Maelstrom

by Jill Williamson

  Wilek looked around him, really looked at the faces around the table. They were all of them gaunt and greasy-haired. Everyone’s eyes seemed to have dug deeper into their skulls. Clothing hung on bony frames. Wilek had sores on his arms and what looked like bruises, though he couldn’t recall having been hit by anything. And he was royalty, ate better than most.

  “How many horses are left, Rayim?” Wilek asked.

  “Six, Your Highness.”

  “Kill another.” A horse would feed the entire ship one meal for four days. “Hunger, dehydration, and confinement will continue to turn the best man, or woman,” he added with a look to Inolah, “into animals. We have no choice but to continue using the pole as a way to keep people in line. We can’t afford not to.”

  Wilek entered the cabin where they had housed the pales. Trevn sat on a crate across from the youngest pale man, who was sitting on the narrow bed built into the bulkhead. Behind him two other pales lay head to toe, asleep.

  “Wil!” Trevn stood, smiling from ear to ear, a sheet of parchment in each hand. “I’ve made an important discovery.”

  His brother’s unbridled joy surprised Wilek. He looked truly happy. No moping or pining for Miss Mielle, for the moment, anyway. The sight brought Wilek great relief.

  “Tell me,” he said.

  “It was Randmuir Khal of the Omatta who attacked Maleen’s ship, as you suspected, but there was another ship there. Rogedoth’s. He and Randmuir are working together.”

  “Impossible.”

  “See for yourself.” Trevn thrust the sheets of parchment at Wilek. “I asked Maleen to draw the ship that attacked his. He drew two.”

  Wilek accepted the pages from his brother and smoothed them out in his hands. “Maleen?” he asked.

  The pale man tapped his chest. “Ingohah Maleen.” He pointed at Trevn. “Ingohah Trevten.”

  “Trevn,” his brother corrected.

  His brother had learned the pale’s name. This was excellent. “Well done, Trevn,” Wilek said, hoping to bolster his brother’s sense of accomplishment.

  He examined the sketches. They were indeed drawings of two ships. Similar in size, both were three-masted, though one was wider than the other, and the jagged letters on the hull of each gave them away. The first said “Malbrid.” The Malbraid was the ship Wilek had given to Rand to help his tribe escape the Five Woes. The second ship had higher castles in the bow and stern, and the name scratched onto the stern hull was also misspelled yet unmistakable: “Armanah” could only be Amarnath. The flag drawn from the mainmast confirmed it, bearing the unmistakable rune that Lebetta had drawn in her dying moments.

  “Rogedoth has declared himself king of the Five Realms,” Trevn said, “married Eudora. It’s clear he seeks to take the fleet right out from under us. Maleen says the pirates kept his father aboard the Amarnath. I bet Rogedoth is trying to get him to lead them to land. If he gets there before we do . . .” Trevn winced. “It would be bad, don’t you think?”

  If Rogedoth landed first, he could spin whatever tale he liked to any natives who lived there. He would have first say. And Wilek, coming after that, might have a great deal of trouble earning the trust of the people he hoped would share their homeland with the passengers of six hundred ships. “I want the Seffynaw to land first and greet the native inhabitants peaceably. Can your friend direct us to land?”

  “I think so. But you’ll have to let him come up to the quarterdeck and advise the helmsman which way to sail. Plus, look at this. Maleen?” He gestured to Wilek. “Powhatu koi.”

  The pale held up some kind of square locket on the palm of his hand. The lid was open, hinged on one side.

  “This is the best discovery yet,” Trevn said, grinning wider than he had in weeks. “He calls it powhatu koi. See the markings? I believe they signify north, south, east, and west.”

  Wilek stepped close to the pale man and looked down on the locket. Inside, a sliver of black stone—pointed on one end, forked on the other—hovered above markings Wilek did not recognize. “Is it magic?”

  Trevn shook his head. “The spinner is made of lodestone. No matter which way you turn the device, the arrow points south. Can I take Maleen to Admiral Livina right away? I want to show him the locket and see if Maleen can point us in the direction of his homeland.”

  “Absolutely,” Wilek said. “I insist you go at once.”

  “Excellent. Thank you, brother.” Trevn opened the door and waved the pale to follow. “Come on, Maleen. We’re going to see the admiral.”

  Maleen’s locket fascinated Admiral Livina, who summoned Master Granlee, the navigator. Wilek stood by, watching as Trevn and the two old men showed their navigational tools to the pale. There was more demonstrating going on than talking, since the pale could barely understand the Kinsman language. The foursome went out onto the admiral’s balcony with their tools, looking through them, taking down measurements. Wilek paced inside, anxious to have an answer—to have good news to share with everyone.

  A shout on the balcony drew his attention. Trevn and the admiral ran inside, Trevn in the lead.

  “His home is to the southwest!” he exclaimed, passing Wilek by at a jog.

  “He seems quite certain,” the admiral said, following Trevn.

  “Sâr Trevn does?” Wilek asked.

  The admiral glanced over his shoulder. “No, the pale.”

  Wilek gave chase, leaving the pale and the navigator on the admiral’s balcony. They found Master Shinn at the whip, sitting on a stool, hat tipped down over his face, arms folded across his chest.

  “Why aren’t we moving?” Admiral Livina roared.

  Shinn jolted awake and to standing in one great leap. “Sorry, sir,” he said. “We’ve got no wind. I was waiting for a breeze to pick up.”

  “If there is no wind, row,” Wilek said. “Is that not the saying?”

  “Any fool can man the whip in a breeze,” the admiral said, “but it takes skill to move a great ship in light air. Even if Thalassa is sleeping and we’ve got nothing but three knots of her breath to harness, we can put that to good use. Move the crew to lee and loosen everything off so that the mainsail and jib hang like bedsheets in a laundry basket. Let’s get the passengers over on the leeward side, closer to the bow, and ease some halyard tension.”

  Master Shinn barked the orders to his crew. “Let’s go, men. Hoist every rag you can until we get some motion.”

  Before long they began drifting.

  “See now?” Livina said, clapping Master Shinn on the shoulder as he chuckled. “We’re moving forward at a blistering two knots! Now set a course southwest.”

  Indeed, the Seffynaw had begun to crawl along. Wilek wondered where Rogedoth was, if he had yet to discover the location of the land, and if so, whether he had wind enough to get there first.

  While there had been no wind at midday, by evening the gales were so strong that the admiral ordered all passengers below deck. Wilek had called a council meeting during the dinner hour, ecstatic to have news to share.

  “We are close to land,” he said. “The pale tells us that he is from an island chain southwest of here. We have changed course and are headed in that direction now. He believes he is but two weeks from home.”

  “That’s excellent!” Danek said.

  “Wonderful,” Rystan said.

  “I’m not so certain,” Inolah said.

  Wilek’s joy sputtered. “What do you mean?”

  “Miss Onika has consistently said we should travel to the northwest and that we were not to follow the pales.”

  Wilek’s stomach tightened at the mention of the prophetess. His sister was right. But surely Arman would not ask them to bypass land! He needed Miss Onika here to speak for herself. “Novan, send for Miss Onika at once.”

  Novan ran off to fetch the prophetess, and the discussion continued. No one seemed to care that Arman might be displeased. Oli, Danek, and Rystan began talking about what they would do first. Doubt kept Wilek silent. Surely Arm
an would not tease them so cruelly. They had little time left, were nearly out of food and water. Miss Onika must be mistaken. Or perhaps Inolah had misunderstood. The pale man had to be a sign of which direction to sail. Why else would they have found him?

  Onika had barely stepped into the room when Wilek questioned her. “You disagree with the direction we’ve taken?”

  Her head turned slightly toward Wilek’s voice as Rustian led her along the end of the table after Novan. Only after the shield had helped her find her chair did she answer. “The fleet is no longer moving to the northwest. You have changed course.”

  “Because we found a man who can lead us to his homeland.”

  “It is the wrong land.”

  “Wrong? Who cares?” Oli said.

  “We are nearly starved. Dying!” Danek added.

  Wilek tried to be kind, though he felt as frustrated by her comments as the others. “Even if this is the wrong land, even if we cannot stay there forever, can we not at least replenish our supplies?”

  “Arman does not wish for the fleet to reach these islands.”

  Hot anger filled Wilek’s veins. “That is not a good enough answer! It is too much to tempt us when we are so broken. I cannot endure it. We will continue forth as the pale has directed us. That is all.”

  He strode toward the exit, adrenaline pulsing in his head.

  “The God struck you,” Onika said, her voice mesmerizing, “but you felt no pain. He crushed you, but you refused correction. If you continue on this path, a fang cat will attack, drice will ravage you, a serpent will tear to pieces any ship that ventures near forbidden lands to punish the rebellious and set the nations to right.”

  The words gripped Wilek’s heart, pained him. “I have given my order. See that it is done.” He continued through the doorway, overwhelmed by the power of that voice and the way her words cut through his resolve more deeply than a sword on the battlefield. Out in the corridor he stopped and leaned a hand against the bulkhead, choked in an emotional breath.

  “Are you well, Your Highness?” Novan asked from behind him.

  Wilek didn’t answer. He continued on to his cabin, shut himself inside alone, and began to rail at Arman.

  “I have done all you asked! But this is too much. I cannot turn this fleet from land! How dare you even suggest such a thing? So many have died, and they look to me. To turn back is folly. They will think me as mad as my father.”

  Wilek fell to his knees, unhindered in this place, where no man or woman could see his distress, his anguish.

  “Why did I not die with Chadek that day at The Gray? Why did you not feed me to Barthos then? I could be at peace now, rather than in this horrible place. Why this choice, Arman? Why now? Would you have my people hate me? How then could I lead them to you? You have bound me. Again and again you target me. Can I have no peace in this life? Is death to be my only resting place?”

  Someone touched him. Wilek jumped and lifted his head. Zeroah had entered and knelt beside him. She took his hands in hers and squeezed.

  “He will cover you with his feathers, armored and protected in the shelter of his wings.”

  Wilek shook his head. “He does not cover me.”

  “You have faced death time and again and won. The Gray, the Magonians, the cheyvah, the Pontiff, the mutiny with Master Harton . . . But you must remember that your life—all our lives—belong to him. As our creator, he decides when we enter into his presence. Until then we live here, and we must not give up.”

  Wilek blinked, not wanting to lose this time. “I’m not giving up, I’m just . . . I’m tired. I want this to be over. I want us to be safe.”

  “You can never ensure that. Arman will lead us step by step. The future belongs to him, and it is his task to define it. We must relax and let him lead the way. All he asks is our trust.”

  It made sense. Could Wilek control the wind or rain? A good crop? These things were beyond his control. So why rage about them? “Trust is obedience,” he said.

  “Yes.”

  “Why is it so desperately hard?”

  “Because we are used to being in charge of our lives. But if we learn to rest and trust, if we can be still, the God will fight for us.”

  Such a notion seemed foreign to Wilek. No one in authority had ever fought for him. He’d had to hire people to do that. Even then, Kal, Harton . . . they failed him. Zeroah’s faith was so bold. So certain. He wished he could be as strong.

  “I will tell Captain Bussie to put us back on a northwestern heading.” He took a deep breath, reluctant to move. “Will you help me?” he asked Zeroah. “Remind me to trust Arman when I go off on my own?”

  She smiled and squeezed his hands. “Always.”

  Charlon

  Shanek wailed. Wouldn’t stop. The rocking of the ship was too wild. Not at all comforting.

  Charlon glared into the child’s bed. “Calm down,” she told him.

  But the child continued to cry, face crimson, tongue curled in fury, arms waving, legs kicking.

  “I do not like the storm either,” she said.

  The door opened. Sir Kalenek entered. Thank Magon!

  “What are you doing to this boy?” He picked up Shanek. The child instantly calmed. Looked at Charlon.

  See? Shanek seemed to say. The knighten knows what I need.

  Charlon sighed, irritated. “He hates me. Hates his own mother.”

  “He wants to be held,” Sir Kalenek said. “Why won’t you hold him?”

  “I do,” she said. “Sometimes.”

  “You will never improve if you do not practice.”

  Chieftess Mreegan wants to see you on the quarterdeck immediately. The voice belonged to Hali, one of Mreegan’s common shadir. But Charlon could not see it.

  She had stopped taking ahvenrood. Could no longer see into the Veil. But the shadir could still speak to her. This surprised her. Would she eventually lose the ability to hear them? How long would it take?

  “The Chieftess needs me,” she said, leaving Sir Kalenek and Shanek alone.

  She made her way to the quarterdeck. Held on to the walls. The ocean had grown fierce. She exited into icy rain. Strong wind whipped her kasah about. She shuffled toward the helm. Found Mreegan standing beside Captain Krola. The Chieftess was dry. Had likely cast a spell. To keep the elements away.

  “Is something wrong?” Charlon yelled over the pounding rain.

  “Magon has cautioned us against following the ships,” Mreegan said. “They’re headed toward the land—at least where the shadir have said the land is—but Magon says we should wait out the storm. I’ve never seen the goddess more uncertain, but I trust her judgment.”

  Charlon wiped the water off her face. “Then why call me?”

  “Because the Armanians are headed into the storm. If something should happen to them, Shanek will inherit their realm. I want you to send one of your slights to spy on the Seffynaw, see what Prince Wilek is doing.”

  “You could have done this yourself. In the time it took to summon me.”

  “Do you refuse my command?” Mreegan asked.

  Charlon glanced at Krola. She did not want him listening. “Of course not, Chieftess. I will do this at once.” She turned to walk away. Wondering. How would she find an answer? To satisfy the Chieftess? Without speaking to a shadir?

  “Call the shadir from here,” Mreegan yelled. “I wish you to stay close so that I might have your answer right away.”

  Charlon froze, turned back. Mreegan suspected. It was the only explanation. The Chieftess knew Charlon had stopped taking ahvenrood.

  “The storm has made me queasy,” she yelled, again wiping the rain from her face. “I have been fasting to clear my stomach. I will need to take more ahvenrood.”

  Mreegan removed her hip flask and held it out. “Take some of mine.”

  Fear welled within. To take root juice was to risk her child. Yet Mreegan’s wrath was a greater risk. Charlon took the flask. Drank. Handed it back.

&n
bsp; Fool! her heart said. What have you done?

  Charlon maintained eye contact with the Chieftess. Staring her down. Having been dry for so long, the effects rushed upon her. The juice pooled in her belly like ice. Nerves burned with cold. Coupled with the rain, Charlon shivered. The Veil flickered into view, bright and colorful.

  “Nwari,” she called, her eyes still locked with Mreegan’s.

  The wispy orange slight appeared beside her. Yes, lady?

  “The Chieftess wishes to know what Prince Wilek is doing aboard the Seffynaw. Go now and bring back a report.”

  Yes, lady. Nwari vanished.

  “Anything else, Chieftess?” Charlon asked.

  “Report to me when you hear back from Nwari.”

  “Certainly.”

  Charlon left. Quickly. Went to Torol’s cabin. There she purged to the nearest slight. It was too late. She felt her belly. It had grown since she’d ingested the root. Not much. A tiny paunch. But the baby had clearly been affected.

  What could she do to protect the child now? All seemed hopeless.

  Gozan

  Gozan flew away from the lush archipelago. His swarm had shown him their discovery, and he felt certain that between all the islands, there would be room enough for what remained of the fleet. Though he had the ability to return to the Gillsmore instantly, he took his time coming back, curious at the distance the ships would have to cross to reach the islands. Some of his shadir followed, cackling over the prospect of reuniting the humans with a harvest of evenroot. So content was Gozan in light of the discovery of land that he ignored their clamor.

  Dark, ominous clouds filled the horizon. Gozan didn’t like the look of them and transported himself underneath. He could barely see from the storm’s eye. Twists of water spun down from the clouds around a massive whirlpool. Interesting. It had been centuries since Gozan had seen one of those. He went a bit farther, stopping only when he had reached calmer weather. There he found the fleet on the edge of disaster.