The Voyages of Trueblood Cay

by Suanne Laqueur

  His stone to the tree-tenders and his starsilver to the giantsblood.

  Only this can equal a love like mine.

  Nay, threefold like mine.

  Starsilver unto giantsblood, the kheiron unto the mariner as a map unto a lost land.

  Zornin had a hand on Trueblood’s shoulder now. “Steady, lad.”

  The kepten was feeling light-headed. “What is happening?”

  “I don’t know, but Gods, I wish your father were here.”

  Rise up, O brave son of Khe.

  Stay the course charted within your wings and sails.

  Walk among giants, your fourhand in his five, your fivehand between six.

  Kneel with broken heart in the roots and feast your eyes on Os.

  Look up beneath starsilver and giantsblood as ripening fruit unto the limbs of Nydirsil.

  Look up beneath love to hang three days for nine stars.

  Rise up beneath the blood truth, brave son of Khe.

  “Excuse me,” Trueblood said, and sat on the floor.

  “Here, lad,” Zornin said, crouching down and passing a small flask. “Get some of that in your belly.”

  “Then pass it over here,” Naria said. She tucked a leg beneath her and sat, which gave leave for most everyone to drop down a level and contemplate.

  Il-Kheir did not sit. He paced. “Read it again,” he said to the dean. “From the beginning.”

  Diplomatically, she deferred to the chancellor of the University of Sudenlo, giving him a turn with a fresh eye. He refined a word or two, questioned a phrase’s context to his colleagues, but to Trueblood’s buzzing ears, it sounded much the same.

  Out of the stones a hand unfolded. Reached across thousands of years to point straight at Trueblood and call him by name.

  The truest blood.

  The mariner. Giantsblood.

  Rise up beneath the blood truth.

  A long silence wound around the room. Slowly, Naria Nyland rose to her feet.

  “Mysire il-Kheir,” she said formally. “I think it best your son come home.”

  The message from the Horselord read, You and your charm will come home at once. Fen would’ve ignored the terse command, pretended later it never arrived, but then a second falcon came in from Naria Nyland.

  I ask you come home, Fen il-Kheir. Right away. The Truviad stones have been translated. They name you and Kepten Trueblood. I can’t say more and I don’t understand everything yet, but whatever happens next, you’re a part of it. Come home, please, I need you to be here.

  “Well, my dear, when you ask like that,” he said, “how can I resist?”

  His sire ought to take a few lessons in diplomacy from the queen.

  “What’s going on?” Lenge said, peering over his shoulder.

  He crumpled the paper. “They’re losing their minds about those pieces of rock they found in the Kaleuche. Naria needs me to come home so she can tell me a story or some shit. Let’s break camp.”

  “We all need to go?” Lenge said. “We came all this way. Tomar can lead the raid.”

  Fen glanced at the Horselord’s missive. You and your charm will come home at once.

  He sighed, deciding to be a stallion about it. “We all go,” he said. “Respond to the queen’s falcon that we’re on our way.”

  “What about il-Kheir’s bird?”

  “Just let her go home empty-legged.” Fen winked at Lenge. “Father will get the message.”

  He flew the charm at a leisurely pace, just to show he couldn’t be ordered around. Landing in Valtourel, he made a point of going first to the kheiron burial ground, with a little bouquet of anemones.

  With no memory of his dam, Fen had to be content with other people’s recollections, and he’d been told anemones were Zoria’s favorite flower. During their short bloom season, he always brought some to her.

  He crouched and pulled the weeds from the small gravestone next to Zoria’s marker. Here was buried the little slave boy who escaped Minosaros with Fen and died in the Old Forest. Fen’s fingers touched the sole word chiseled into its smooth face.

  Alon.

  He caressed the stone as if ruffling a youth’s hair. “I didn’t get them all yet. Still working on it. I won’t stop until they’re gone.”

  It was a short distance from the burial ground to the mariners’ crypt, so Fen paid a visit to the resting place of Kepten True and his wife.

  From his bag, Fen drew an apple and laid it by Noë Treeblood’s side of the tomb. He’d been doing this for years. The queen loved apples even more than Fen did, and the exchange of fruit became a secret ritual between them. When Fen was away with his charm, he stopped at orchards and markets, seeking out rare and delectable cultivars. He’d pick the most perfect apple he could find and put it on a windowsill in Noë’s suites. He left it anonymously, because it was their little joke and theirs alone. Arriving in his own bedchamber, he’d find a beautiful apple on his pallet. A welcome home gift from a not-so-secret friend.

  Noë was a friend when I didn’t want to have friends.

  She was kind from a distance, which was the only kindness I could tolerate.

  Or reciprocate.

  In the old shipyards, Fen walked around the Truviad stones, listening to a dean and a chancellor translate and interpret.

  Os who is One, take this abandoned son into your merciful heart.

  Born in sadness.

  Born beneath a dam’s wings, deaf to her death rattle, his first steps in her blood.

  “Khe l’khe,” Fen said, staring at the account of his birth. He’d been born from a pegaso. Born breech, his ears never hearing Zoria’s death cries. He wobbled to his feet in ground soaked with his mother’s blood.

  “Naria, I’m a skeptical creature by nature, but this is a little too coincidental.”

  “Wait,” Naria said.

  Borne broken from the treetops.

  Spirit crushed in the darkest root-pits beneath Nydirsil.

  Fen’s heart pounded behind his eardrums and eyeballs. How was this possible? Whoever chiseled these words, how could they know, thousands of years in the future, not only the circumstances of Fen’s birth but everything that came after? How he was beaten and tortured in the underworld of Minosaros, in the very place Nydirsil tore free from earth? How he was brought down from the top of a Nye tree, his legs broken beyond repair?

  How? How could they know?

  Anger was kindling in the pit of his stomach now, filling his throat with a choking smoke.

  They knew, he thought. It was written. It was planned and plotted and done to me on purpose. I’m a pawn in some game. They destroyed my life and left me to…

  Wait, who is they? What the fuck is this?

  The flames roared higher as the dean’s voice reached his ears, translating the next stanza.

  Leaving only a heart willing to give all.

  A son of Khe willing to give back his gifts to a son of mariners—

  a scion of Nyland who looks with giantsblood eyes.

  “We believe this indicates Pelippé Trueblood,” the Chancellor said. “His mother being a descendent of the Treeblood dynasty. And of course, his father’s lineage is unimpeachable.”

  “What do they mean by ‘give back his gifts’?” Fen asked, his voice faint through the buzzing in his ears.

  A son of Khe to bind his power to the truest blood of I and my sister.

  His stone to the tree-tenders and his starsilver to the giantsblood.

  Only this can equal a love like mine.

  Nay, threefold like mine.

  Starsilver unto giantsblood, the kheiron unto the mariner as a map unto a lost land.

  “Bind his power,” Fen said slowly.

  Rise up, O brave son of Khe.

  Go forth, voyager, stay the course charted w
ithin your wings and sails.

  Walk among giants, your fourhand in his five, your fivehand between six.

  Kneel with broken heart in the roots and feast your eyes on Os.

  Look up beneath starsilver and giantsblood as ripening fruit unto the limbs of Nydirsil.

  Look up beneath love to hang three days for nine stars.

  Rise up beneath the blood truth, brave son of Khe.

  Silence in the room now. The chancellor cleared his throat and handed Fen a sheet of paper. “We wrote down the translation. In case you—”

  “Thank you,” Fen said. “Would you excuse us, please?”

  As soon as the dean and chancellor were gone, Fen crushed the paper in a fist and lobbed it away.

  “Fen,” Naria said. “I know this is a lot to take in.”

  “Please,” Fen said. “I need you to be a friend right now. Not a queen.”

  She wound her arms around his waist and squeezed him hard. She was his only friend right now, yet he didn’t hug back. His arms stayed loose at his sides, but he let his head fall on the crown of her head.

  “If I’m hearing this right,” he said. “I’m supposed to hand over my stone and my silver to Kepten Trueblood.”

  “I don’t pretend to understand it either.”

  “It says, ‘Bind his power.’ Bind, Naria. That means I’m a slave.”

  “No,” she said. “No, I won’t let—”

  “If anyone thinks a bunch of bad poetry is grounds to give a nineteen-year-old sailor ownership of me, I got a few things chiseled in stone to tell them.”

  “I know, Fen.”

  Fen touched the moonstone in his brow. “This? This doesn’t leave my body. Ever. You have my father’s word behind that. He made a vow to me. He promised. The only way this stone comes out of my skin is if I’m dead. The only way I hand one of my rings to anyone is if my hand is cut off. I do not stand in humos and I’ll kill anyone who tries to make me put a hoof on a godsdamned ship.”

  Naria’s arms were at her sides now, her dark eyes steady on his. “I know what you suffered.”

  “Horseshit you do,” he cried. “I spent four weeks in the hold of a slave ship. I was twelve years old, chained in humos, lying in my own filth with corpses rolling over me. That’s what I suffered before the real suffering started. When two slave masters had ownership of my rings. When my body was bound to them.”

  She didn’t look away. Tears filled her eyes but she honored his ordeal with her attention and didn’t flinch from it.

  Fen gave a trembling exhale. “If you know what I suffered, then you know I put rules in place after I was rescued. You know those rules are what keep me alive.”

  She pointed at the stones. “I know the stones say, ‘Leaving a heart willing to give.’ Willing, Fen. That’s the most important word here. Not bind, not power. Willing.”

  “I decide,” Fen said, shaking within his skin. “It’s how I survive.”

  “Nothing is decided. Nothing is chiseled in any future stone. We’ll work this out. We’ll reach a decision together. We’ll find an interpretation that satisfies everyone.”

  Fen’s shoulders deflated and finally, his hands relaxed. “All right.”

  She reached to him, elbow bent and fingers high, offering gelango. He clasped her palm, then her forearm. Each put a hand on the other’s shoulder and their brows pressed for a shared breath.

  “Thank you,” Fen said softly.

  Smiling, she laid her palm on his cheek. “Go process this and get drunk,” she said. “Or get drunk, then process it.”

  “Neither is a bad idea.”

  “We’ll talk more later. You, me and Trueblood. Just us.”

  “What am I, the chaperone?”

  “Don’t be a bitch, dear.”

  Fen hesitated. “How’s the sun look over his yardarm?”

  Her eyebrows raised. “Fen il-Kheir, what an indiscreet question.”

  “You love indiscreet questions.”

  “I know, it’s terrible.” A bit of color crept along her cheekbones as she tucked her hair behind her ears. “I will say he’s lovely. But he’s also the kind to place great significance in matters of the bedroom and as you know, I do not.”

  “This I know.”

  “He’s an extraordinary young man. He’s also grieving and vulnerable and in need of massive amounts of attention. Attention isn’t my forte.”

  “Oh, I don’t know about that,” Fen said. “Your forte made me feel better just now.”

  “You’ll be feeling like shit again in an hour and I’ll be too busy to repeat the performance.”

  “You’re right. As usual.”

  She smiled. “Anyway, I have Belmiro taking care of Trueblood’s needs.”

  “You?” Fen’s blood turned icy. “I thought they hooked up on their own.”

  “You’ve seen them together then?”

  He grunted, remembering when the Ĝemelos woke up the kepten, the morning the Truviad stones were found. First the flash of Trueblood’s naked body in bed, then Belmiro’s tousled, silver head next to him. It put Fen in a spectacularly pissy mood, which he took back to Minosaros with him.

  Bel was a hire?

  It ought to make Fen feel better, but it didn’t.

  “Why’s a celebrity like Pelippé Trueblood hiring a prostitute?” he asked.

  “He’s not,” Naria said. “I am hiring a skilled courtesan for Trueblood’s enjoyment. I hire Bel for his time. What happens during that time depends on how he and Trueblood get along.”

  “It’s easy to get along with people if you’re paid.”

  “I said don’t be a bitch.”

  “It’s true, though. Money can buy all the goodwill you want.”

  Naria crossed her arms. “In that case, I’ll pay you a cask of Nye to get along with your father.”

  Now Fen laughed. “Well-played, General Nyland.”

  Laughter still wreathed Fen’s face as he ambled through the pavilion, settling into a smile as he headed to his room. It faded when he found the Horselord waiting for him.

  “Father,” he said, immediately suspicious. Fen was always sent for, not called upon. He couldn’t remember the last time Il-Kheir was in here.

  Not since I outgrew random inspections.

  His gaze gave a quick circle around the room before scoffing at the reflex. He was thirty-four years old and his quarters were always neat. Disorder made him tense. Things in their place kept the world in place.

  “Can I do something for you?” he asked when the silence stretched past awkward into ominous.

  “You saw the Truviad stones?”

  “I did.” His eyes narrowed at his father’s hands. They held a long, braided length of hair. Black at first glance, but on closer inspection, in the right light, it proved to be deep purple. The plait was made from hair taken from Zoria’s mane and tail. It used to have a bell on it, back when Fen was a foalboy. He lost the bell, as foalboys do. As he grew up, the braid was left behind more than it was taken along. Finally it was coiled for good in a neat mat on his standing desk.

  It was uncoiled now, running through and between il-Kheir’s fingers. A sentimental gesture to anyone’s eyes but Fen’s. Just because he didn’t carry it around with him didn’t mean others could touch it. Least of all Sevri, who wore his own cord made from Zoria’s hair around his neck, his moonstone hanging from it.

  The braid was Fen’s talisman. Nobody else’s.

  “Please put that down,” he said.

  The Horselord set the plait on the desk without recoiling it. “Was it you who brought the anemones today?”

  “Yes.” Fen crossed his arms. “Does bringing flowers to my mother displease you?”

  “Born beneath a dam’s wings, deaf to her death rattle, his first steps in her blood.”

 
Fen closed his eyes. “I know, Father. I read it.”

  “It’s decided then.”

  “Nothing’s decided.”

  “It’s in stone. You’ll be bound to the mariner.”

  Fen opened his eyes. “What do you mean bound?”

  “You’ll give him your moonstone and your silver.”

  “Like fuck I will.”

  “You have no idea what’s at stake here.”

  “If it’s that urgent, why don’t you give up your power?”

  “The prophecy names you.”

  “Please. A charlatan carved a few lucky guesses in a rock and they matched my life.”

  “Don’t be a fool.”

  “I’m not the one falling on my face before a myth.”

  “I won’t let you deny your place in this story.”

  “Father, if you think I’m going to clip my own wings and live on two feet while a sailor goes looking for a tree, you—”

  “You’re going with him.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “The Kaleuche sails in a week. You’ll be onboard. Bound to Kepten Trueblood.”

  “Bound or unbound, the only way I’ll put foot or hoof on a godsdamned ship is if I’m dead.”

  A knock on the doorjamb. “Mysire?”

  It was General Fostin, il-Kheir’s top aide. Without meeting Fen’s eye, he handed over a little bag to the Horselord. It jingled, and the hair rose up on Fen’s forearms as a sickening dread coiled in his gut.

  He. Wouldn’t. Dare.

  Il-Kheir dismissed Fostin and dug within the bag. “I had a feeling you were going to be a stubborn ass about this,” he said. His hand came out and unfolded, revealing a jumble of rings and moonstones in his palm. Fen immediately recognized a band shaped like a serpent with its tail in its mouth. It belonged to Tomar, one of his Finches. Another ring was carved in a wreath of oak leaves. It ought to have been on Lenge’s hand.

  “I’m sorry to bring your charm into it,” il-Kheir said. “But you leave me no choice.”

  “You unbelievable bastard, you’re sorry for nothing.”

  The Horselord shook his fist casually, silver clinking against polished bits of moon. “Believe me when I say this, Tehvan il-Kheir. Either you take your place on that ship exactly as it’s written on those stones, or your charm lives the rest of their lives as men bound to earth.” His fist tightened. “And every other charm you attempt to create.”