quake of Lenge’s shoulders, the tremble in all four knees and the obsidian hardness in her jaw. She just needed to get off and get some sleep.

  He stepped closer. “Come here.”

  The fingers of his fourhand dug into her short hair and he gathered her sleek dark head onto his shoulder. His fivehand slid down her human stomach, past the quivering border where skin became horsehair.

  “Need it bad,” she said.

  “Shh…” He reached the smooth, warm expanse between her forelegs. His palm opened wide and began to rub with the heel of his hand. A moan shivered out of Lenge’s chest and her mouth pressed wet against Fen’s skin.

  “That’s good. Right there.”

  He bore down harder. His hands were strong and they knew exactly where the sweet spots were. When his race was in kheiros, half-man and half-horse, sexuality divided as well. The equine procreative drive stayed between a kheiron’s rear legs while the complex pleasure centers of human desire settled up here, in the thick muscles between the forelegs. Here was where you scratched when desire itched.

  “Come down,” he said.

  A fine mist of sweat beaded along her nape. “Fuck…”

  He went on whispering terse encouragement as she rubbed harder, until finally, with a little yelp, she came down. Her body softened around shivers that were luxurious with relief. Laughter as they stumbled sideways, legs colliding.

  “Gods.” She shook her head hard. “I needed that.”

  “Feel better?”

  “Mm.”

  “Go get some sleep.”

  Her fivehand reached tentatively toward his stomach. “You need?”

  “No,” he said, catching up her fingers. “No, sister, I’m good.”

  “You sure?”

  “Go rest, Lengea…” He spoke her soul name. A kheiron’s true name, his khenom, was unpronounceable for anyone but the herd. The lengthy, sing-song appellation of sound and inflection was impossible in the mouths of men and other creatures, so kheirons kept their soul names private and used just the first syllables as an agnom for outsiders.

  Fen had changed his agnom twenty years ago, but his khenom still began with Tehvan. Altering it would be like inhabiting someone else’s body. It was the sole piece of his childhood he had left. The one part of a former self that still sounded good to him.

  Lenge squeezed his hand. “Goodnight, Tehvani…” The old name slid into something beautiful and other-worldly in her mouth. Slightly wrong to his ear. No one but Fen could say it perfectly, because it belonged only to him.

  He waited until she was out of sight before walking further down the stream. He found an ash tree with a good-sized bole and rubbed off against it. He needed no whispered coaxing. He thought of nothing and no one. A tree was a cold, disinterested lover, but it did the job.

  And Fen il-Kheir didn’t want lovers anyway.

  Twenty years had passed since the Horselord’s son was rescued off the harvest platform of a dead spice tree. His human legs were shattered, jagged edges of bone breaking the skin, filling his blood with infection on the voyage home and leaving little hope for survival.

  Kheirons, my legantos, know the frailties and limitations of their race. A broken leg for any steed creature is life-altering. With immediate attention and skilled care, a fractured limb can heal, but the kheiron can rarely put equine weight on it again. The majority of survivors spend the rest of their lives on two human legs.

  The greatest surgeon in Nyland, an unparalleled specialist in the complex and exacting care of horsefolk, had to admit to the Horselord that Tehvan il-Kheir’s legs were beyond repair. The foalboy was given days to live. Maybe hours.

  Two decades later, Fen walked up the stream bank on four silver hooves. The moonlight like milk along his gray coat, reflecting alabaster off his white hair and tail. One of his eyebrows was pierced with a hoop, into which had been set his moonstone. He’d foolishly given it away once, imprisoning himself in humos. In humos he was kept in captivity, sold and bought twice, branded, beaten and raped by both men and minotaurs.

  Never again.

  After Fen recovered, he pierced his eyebrow with his moonstone, setting it firmly under his sole, autonomous control. He’d never shift into humos, never walk on two legs again. And no one could ever make him.

  He was thirty-four now. None could outrun or out-fly Fen il-Kheir. His elite legion called him Fenros, my Finch. He led his charm on raids deep into Minosaros, to the red rock land called Arcodolori, where he’d lived as a slave. The arrow of sadness found no target in the kheiron heir. Nyland’s happy foalboy had become a guarded and dangerous creature. Hard and cold like silver. An unparalleled swordsman and archer. Capable of cruel humor. He allowed no quarter to slavers, rapists and pimps, and was known for looking his prey in the eye when he killed them.

  The only time Fen’s demeanor softened was with the young victims of his victims. No matter how many times it happened, his warriors couldn’t reconcile their cold, ruthless leader with the gentle winged soul who cradled freed slaves in his arms and flew them home.

  “It’s not happening to you,” he said to those broken, ravished boys. “No, listen to me. I’m telling you the truth. This is nothing. None of this is real. You’re a good boy a
nd it’s over now. I found you. You’re safe now…”

  “Fenros.”

  Blinking back to the present, Fen turned around. Jero trotted up to him, a falcon perched on his extended forearm. The other hand held out of scrap of paper.

  “It’s from the queen,” he said. “Dated a week ago.”

  Fen took the scrap of paper, smiling in anticipation of its bombast. Naria, the hereditary queen of Nyland, was a brilliant woman and also severely dislekos—her brain hopelessly mixed up numbers and letters. She possessed an eidetic memory, but she read and wrote so poorly, she delegated the skills to two full-time attendants. The pair of scribes were known as Spectacles, who read everything for Naria, and Ink, who wrote for her.

  In person, Naria had a direct, engaging manner, a wicked sense of humor and a mouth like a sailor. But either she couldn’t dictate her style, or Ink had too big a stick up her ass to transcribe it.

  Fen suspected the latter.

  As he tilted the message into dying fire’s light to read, the grin around his mouth fell slack.

  Lak Thennes

  Hokosia

  Gods keep you gelang, Fen il-Kheir. I write from the Imperial Palace where I’m a guest of Xuan-Gavriel. We received devastating news from Nyland this morning. My heart breaks to tell you our friend, Kepten Ikharus-Lippé True, has died at sea. The Cay is lost. True lies in state in the mariners’ crypt and physicians fear for his son’s life.

  A light has gone out that will not shine again.

  I ask you go home at once. Help comfort my people until I can be there.

  Naria Nyland

  “Holy horses,” Lenge said, and the charm echoed.

  “Oh my Gods.”

  “What the fuck?”

  “What is that?”

  The air above Valtourel was cool in Fen’s open mouth as he stared down at the harbor. The ship anchored there was the biggest he’d ever seen. Not just the biggest ship, but the biggest thing he’d seen in his life. And he’d been to the top of a godsdamned spice tree, so he knew big.

  “It’s not the Cay,” Lenge said, hovering by Fen’s side.

  “No, they said the Cay was lost.”

  Fen dove toward the harbor, leading his charm on a circle of the five-masted ship. All five were bare of sails and the rigging looked like a complicated, sinister spider web.

  Tomar hovered by Fen’s flank. “Is it me, or is it plain creepy?”

  “It’s not you,” Fen said. He had no love for ships. His first voyage had been on a slave galley and his last one was on the Cay. He nearly died on both trips and never intended to set hoof on a boat again.

  Spooked, the charm peeled off, flying to the kheiron pavilion while Fen touched down in the palace courtyard and took himself to the Great Hall.

  The cavernous, columned room was the heart of the palace. A dais at its northern end held five thrones—a raised one for the hereditary queen of Nyland, and four lower seats for the vicreĝos, the elected regents. Each region’s crest was carved into the back of the throne: a tree for Abaro, a ship for Nordater, a horse for Sudenlo and a bird for Pellandro.

  Queen Naria’s throne was topped with a Nye flower carved from selenite. Beneath was etched Nyland’s motto: Bonaj civitanos. Belaj koros.

  Good Citizens. Beautiful Hearts.

  Joenne Windsong came down the length of the hall to greet Fen. Giantsblood was in her long, lean frame and cider-bronze eyes. Rather than a multitude of braids, her hair was twisted, wrapped and dazzlingly constructed into a crown that added a half-foot to her height. Sevri il-Kheir didn’t like her, so naturally Fen went out of his way to like her very much.

  As vicreĝo of the Nordater region, Joenne lived full-time in the palace at Valtourel. Of course, Queen Naria had an entire residence wing of her own, but she split her time among the realm’s five territories. These days, most of her time was spent in Sanpago, her baby across the channel, or Pellandro, her problem child across the bay.

  “What happened?” Fen asked after kissing Joenne’s hands. “Is the Cay really lost?”

  He was far-removed from the business of House Tru, but the giantship was an institution. Grasping its absence was like trying to contemplate a night sky without stars.

  “She was attacked by Murder,” Joenne said.

  Fen felt his eyes widen. When the earth cracked apart and Nydirsil’s roots torn from the ocean floor, a pack of monstrous creatures was unleashed. The worst of these were Murder and Misery, twin kraken who roamed the waters. Nobody doubted their existence, but their sightings had always been more legendary than documented.

  “The kraken broke the Cay near her bow,” Joenne said. “Save for some books, a few charts and the safe, everything was lost. Eight crew dead, including the kepten. The rest offloaded onto the Kaleuche and came home.”

  Now Fen wondered if he were the butt of a joke. The Kaleuche disappeared from historical record a thousand years ago. “How did it get to them? Where’s it been all this time?”

  Joenne spread her hands out. “I don’t know. I’d call it a salty dog’s fish tale if I didn’t see proof every time I looked out the window.”

  “What killed Kepten True? Did he drown?”

  “From what I hear, he was crossing over to the Kaleuche and Murder got him.” Her arms crossed again, each hand disappearing up a sleeve. “Abrakam says the venom causes instant death. Within mere seconds of contact with the tentacles. I pray he’s right. Pray that Ikharus was already dead when Murder broke him bone by bone.”

  “What of his son?”

  Joenne said Pelippé Trueblood was carried off the ship unconscious, his chest ringed with charred scar tissue. “As if his heart had been torn out and set on fire.” His foster brothers, the Ĝemelos twins, were in the sick bay with Trueblood, both in a state of shocked delirium.

  “And old Rafil is dead,” the vicreĝo said.

  “No.” Fen would be challenged to name the crew of the Cay, but everyone knew old Rafil. “I don’t believe it. Was he killed?”

  Joenne shook her head. “He lay down next to Kepten True’s bier in the crypt and just…died. In his sleep. Smiling. He went with his commander. Loyal to the end.”

  “Gods. When is the funeral?”

  “It was already.”

  “That’s right, I’m…late. Naria’s gone back to Pellandro?”

  “Mm.”

  “Where’s my father?”

  “In the crypt. He’s been keeping a nine-day vigil. It ends at sunset.”

  That was less than an hour from now. Fen missed it. His father wouldn’t be pleased.

  Story of my life.

  “I’m sorry,” he said. “I was up in Minosaros. The falcon got to us just last night.”

  “I understand,” Joenne said. Though her voice was soaked with sorrow, it was cool. “If you want to pay your respects, you should go now, Fenros.”

  He went.

  The nave of the mariners’ crypt had alternating rows of seats for humans and rails for horsefolk. On the bier in front of the altar lay Ikharus-Lippé True. Home for good. By the bier, Sevri il-Kheir stood in equos, his ghostly white head bowed and one silver hoof poised on its edge.

  A nine-day perpetual vigil, with il-Kheir taking the final watch in equos. No greater honor could be paid to the mariner.

  Standing at the back of the nave, Fen drew a deep breath past the tight heat in his throat. A stab of genuine remorse in his heart. As the heir to the kheiron herd he should’ve taken the penultimate watch. Kepten True had rescued him. He’d always been kind to Fen in the years since and his wife, the late Noë Treeblood, was one of Fen’s favorite people.

  He was a good man, Fen thought. Decent. Honest. Brave.

  A superlative mariner. A devoted husband. And a true giantsblood.

  Take him into your merciful heart.

  The
sunset bell tolled from the Temple of Solos. Sevri il-Kheir shifted into kheiros and turned from the bier. His gaze fell on Fen. It leaned hard until it looked through him, seeing something that wasn’t there. Or something il-Kheir wished were there.

  Fen learned to expect this passive disappointment in his father’s eyes. The anticipation didn’t stop it from hurting.

  He couldn’t help it.

  Don’t you love me anymore? The thought rang like a bell in his broken heart.

  Aren’t I your brave one?

  A student at the University of Alondra penned the sonnet “My Brave One” as word of Fen’s rescue spread through Alondra. Everyone heard how the Horselord received the messenger falcon from the Cay, bringing the incredible news. Il-Kheir let go the missive and was in the air before the paper hit the floor.

  The aspiring poet pounced on the anecdote and spun it into melodrama. He scratched flowery stanzas capturing the Horselord’s wings, unfurled to their spectacular fourteen-foot span, cutting through the sky like knives and blowing the leaves off branches. Musicians got their hands on it next. Drummers laid down a breathless, desperate rhythm, mimicking il-Kheir’s front hooves as they grabbed at the air and tossed it behind his long belly. His rear hooves seized the wind and threw it behind his tail, each seize and throw timed with the rise and fall of wings.

  Verse after verse, the land fell away beneath the kheiron, replaced by indigo blue ocean, crested with white and reflecting the sun in handfuls of diamond sparkles. The Cay cut a swathe through the water, racing toward Alondra with her precious cargo. Sailors threw themselves out of the way as il-Kheir hit the deck at a gallop.

  The chorus was sung in kitchens and over cradles. In taverns and markets and inns.

  My brave one come home,

  My only son is free.

  Taken from the land, but

  Returned from the sea.