Secret of Dehlyn (The Unclaimed Book 2)

by Kathrin Hutson

  Though plenty remained in Kherron’s waterskin, he’d also been pleasantly surprised when Uishen had rolled out a barrel of fresh water at their next meal. It might have been an exuberant cost for a man who fostered very little organization or preparedness, but he’d justified it with the sentiment that, while cooking fish was one thing, waiting for river water to boil was an irritating waste of his time.

  They’d gone on like this that day and all thr-ough the next, eating as much fish as their bellies would allow and not having much more to do upon the Honalei but eat and nap and banter. Uishen carried most of the conversation on his own, regaling Kherron with stories of his home—a place on the coast of the Teriborus Ocean in the deep south called Coul—bawdy tales of his time as a sailor in Handelar’s fleet, and various colorful accounts of the imbeciles who had, at one point or another, taken him for a fool.

  Kherron found he didn’t have much to offer in the way of discussion, but talking seemed to open the ferryman’s true identity, as if he believed he’d found a kindred spirit in Kherron and could trust his newest paying passenger. The man grinned when he spoke, gesturing wildly. He called Kherron by name whenever he could and laughed at nearly every one of Kherron’s comments, seeming not to mind in the least that Kherron remained mostly silent. The man surely lacked for friendship in direct proportion to how fervently he yearned for it, and Kherron did not have the heart to openly spurn such enthusiasm, despite its small irritation.

  Now, full from their last meal and gazing up at the brightness of the moon, Kherron stretched his legs in front of him and leaned back on his elbows. The fellowship into which Uishen had roped him was an unforeseen result of this river crossing, and he had not expected to encounter anything of the sort on his journey east. But for the first time since Dehlyn had been taken from him, he felt at peace—not wholly, but more than he’d thought possible. Part of that might have stemmed from Uishen’s change in demeanor toward him, and part of it might have arisen because there was nothing else he could do. He’d found passage across the Sylthurst as quickly as he’d been able, and now, with very little obligation and even less to overwhelm him upon the Honalei, he did not have to choose. Finally, he was on the right path, and nothing he could do would bring him to his destination with any more speed until they came to Eran’s Crossing.

  Beside him, Uishen sat cross-legged, hunched over to rest his elbows on his knees, his head thrown completely back to gawk at the sky. “It’s a good night,” the man sighed. The moon shone bright enough that Kherron caught the sparkle of the ferryman’s eyes as they darted from one constellation to the next. It was the first time he’d seen the man inspect the heavens with any hint of satisfaction. With a grunt of affirmation, Uishen slapped his knees and pushed himself to his feet. He disappeared without a word, to which Kherron had quickly grown accustomed, and he thought little of it.

  Uishen’s incoherent mumbling, joined by the rattle of him sifting through the confusion of his belongings, rose from the cabin. Then the door shut, and something rumbled along the deck. The ferryman gave an exaggerated sigh of contentment and resumed his seat at Kherron’s side. He drummed his fingers atop whatever he’d brought with him, and Kherron looked away from the moon to see what it was.

  “Mead,” Uishen said with a wide grin, tapping the top of the small cask before stilling his hand. “From The Back Door.” He raised his brows in invitation, and Kherron glanced between him and the wooden cask a few times.

  “You didn’t plan on sharing this with me, did you?” Kherron asked with a smirk.

  Uishen’s grin widened. “I did not.” He brought his other hand from behind his back, the two copper cups clinking together as they hung from his fingers. When Kherron nodded, the ferryman praised the decision by slamming the cups on the deck and pulling loose the barrel’s cork. He gave the first cup to his passenger, which Kherron accepted with grateful surprise, and they lifted their drinks to each other.

  “To Honalei and her voyages,” Kherron said, using the barge’s name for the first time in the way Loro had advised. Its seemed the most appropriate toast for the greatest thing in common between them.

  “Aye,” Uishen replied, raising his cup higher, “and to friends.”

  The words, coupled with the man’s boyish joy, took Kherron completely by surprise. Was that what Uishen thought of him? He’d done so little to earn such a place in the ferryman’s regard, and yet it did not feel entirely untrue. Kherron tilted his head and tried not to laugh. “And to friends.” The ring of copper against copper was muted by the cups’ contents, but Kherron welcomed the sound. He took a long drink of the mead, sweet and somewhat spiced on his tongue, then lowered the cup to see Uishen had already downed the entirety of his. The man sighed in satisfaction, let out a huge belch, then uncorked the cask again for a second.

  WELL INTO HIS THIRD drink, Kherron closed his eyes against the early-autumn breeze moving across the river and the Honalei’s deck. The mead had warmed him enough that he did not mind the slight chill, and he was grateful for it; the thought of retrieving his cloak made him loath to stand, to remove himself from the comfort of lounging under the stars in company—he had to admit—he had come to enjoy.

  Uishen lay sprawled on his back, hand wrapped firmly around his drink as he sang something most likely from his days among other men and aboard more traditional vessels. The man had a decent voice, which carried over the rumble of the waterwheel and turning wooden mechanisms before them.

  Music was a luxury Kherron had neither experienced nor understood before; it did not exist in the Iron Pit, and boys more intent on surviving the harsh conditions of labor and servitude had neither precedence nor spirit for such things. But he wished to bring more of it into his life—to someday sit in pleasure with those he cared for, at ease with the knowledge that all was right in the world. It occurred to him then that his relatively short voyage on this barge might be the only experience of this kind before he reached his goal, and he expected that to be quite some time.

  The ferryman chuckled when he finished his song, then lifted himself on one forearm to take another drink before lying down again. To lounge like this, surrounded by nothing but moving water and fresh air, half-drunk and relaxed in another man’s company, contradicted everything Kherron had understood about his purpose and the weight of his obligations. It seemed he might remain in this state forever, where prophecies, celestial beings, and wars over knowledge and the world’s ancient secrets did not exist. Where Dehlyn did not exist. But that in and of itself was impossible; though he’d found some measure of tranquility, the power of his promise to her and its hold on him tugged at his core just as forcefully as it had the day he’d made it. No matter the circumstances, he would continue, pushing on and on towards the fulfillment of such a vow. For the first time aboard the Honalei, his duty returned to him.

  “Have you heard of other beings among us, in this world?” His words, though low and soft, carried above the calming rush of night on the Sylthurst.

  Only silence answered him for a moment, then Uishen asked, “Like what?”

  “Amarach.” Kherron disliked having to say it aloud, but he’d been admittedly vague.

  Uishen scoffed. “Only in children’s tales and from those who take their own twisted doctrine far too seriously. I’ve heard of them, but I can’t say I believe.” The man paused again to take another drink. “Do you?”

  Kherron rolled his head from one shoulder to the other, feeling both foolish and validated in some way. “It’s difficult to know what I believe. But I have seen them.”

  “Amarach?” The ferryman chuckled, but when Kherron said nothing more, the man sat up and turned toward him. “You’re serious.”

  “You think it impossible?” He could not bring himself to meet Uishen’s gaze. He’d always known that voicing such things amidst those who did not possess the knowledge would make it seem he’d lost his mind. But to whom could one apparent madman speak if not his equal?

  Uish
en rubbed his face, then downed the dregs of his copper cup. “Kherron, I’m the last man alive to tell you what is and what is not possible.”

  That brought a wry chuckle from Kherron’s lips. “A number of people have tried in the last fortnight,” he said, thinking of Torrahs and Lorraii, of Zerod and Mihral, of the Roaming People and those he had met in passing on his way here. Yet without both these betrayals and guides, he would never have come to believe what was in fact possible—the things of which he was himself capable. “The immortals do exist.” When he finally turned to look at Uishen, the man sat gazing at him with wide eyes. There was more curiosity in his features than fear, like a child eagerly awaiting a legend he knew would terrify him. “And so many other things. There are more mysteries in this world than I’d ever imagined, and they make all of this”—he gestured to the Honalei’s deck and nothing but river around them—“appear a fleeting dream.”

  “It’s real enough,” Uishen said, scratching his head. He did not sound defensive of his livelihood and his experiences, merely stating this as though he wished to reassure Kherron of reality.

  “Oh, I know,” Kherron replied. “Now, though, everything I’ve seen, everything that’s happened to me and the things I still must do... Those feel like another man’s life. Someone else’s nightmare.”

  Uishen gave a low whistle. “You’ve waited a long time to say that out loud, haven’t you?”

  Kherron tried to hide his bemused smile; the ferryman revealed an astonishing streak of astuteness amidst his foibles. “Feels like it.” And perhaps he had yearned to voice his true feelings, that his role in this dangerous sliver of fate terrified him, perhaps more than the knowledge that he could not escape it. But he did not feel Uishen’s judgement, now that he’d chosen to return the ferryman’s gesture of sharing the pieces of himself hidden to others. And, under the clear stars and streaming moonlight, he felt the momentary release of his own self-judgement.

  “What waits for you at Eran’s Crossing?” Uishen asked.

  “Nothing,” Kherron replied. The ferryman frowned. “It’s a means to an end. You and Honalei take me across the river, and I keep going east.” Even in the darkness, he saw Uishen glance down at the Sky Metal dagger, snug within its scabbard at his belt. Likely, the man had not bothered to consider the things he did not know about his passenger, though now he seemed to connect Kherron’s words with what differentiated him from ordinary men.

  “Why?” Uishen’s voice was low, cautious.

  Kherron studied his companion’s wary gaze. Perhaps it was the mead; perhaps it was the glimpse of peace offered by the river voyage, the relative solitude, and the fact that he could do nothing until they crossed the Sylthurst. But he found himself wanting nothing more than to share with Uishen everything of his journey—all that had happened and all he knew. There was comfort in the certainty that, once they parted ways at the wharves of Eran’s Crossing, they would neither see each other again nor have cause to speak of such things anew. To share such a burden with someone who had no part in any of it would be a sorely needed relief.

  He glanced down at his lap and closed his eyes. “Her name is Dehlyn.”

  THE TOWER WAS CHARGED with more restless, expectant energy than these men had felt in decades, and rightfully so. Fortenu had taken Torrahs’ forceful advice to heart, and in the following days, the Brotherhood had begun in earnest the task of arming themselves with the proper knowledge and the direct application of its uses. They were not fully prepared—nowhere close to ready. But he’d called for another attempt to compel the vessel because their chances of success had quite recently increased.

  The pact he’d made with the Roaming People remained unfulfilled. While loose ends and unsettled debts irked him, it meant their channels of communication endured. The messenger had come to him the night before on silent, leathery wings, bringing with it a vision of what Besoran and his people intended. They’d found Kherron, and tonight, they would collect him. While initially the boy had been an offering to the Roaming Lord’s appetites—which would, of course, have exposed the lad’s role in things if he’d submitted to them—Torrahs recognized the way terms of agreement shifted. If Besoran satisfied his end of the bargain, Kherron would be with them shortly. The nature of the lad’s presence—how it would affect their renewed attempts to unleash the vessel from her bonds of flesh and bone—remained unclear. But it would do something, and Torrahs wished to be prepared to stake his claim and bend both the Brotherhood and Dehlyn to his will.

  Now, he gazed around the tower’s circular room, left untouched from their last gathering here, though the previous fear and unsettled doubt had been replaced with a measure of surety and fortitude amongst the Brothers. It did not, by any means, match his own, but it was far less pitiful to witness. Their talismans no longer trembled in their grasps, and the hushed whispers of hesitation and unrest had diminished. When Torrahs caught Fortenu looking at him, the fat man nodded in acknowledgement, his numerous chins converging on one another. Torrahs forced himself to return the gesture with an almost imperceptible tilt of his head. If all went well, he need only cater to the man’s pride a short while longer, then he could be rid of them all.

  Lorraii had joined them again of her own accord, though she’d chosen a different position along the wall this time. She waited opposite him in the tower, behind the chair in the center where they’d once again chained Dehlyn. He’d noticed a change in the Ouroke the last few days; she seemed calmer, less agitated, and while he had not expected it to have such an effect on her, he attributed it to her having been granted an area to train. At that, he had to force back an amused smile. He’d warned the Brotherhood of Lorraii’s likely displeasure at being escorted each morning, though they both knew these old men made pitiful guards. Despite this, the concession on their part had apparently lifted her mood. She stood close enough to the far wall that she could have been leaning against it, her hands clasped behind her back. Torrahs could not help but wonder what she expected this time.

  The woman-child hunched in the chair, asleep again, her wrists and ankles bound once more. A few of the less eager Brothers with softer consciences had dressed her in a clean smock of undyed homespun, having apparently been moved by her confinement and the sorry state of her old, soiled dress. Torrahs had been her singular caretaker for years, but once they’d arrived—once he’d realized how close he was to the end—he could no longer bring himself to waste time on such useless pretenses. Apparently, it did not matter who tended to her; the blue-eyed Dehlyn met every stranger with an open, naïve acceptance that had come to nauseate him. It was, of course, a ruse—a shell to deflect suspicion and protect the true, ancient, powerful nature of the Dehlyn within, if that was even her true name. Perhaps the vessel had no name at all, only a mask. He would know soon enough.

  They only had to wait a few minutes more. Finally, the gibbous moon rose high enough to shine through one of the small, decorative windows below the tower’s ceiling, just large enough for a man’s fist. When the glint of it caught Torrahs’ attention, he raised his staff and leveled it toward the bound figure in the chair. At almost the same moment, Dehlyn raised her head, blonde hair falling back from her face, and opened those green, otherworldly eyes. Torrahs began his incantation with no further preamble, and this time, the Brothers joined him without prompting, as he knew they would.

  A jet of purple light burst from the tip of his staff, joined by the weaker, less steady powers of the Brotherhood. But their inexperience in wielding such magic did not dull the potential of their words—conjured and written long ago by beings far more powerful—nor did it lessen the blows upon their target.

  Dehlyn’s frail-looking body jerked beneath their assault, battered under their combined wielding of such ancient forces yet somehow unmarred by it. She writhed and bucked, throwing her head back over the upper edge of the chair while she struggled against the manacles. Scream after scream escaped her, and still, the Brotherhood pressed on. Torrahs fo
und himself emboldened by the rising voices of the other men around him. The difference in their volume now, compared to their first experience with this endeavor such a short time ago, surprised him. Strength and fortitude could, in fact, be found in numbers, though he’d never viewed his present company to be particularly robust in their might. But of all the men in this world and despite their countless shortcomings, the Brotherhood held the greatest capacity for employing the requisite skills.

  With wave after wave, they pressed the deceptively impenetrable vessel before them, and still, Dehlyn endured. Then, through no change in their strategy, the green-eyed woman thrust her chest forward and her head back; if her arms had not been held by irons, Torrahs thought she would have spread them wide beside her. A confusing, abrupt expression of rapture washed her features, all pain contorting her twisted grimace and the crease of her brow vanishing as if it had never been. Dehlyn gasped, the force of it so heavy and loud that it echoed through the tower above the buzzing crack of each Brother’s energetic advance, strike after strike. For a brief moment, Torrahs faltered. Something had happened, he knew. Something would be different after tonight.

  Almost as if that realization had itself summoned the being, the tower filled with a brilliant flash of light. Torrahs could not blame the other men for the short-lived decline in their vigor; the sudden presence of the amarach never failed to steal his own breath, though he recovered more hastily now than he had in the beginning. The Brotherhood seemed to echo his sentiments. When the dark-haired amarach stretched his black wings and glowered at them through dangerous orange eyes, the cast spells wavered for a few short seconds.