by NS Dolkart
“To take up a trade and start an ordinary life?” Phaedra asked. “No. We’ve escaped the lives we were supposed to have, Hunter. We have the chance to insist on something meaningful. I mean to try piecing together what remains of academic wizardry. I think God Most High might allow it, since He let us rescue Psander from the other Gods.”
Hunter looked skeptical. “You want to be another Psander?”
Phaedra shook her head. “Psander did what she did to preserve knowledge. It’s too late for that here. Most of the writings that weren’t destroyed are in her library. I’m not going to reach her level of knowledge or power even if I work at it my whole life. But the Gods created a world full of magic, and I want to know how it works. I want to know why it works.”
“So where will you go when you leave here?”
Phaedra thought about that. “I don’t know. But I think I would have to start in Atuna, because of all the trade that goes through it. You can buy ink and parchment there, instead of having to make it yourself or to scratch your thoughts on heavy leather. After that, I guess I’ll have to seek magic wherever I can find it.”
Hunter studied her face with a look of profound gravity. “That sounds dangerous, Phaedra.”
She smiled at him. “And what’s so new about that?”
“There were five of us before. Now there will only be two.”
“You’re coming with me, then?”
“Do I have a choice?”
“Of course you do.”
Hunter didn’t answer, and they fell into silence. After a time, Phaedra said, “We’re not traveling as a group anymore. Criton and Bandu are staying here; Narky’s gone already. You don’t have to stay with me. You can find an island to live on, stop wandering, stop protecting us all and think about yourself for once. You hate traveling. You hate fighting and killing. I don’t want you to give up on finding a new life for yourself.”
Hunter sighed. “I don’t hate fighting. I love it, really. It feels natural to me. It’s living with what I’ve done afterwards that I hate.”
Phaedra felt for him, but what could she say? She could not guarantee that if he came with her, he would not have to kill again. Nor could she guarantee that she would survive without him. It was all a gamble. And it was her gamble, in pursuit of her goals. How could she intentionally put herself in danger and then ask Hunter to keep her safe?
“Go to your island,” she said.
Hunter did seem tempted, but then he shook his head. “I’m not sure I can,” he said. “I… I don’t know if I’m ready to be alone. I only have four friends in the world, and…” He stopped there, defeated.
Despite herself, Phaedra was happy. She might have been lost without a friend to steady her, and he was right – he may easily have been lost without her too.
“You can join me,” she said. “I’d love for you to join me. But I don’t want you to kill for me, and if that means that I die, I forgive you in advance. I don’t need you torturing yourself. I’d rather travel alone than make you hate yourself for what you’re doing.”
“Thank you,” Hunter said, “but you know I’m not going to let you die.”
“Well then,” Phaedra said, “I’m not going to let you kill.”
He smiled wryly, but said no more.
They said goodbye to Bandu and Criton, though they had to wrest the latter away from his new-found kin in order to do it. Criton seemed disappointed, and Bandu outright mournful, but neither seemed terribly surprised. It was possible they had realized this would happen before Phaedra had.
So they embraced their friends and parted, keeping their goodbyes short. “I hope you find what you’re looking for,” Criton said, because of course, he himself had done just that.
Bandu hugged Phaedra with tears in her eyes. “Learn slower,” she whispered, cryptically.
The journey to Atuna lasted three weeks at Phaedra’s slow pace – three weeks of tension intermixed with boredom. She and Hunter already knew what each other were thinking much of the time, and neither had the stomach for smaller conversation. Besides, Hunter had always been the brooding type, and not much of a conversationalist at the best of times. As for Phaedra, she was suddenly, awkwardly afraid of talking too much. She was too aware of the difference between a woman traveling with friends and one traveling with a man, and she didn’t want to explore the meanings of her choices more than she had to. She had enough to think about, trying to compile everything she knew about magic.
According to Psander, the magic of dragons was completely innate, a part of their nature just like it was part of the Gods’ nature. This was not particularly useful to Phaedra, as far as she could tell. The elves were another matter. Their magic certainly seemed innate, but if that were the whole story, how would Bandu have learned to replicate it?
Then of course there was Psander. Phaedra tried listing the feats of magic that Psander had performed within sight, and found that they were maddeningly few. The wizard had dismissed her illusory mask in the blink of an eye, far too quickly for Phaedra to observe any action on her part. She had created a light in her palm, much as Criton now could, but that seemed to have taken her little more than some amount of concentration. All the great magical works had been performed either long ago or behind closed doors: the construction of Silent Hall; the wards that protected it against the watchful eyes of the Gods; the fashioning of the magic-siphoning charms – all these Psander had done outside Phaedra’s view. The wizard had claimed she would be generous with her knowledge, but perhaps old habits died hard.
Phaedra wished she still had something to write on. It would have been helpful to record her thoughts someplace where she could review them. Maybe when she and Hunter arrived in Atuna, she’d have an opportunity to buy writing supplies.
Though, come to think of it, how would she pay for them? She and Hunter had no money left, and nothing to barter: Hunter’s expensive weapons and armor were gone, and most of Phaedra’s belongings had been lost in the mountains. They would have to earn their living once they got there, but how? She could theoretically have done as she’d planned to a year ago and earned her living as a weaver, except that she didn’t even have the means to buy a loom anymore.
By the time they finally arrived, both of them had sunk deep into melancholy. Phaedra still desperately wanted to write her thoughts down, so she asked after parchmenters and scribes, hoping to make some arrangement. Thus, to her surprise and delight, she learned of a scribe who was in need of an assistant. He worked near the great Atunaean customs house, writing detailed notes for the traders and financiers, recording debts and exchanges, and at times becoming an arbiter between men with competing claims. It was perhaps the least interesting thing one could do with a pen and ink, but the scribe paid well for Phaedra’s assistance, and it gave Phaedra plenty of access to ink, parchment, and the cheap reed paper that was an Atunaean specialty.
The scribe paid Phaedra twice a week, and the commissions were high enough that she was able to expand her definitions of what counted as a necessity. There was only so long the man could tolerate his assistant looking so disheveled. Phaedra had explained her appearance by saying that she was in mourning for her lost nation, but in truth the anniversary had passed already. The days were growing short. Now she washed and trimmed her hair, and teased it up so that it rose from her head in a frizzy ball of curls. It had been a popular style on Tarphae, easier to keep up than the thousand-braid style that her nursemaid Kelina had so faithfully maintained. How Phaedra missed her.
She bought new clothes too, to replace those she had worn out with rough travel. She was tempted to commission something truly beautiful that might flatter her curves the way her old dresses once had, but she resisted. There would be no dances for her, not now, and she meant to begin traveling again as soon as she had somewhere to go. She had to be sensible.
The scribe had a small room for her to sleep in, but Phaedra was neither able nor willing to extend its use to Hunter. As such, Hunter h
ad had to find his own work at the docks, loading and unloading the shipments that came in nearly every day from the islands and other coastal cities. She saw little of him until the evening after her fifth payment, when he appeared outside her door and told her there was a witch on Mur’s Island.
“Come with me,” he said. “I’ll show you.”
Phaedra snatched up a candle and followed him through the darkening streets, wondering where they were going. It was a warm night, probably one of the few pleasant ones left before the rainy season started in earnest, and she did not yet miss the shawl she had left behind, draped over the corner of her bed.
“All sailors carry charms,” Hunter said as they walked, “but you have to see this one. The man says his auntie gave it to him. He said she makes them herself.”
He brought her to a sailors’ inn, a sprawling, stinking building crowded inside and out with men of all sizes and colors. It was only when they arrived outside the door that Hunter suddenly froze, stricken with horror and embarrassment. Phaedra had come along with him unthinkingly, excited at the thought of what he might show her, and now he of all people had put her in danger.
This was not a place for women – only whores came anywhere near there, and that only because they had to. If Phaedra came in with him, people would assume that Hunter had paid for her. If she lingered outside, it would be even worse.
“So he’s in there?” Phaedra asked, trying not to seem frightened or angry, trying not to scream why have you brought me here? because she knew well enough why. He hadn’t been thinking, plain and simple. An innocent mistake, until someone got hurt. At the very best, she would never find another job in Atuna. She worked with a customs scribe – someone here was bound to recognize her.
Hunter nodded wretchedly. “I–” he began, but he sputtered to a stop. There was no excuse, and an apology would do no good.
Phaedra came to a decision. “I’m your sister,” she said. “We’re going to go in there, we’re going to find whatever it is you came to show me, and tomorrow we’re going to take the first ship away from here. If we can find one to take us to Mur’s Island, all the better. If not, we’re still leaving. All right? Don’t forget, I’m your sister.”
He swallowed. “All right.”
Phaedra caught his hand in hers and they approached the door together. It was propped open by an earthenware jug that stank of liquor, spit and vomit: a distillation of everything Phaedra expected to find inside. She kept her eyes on Hunter’s back as he pulled her in with him, imagining the stares as she went limping along behind him. It smelled ghastly in there, and men whistled and jeered at Phaedra as she passed. Someone’s hand gave her left buttock a sudden squeeze, and she yelped and turned, but could not locate her aggressor. She looked to Hunter and found him still focused on navigating the room. He hadn’t even noticed.
They weaved through the crowd, passed into a narrow hall where they had to physically push by the patrons, and entered a small room with a large bed. The bed already had two men sleeping in it, with room for two or three more. On the side opposite the sleepers sat an islander, conversing with a continental man with an enormous red beard. The two turned when they saw Phaedra, and fell to silence.
“This is my sister,” Hunter said awkwardly. “Could you show her your bird charm?”
The islander smiled at Phaedra. She doubted he believed Hunter’s story. “Happily,” he said.
He reached into his tunic and withdrew a string of shells. On the end was a delicate octagonal pendant made of twine and what might have been cormorant bones – Phaedra remembered the cormorant as sacred to one of the Gods of Mur’s Island, though she could not recall the God’s name. Tig, maybe? A small piece of driftwood was strung from one side of the pendant to the other, with a tiny beak bone loosely screwed to it. The beak was so small it must have been from a chick, and the screw was made of whittled shark tooth. There was no metalworking tradition on Mur’s Island.
“Look at this,” Hunter said, as the man placed the pendant on his palm. Slowly, the beak turned to point east.
“It always points home,” the islander said, his accent thick and familiar. Phaedra’s father had had business partners in Mur’s Island, and their Atunaean had always been strongly accented and heavy with the effort of foreign speech. They had talked business with her father in their own language, which he had never taught her. Like Tarphae as a whole, Phaedra’s father had always looked west.
“Always? No matter where you go?”
“No matter where. It always points home.”
She stared at the little pendant, wondering what it had been that had transformed it from a few pieces of bone and twine into this wondrous thing. She was suddenly glad that Hunter had brought her here. Forget her reputation in Atuna – this was real magic! If charms like this were still possible, then so were her dreams.
Hunter thanked the man and they left again, pushing their way toward the door and freedom. Phaedra breathed deeply as they reached the cooler air outside, glad to have escaped without more unpleasantness. Hunter walked her back to her home before returning to the inn to sleep, promising to ask everyone he met if they knew of any ships leaving for Mur’s Island. Phaedra went to bed with a smile on her face. Tomorrow they would abandon this noisy, dirty city, and sail away to meet a witch. The thought delighted her.
9
Hunter
He did manage to find a merchant ship the following day that would eventually be stopping at Mur’s Island, though that destination was not the first on its trade route. Phaedra, unlike Hunter, had managed to save enough money from her work to book their passage. She also had new clothes, and some extra coin left over. It was enough to make Hunter rethink what sort of trade he ought to pursue. While he had neither Phaedra’s passion for reading and writing nor her aptitude, his education had still involved practicing these arts until he was competent. It would certainly beat working at the docks.
The ship carried olive oil and guardian wood and steel, which the captain meant to exchange for salt and spices and tukka gum, for medicinal tonics and mineral cures, for pearls and nacre. The smell of the lumber made Hunter miss home again; in its day, Tarphae had been known for its high-quality guardian trees and its tukka gum, which was both edible and a major ingredient in ink. Mur’s Island was known for its pearls.
Sailing had a poor effect on Phaedra. It clearly brought back memories of her drowned nursemaid Kelina, and she spent the first few hours below deck where she would not have to face the ocean that had taken the old woman. Hunter would have joined her, but the rocking motion bothered him less in the open air than it did in the musky darkness below.
So he stood up on deck, watching as the ship crashed through the waves and listening as the sailors called to each other in pidgin Atunaean and sang songs to keep their rhythm steady as they hauled on ropes or bailed out the hold. Every man had his task. At any given time, each knew where he belonged.
Hunter didn’t. He admired Phaedra for the way she was always adapting to her circumstances, making new plans and choosing new goals, and never, ever, giving up. He admired her, and he envied her. For better or for worse, his friends had all found their callings. God Most High had plans for them, or else like Phaedra they had plans for themselves. Only Hunter had no plans, and now that he had done his part in fulfilling the Dragon Knight’s prophecy, he suspected that no God particularly cared what happened to him.
The following afternoon, as Hunter was trying unsuccessfully to nap and Phaedra was teasing at her hair with a steel comb, a crewman stuck his head through the hatch and called them above deck. They stumbled up the steep ladder-like stairs, wondering if the ship had reached its destination already. When they reached the top, they found that it hadn’t.
Even before their eyes adjusted to the sunlight, they could hear crewmen praying. Hunter blinked and stared. Though the sky above the ship was blue, a ring of angry clouds had gathered, some hundred yards out to sea in every direction. The waves u
nderneath these clouds reared up like menacing giants, the waters under the ship remained calm. The ship sailed on, and the unnatural weather moved right along with it.
“What does it mean?” the captain asked, more to himself than to anyone else.
Hunter and Phaedra looked at each other. “God Most High has blessed our journey,” Phaedra said. “This is a sign of His power, and His favor.”
The cook had abandoned the galley to watch the unnatural weather, and he now turned to Phaedra. “Who is this God Most High?”
Phaedra told him what she knew: that God Most High had slain the Yarek in days of old and built the elves’ world out of its carcass, that He had created the mesh between the worlds, and that the dragons had worshipped Him and their descendants still did. Lastly, she told the captain of how she and her friends had brought Salemis back into this world and gained his God’s favor.
“I think Hunter and I are responsible for those clouds surrounding your ship,” she admitted. “Both Mayar and Karassa have declared Themselves our enemies. But it looks like even here, God Most High protects us from Them. Apparently, Their strength even in Their own domain is impotent compared with His.”
The captain gulped. “Change course,” he called to the helmsman. “We’re going to Mur’s Island first, and may God Most High find favor with us.”
The crew obeyed without a word of complaint. They were terrified, and who could blame them? Not one but two Sea Gods were trying to tear their ship apart and cast them into the depths of the ocean – what would happen if God Most High stopped protecting them? If they insulted Him by treating Hunter and Phaedra poorly? It didn’t even stop there – what if He lost interest in the ship once Phaedra and Hunter disembarked? Would Mayar and Karassa lose interest too?
Phaedra spent the rest of their voyage telling the crew everything she knew about the dragons’ God. The sailors listened eagerly and never interrupted, which Hunter supposed must be a welcome change for her. By the time they reached Mur’s Island, half the crew had made vows to worship God Most High alone.