Maelstrom

by Jill Williamson

  Tables had been set up for the wedding guests on the stern deck, but on the main deck, a row of tables filled with food lined each outer rail. This way people could pass down the line, filling their hands, their own dishes or baskets, and even in some cases their shirts held out like sacks. They took their meal back to their places on the middle deck and feasted in small groups.

  Between the two galleys’ cooks, their staff, and an additional twenty assigned to help, the team had prepared four large hogs, three goats, six massive whitefish, and dozens of pinkfish. There were garnishes of pepper sauce, a cinnamon wine gravy, a pear compote, thirty bowls of barley pudding, three platters of honey-glazed turnips, twenty loaves of nettle bread, and—for dessert—raisin twists, scones with spiced jelly, baked apples, currant custard tarts, and fig fritters.

  Nobility alone received wine, but Wilek did order two casks of ale be opened on the main deck for the rest and heard no complaints.

  As a precaution, Wilek ordered Rystan and Dendrick to fill a tray for the head table to be certain the food had not been tampered with. Wilek sat on his father’s right during the feast, and the man, who was in his right mind at the moment, bestowed his congratulations.

  “A fine ceremony, my son. I only wish you would have thought to sacrifice to Thalassa.”

  “Arman is important to Sârah Zeroah,” he said, smiling at his bride.

  “Yes, yes, but you are the sâr and the future king of Armania. Give your wives too much and they will expect it always.”

  “Yes, Father. I shall take care,” he said. Zeroah looked away, which inspired Wilek to risk a little more for his newfound faith. “I have finished reading Trevn’s Book of Arman. Father, it seems we have greatly offended He Who Made the World. You should consider reading Arman’s laws and instituting them.”

  “Who is Arman that I should obey him? Rôb gives us plenty of gods to worship. I dare not force my people to follow only one. And who is to say that Trevn even transcribed the tome correctly? No, the Rôb text has never steered us wrong.”

  “Except that it led us to our near destruction.”

  “Superstitious nonsense, my son. Armanites would have us counting the hairs on our heads to please their One God. Life should not be so difficult. We have always been a nation of plenty. We should not apologize for that.”

  “If you would but read the book—”

  “Look at me, my son. I am old and sick. I will not waste what little time I have left poring over the erroneous ramblings of the ancients. I want to enjoy my final days. Take Arman in your five if you must, but leave my choice to me.”

  “Yes, Father.” Wilek examined the platter of meat before him, thinking he was a poor messenger to carry Arman’s book to a man such as his father. He glanced at Zeroah, found her watching him. She smiled and kissed his cheek.

  “I should have married again,” the king said, staring wistfully at them. “To have only four wives must displease the gods. No wonder we wander the sea, lost. I should send word to the other ships in search of a suitable mate.”

  “Why not marry one of your concubines?” Wilek asked.

  “Perhaps I could,” Father murmured, contemplating. “A fine idea, my son. I will think on it.” He took a shaky gulp of wine, which left a drop trickling down his chin. “I would have liked to bestow gifts upon you this day.”

  The showering of gifts had been postponed until they reached land and could build a new castle to keep such things. His father’s offer provided the perfect opportunity for Wilek to help Trevn. “There is a favor I would like, though it is a bit unconventional.”

  “What is your request, my heir? Even up to half the realm, it will be given to you.”

  Wilek fought back a smile, pleased that his father had walked so eagerly into his trap. “I would like you to grant permission for Trevn to court Miss Mielle Allard.”

  It was a request not only from Wilek but from Kal as well, who’d recently caught Trevn and Mielle alone, kissing, and forced Wilek to promise to do something lest Kal hurt the young sâr in his attempt to protect Mielle’s honor. Wilek knew the king’s likely response and was not surprised.

  “Outrageous!” Father said. “A prince cannot wed a commoner.”

  “The Five Realms are gone,” Wilek said. “Once noble and wealthy women are now no richer than the commoners who cover our decks, nor are there any more scores of princesses for him to consider.”

  “He need not have scores. Only one. To start. If he wants to wed commoners after that, I might allow it. But his first wife must be chosen carefully. She cannot be just anyone.”

  “Is there even one worthy candidate, Father?” Wilek asked, knowing full well there were several. “He must marry someone. The people adore Miss Mielle. She is their champion. Just you see how they would rejoice to see her made a sârah of Armania.”

  Father growled. “The ages are wrong. It will upset the gods.”

  Wilek felt the door closing and switched to another path. “Should they actually marry, it very well could. But . . . things might never get that far. Trevn has always enjoyed flouting authority. If you refuse his request to court Miss Mielle, I fear he might do something rash. But if he were granted permission to court her . . .” He turned to Zeroah and gave her a quick wink. “He will likely grow bored.”

  Father smiled slowly. “You mean to trick him.”

  It might happen the way Wilek suggested, though he knew enough of his youngest brother to doubt it. Trevn had a disposition much more like his own than Janek’s. While they were all of them spoiled, Trevn’s upbringing in Sarikar had done for him what Chadek’s sacrificial death had done for Wilek. They both had seen the corruption in Armania and disdained it, rather than embraced it.

  “If that’s what it takes,” Wilek said.

  Father chuckled, delighted by the deception he thought he understood. “Very well. If that is the wedding gift you wish for yourself, give them my permission to court. But if you sense he is not tiring of the girl, let me know at once and we will come up with a plan to separate them.”

  Wilek kept his expression plain. “Thank you, Father. You are very wise.”

  The king gave a sad smile in return. “I am dying, Wilek. You know that, don’t you?”

  Wilek stared at the king. His father. It was the first time he’d heard the man admit weakness. “The physician fears as much.”

  “It is my dying wish that Rogedoth be thwarted in his attempt to rule anywhere. I mean to write a will passing over Janek as my second.”

  “Are you certain, Father?”

  “I was wrong to doubt Janek’s loyalty, but I cannot risk Rogedoth using his grandson against us if he gets the chance. We must never give him that chance.”

  “I fear Magonia more than Rogedoth,” Wilek said, surprising himself. Rarely did he share so honestly with his father. Still, he did not say he feared never finding land most of all.

  “Don’t. Those women are trouble, make no mistake, but Rogedoth has invested his life in taking the Armanian throne. He may have claimed Sarikar for now, but it’s Armania he wants. He will make his move. You must be ready.”

  “I will be, Father.”

  “I know there’s little that can be done while we live on water, but . . .” A wildness filled the king’s eyes, driving out the steady somberness of the moments before. His hands began to tremble. He leaned close to Wilek and whispered, “We must keep a close eye on my mother. She and Brelenah have been plotting against me. If you see them together, inform me at once.”

  Wilek tried to keep his expression plain. He dared not remind his father that Gran had died in the Five Woes. “I promise to do so.”

  “Good,” Father said, wheezing. “Now I must rest. Enjoy your new bride, my son.”

  “Thank you, Father.”

  As the king’s attendants wheeled him away, Zeroah took hold of Wilek’s hand and squeezed. He smiled at his bride and wondered how much longer the king would live and how Janek would take his being written
out of the succession. Now that Wilek had married, he felt more vulnerable to attack. But as long as Janek had no access to evenroot, Wilek could handle him.

  Trevn

  In the recent upheavals and the panic of the serpent attack, a new order of command ruled the ship. Livina was now admiral, and with Quen arrested, Bussie had been made captain. This promoted Nietz and Shinn to first and second mate, respectively, which turned out to be no help to Trevn at all. Shinn now was at the whip more often. He knew full well that Trevn had no fear of heights, so rather than send him to work in the rigging, which was thought of as one of the worst jobs a sailor could draw, Shinn always made Trevn clean up messes and swab the decks.

  For this evening one watch, he’d ordered Trevn to clean the railings on the stern deck. Thankfully this watch was only two hours long and Mielle would be waiting at the end of it, so Trevn didn’t mind as much. He sat on the deck along the port rail and used his boot knife to pick grime off the posts, then rubbed them clean with a rag. As he worked, he pondered yesterday’s council meeting in which Master Granlee had come to share his concerns about Nivanreh’s Eye.

  The farther north they traveled, the lower the southern pole star sat in the night sky. It was clear to the navigator that if they kept on, they would eventually lose sight of it completely. The terrifying concept of sailing without the guide star had sent the council into a commotion. Once Wilek had calmed them, Master Granlee shared his discovery of a new steady trio of bright stars that had been rising in the north. He had first seen them a month ago and, after careful study, believed them to be northern pole stars. Master Granlee suggested that once they lost sight of the Eye, they should sail on the trio instead.

  The idea thrilled Trevn, but Canbek had been terrified. He felt they should keep Nivanreh’s Eye in sight at all costs, even if that meant turning back. This was folly, of course—they must keep sailing to the northwest. Canbek’s ignorance on the subject of astronomy made him irrational.

  Wilek had granted Master Granlee permission to use the trio as a guide, but both he and Trevn knew that once Nivanreh’s Eye no longer appeared in the night sky, people would panic—and not only on the Seffynaw.

  Trevn sighed and turned his attention back to the task at hand. He had never realized how beautiful the Seffynaw was before he’d cleaned it himself. The posts along the inner rails of the stern deck, quarterdeck, and forecastle were each carved in a figure of one of the Rôb Five and intricately painted.

  Cleaning a post that depicted the goddess Thalassa with fish leaping around her waist made Trevn think of the food shortage. Nearly eight weeks had passed since they’d left Bakurah Island. The entire fleet was running low on food, and the fish had not been biting in these rough seas. This did not bode well for those, like Rosârah Valena, who had fallen ill and needed nourishment. Dozens of people had already died from fever or other illnesses. With so much filth and little freshwater, it was impossible to fight off infections.

  In addition, they’d had no more rain since the downpours and had started rationing the drinking water. Wilek was supposed to make a decision regarding the horses. The animals consumed far too much water and should be killed and eaten, but no one liked talking of such things.

  Trevn stood and stretched, realizing his thoughts had turned bleak again. It was hard for them not to. For most, life on board was no better than a prison. Still, it was all they had, and if cleaning the ship improved things even the tiniest bit, then that’s what he would do.

  When the bells rang for the watch change, it was nearly sunset. The farther north they sailed, the shorter the days. Trevn told Ottee that he was going to meet with Wilek and wouldn’t need him until after dinner. Then he set off for his cabin, where Mielle should be waiting. Cadoc had promised to fetch a dinner tray and bring it there, where Trevn and Mielle could share a private meal.

  A week ago, life had changed after Wilek had received Father’s blessing for Trevn to court Mielle. This had been exactly what Trevn had thought he’d wanted. But courting, it turned out, was painstakingly tedious. The king’s blessing elevated Mielle’s status to a place equal to any noblewoman. And apparently nothing was more important to a young noblewoman than her reputation. Trevn and Mielle were now permitted to keep company with one another as much as they pleased—but only when properly chaperoned.

  No wonder Sir Kalenek and Wilek had insisted upon it.

  This meant that Mielle was never to go anywhere alone with Trevn, and Trevn, in order to see Mielle on his off-hours, had to dress like a sâr and attend the “court of Rosâr Echad,” suffering through simpering conversations with the most ignorant of people. How could these royals and nobles be so utterly clueless as to their fate? To actually waste time lecturing Trevn on courtly manners when they could all very well be dead in another month or two? It was madness.

  Trevn knew exactly how much food and water was left in the hold and how long it would last. Unless it rained again, they had no way to replenish the drinking water. As to the food, all their hopes swam beneath the waves. Add the various fevers and illnesses . . .

  All of it had Trevn concerned. He desperately wanted to live. He was doing all he could to make that happen, but if they were all going to die, he did not want to waste the few days he had left learning which tokens were acceptable gifts to give a lady. It mattered to him not at all.

  So Trevn spent no more than one hour each day officially courting Mielle. The rest of the time, he’d found fun ways to slip her private, coded letters, proposing secret meetings in obscure locations. Rather than use her name, he called her mouse, and Mielle had started calling Trevn jack, short for jackrabbit. “Because of the way your hair poofs out like a rabbit’s tail when you tie it back,” she had said. All of this was a risk, he knew. If Sir Kalenek discovered even one private meeting, they could lose his goodwill. But in light of the strict courting regimen and plain common sense, they both felt it a risk worth taking.

  Trevn entered his cabin and found Mielle sitting on the floor inside, face streaked in tears.

  “What’s happened?” he asked, fearing the fever had taken Nurse Darlow.

  “Your brother, Sâr Janek,” she spat, looking up into Trevn’s face. “He threatened to make Amala his mistress and tried to kiss me!”

  Pressure filled Trevn’s chest and he sank to his knees beside her. “Where did this happen? When?”

  “Only just. On the foredeck. I went to visit Darlow in the infirmary, and Sâr Janek was there with his Order of the Sandvine. He said the infirmary was now under quarantine and that I was not permitted to go inside. As you can imagine, I was very upset. I started to cry, and he took my arm, told me that he understood, and said that if I insisted on visiting Darlow, he would sneak me inside, but only if I arranged a secret dinner between him and Amala!”

  Typical Janek. Trevn took hold of Mielle’s hand, annoyed that his brother was such a reprobate. “What did you say?”

  “I told him I would not, and he said I must think on it and decide what was best. Then he tried to kiss my hand farewell, and when I told him not to touch me, he said I really should be nicer to him and help him convince Amala to become his mistress! When I tried to walk away, he grabbed my shoulder and tried to kiss me! So I punched his eye with my knuckles, like you taught me.” She paused to gasp in a breath. “Then I ran down here and hid.”

  Trevn’s anger instantly lifted. “You punched him?”

  She met his gaze and brightened, laughed a little. “I didn’t know how else to get away. He was determined to vex me.”

  Trevn brushed the tears from her cheek. “No, Mouse. He maltreated you. Did you tell Sir Kalenek?”

  She shook her head. “His temper has been worse than ever. I’m afraid he might hurt Sâr Janek.”

  Good. “It would be no less than he deserves.”

  “But he is a sâr! Kal would be hung. Or at the very least face the pole.”

  That much was true.

  “Do you think Darlow has the fever?�
� she asked.

  “I know not.”

  “Is it as bad as people say?”

  “Yes,” he admitted. “I knew that Wilek might set up a quarantine area. But I didn’t think he would put Janek in charge of it.”

  “The food is truly low?”

  “It is. But the drinking water is the bigger concern.” They had enough for another three weeks—if they got rid of the horses and rationed aggressively.

  “Wilek and Zeroah’s wedding was a good day, wasn’t it?” Mielle asked.

  “It was.”

  “It was the last good day I remember. We’re going to die, aren’t we?”

  “Don’t say that, Mielle. You must have hope.”

  “But you said the water is almost gone.”

  “We have time. We could find land any day.”

  “I don’t think we will.”

  “Of course we will!” he said, wanting to stay positive. “I’ve studied the horizon, and the Northsea is so much bigger than most people think. There is lots more land out there, likely with other people already living on it.”

  “That’s not very comforting,” she said. “If people are already living there, they might not want to share with us.”

  “They will when they see what skills we bring. We have carpenters and laborers and weavers and artisans and women who are good with orphans.” He tugged on her earlobe. “The Five Realms all traded with one another. It will be no different with new cultures.”

  “I’m trying to be hopeful, but it’s just so hard.”

  It was hard, yet Trevn refused to waste time cowering in fear of what might be. “That’s because you’re putting your hope in you or me or Wilek or Admiral Livina. People are fallible, but Arman is not a man that he should stumble or fall into fear. He has promised us land. Will he not do as he said? Will his promise mean nothing? I don’t think so.”