Shoreseeker

by Brandon M. Lindsay

  “Not Sir Dransig?” asked the Warden in a friendly tone after looking him over.

  Dransig raised his head. “No longer, no.” Smiling, he met the man’s eyes. But then his smile withered. Up close, there was a terrifying keenness to those bright blue eyes, as if they were stripping Dransig’s secrets bare. Dransig forced a smile again to cover his discomfort but couldn’t find any words to break the silence.

  The Warden’s words puzzled Dransig, and it took him a moment to figure out why. True knightly orders were a thing of the distant past; none had existed for centuries. At least, save for one—the Knights of the Eye. The realization chilled Dransig. How much does he know?

  After a long moment, the Warden smiled and extended his hand. “I’m Tharadis, the Warden of Naruvieth,” he said in the same casual tone a potter would have used. “Thank you for keeping my men company. They don’t get out much, so I have them mingle in the square sometimes. I hope their constant jabbering didn’t cause you any grief.” The guards hadn’t said a word and Tharadis knew it. Dransig decided he liked him somewhat—but that didn't mean he trusted the man any more. Less, since he was so obviously trying to disarm him.

  Dransig shook his hand. “A fine grip you’ve got.”

  Tharadis released him and patted the cloth-wrapped hilt of his sword. “A swordsman’s grip.”

  “Of course.” So. The sword wasn’t ornamental, and Tharadis wanted him to know that.

  “What brings you here?” Tharadis asked. “We don’t get too many visitors from Accord lands.”

  Now that the Rift had been bridged, the Council of the Wall considered Naruvieth to be a part of Accord lands, but Dransig didn’t think it wise to argue politics with the man. “Truth be told, I’m here entirely by accident.”

  Tharadis cocked an eyebrow at this. “Really? There’s only one way across the Rift, and that’s the Runeway. There’s nothing south of the Rift but Naruvieth and the sea. And there’s nothing out at sea save death.” A hint of warning came into his voice. “So how exactly does one come here by accident?”

  Dransig took a deep breath, considering his options as he exhaled. The Warden seemed to be someone who wouldn’t want to be misled. But if he told the truth, Dransig might be detained until the mess could be sorted out—Tharadis was a lawman, after all, and who could say that Dransig wasn’t a criminal evading arrest? Dransig had to admit, travel-worn as he was, he did look suspicious. It was no wonder that Tharadis’s men kept him under guard until Tharadis could inspect Dransig himself.

  Carefully, Dransig cast his senses westward. His pursuers were closing, but how much time did he have? He couldn’t be sure. Tharadis had nine men with him, and if he was smart, likely more out of sight. Unless there was an exceptional fighter among their ranks, Dransig could break free of them—but it would be a near thing. And the crowd would work against him, too, perhaps slow him down enough for Tharadis’s men to recapture him.

  No, fighting his way out was not an option. Much as he would rather not, he would have to trust this man.

  “I’m being pursued.”

  The Warden nodded, as if Dransig had merely confirmed something he suspected.

  Tharadis gestured to the patch of dark brown on Dransig’s tabard, shaped like a wide-open eye circled with flames. It was darker than the surrounding fabric only because it had once been covered with embroidery. “Does it have something to do with that?”

  Dransig nodded slowly.

  “How many men?”

  “As few as four, as many as ten.”

  “Which direction?”

  “West. I don’t know how long. An hour maybe, two at the most.”

  Tharadis frowned for a moment, then turned to one of his men. “Find them and keep a watch on them. Don’t be too obvious, but don’t worry about being seen. They’ll likely know you’re there. And don’t engage them unless they try to harm someone. Cycle a man out every quarter hour but send him my way only if they start getting too close or if the situation changes.”

  “Warden.” The man saluted, then trotted west.

  Dransig turned to Tharadis, eyes narrowed slightly. “Am I under arrest?”

  “Did you commit a crime in my city?”

  “No.”

  “Do you plan to?”

  Dransig watched him carefully as he shook his head. “Do you know who the Knights of the Eye are?”

  There was no change in Tharadis’s posture, but the air between them crackled with tension. “Yes.”

  “How?” The Knights were well-known but not often spoken of in Accord lands, as if merely uttering their name would summon a lifetime of bad luck. And as Tharadis said, Naruvieth didn’t get that many visitors. What few they did get weren’t likely to casually mention the Knights of the Eye.

  Tharadis turned and gestured for him to follow. “Come. Let me show you.”

  Dransig jogged a couple steps to catch up. “Where are we going?”

  “To my mother’s house.”

  Chapter 3: The Last Night

  Much to Dransig’s relief, Tharadis’s mother’s house was on the east side of town, taking him further from his pursuers. By the time they arrived, the sun had fully set, reddening the sky. Lamp lighters began their rounds, and light began to spill from open windows and from between the slats of shutters upon the road. When they finally arrived in the small dirt yard of a nondescript house that could have belonged to anyone, Tharadis gestured to his man to hand Dransig back his weapons.

  Dransig buckled on his sword belt and checked the blade in its scabbard. Then he took the staff. “I’m surprised you’re giving these back.”

  “If I thought you were a threat, I wouldn’t have.”

  “Can you be so sure I’m not?” Dransig asked. The man who had given him back his weapons tensed.

  Tharadis shrugged. “Perhaps I can.”

  The front door to the house banged open. A small black-haired girl, no more than eight or nine years old, stood in the doorway with her tiny fists propped on her hips. A string of painted wooden eggs hung from her belt. Even at the top of the steps her eyes weren’t level with Tharadis’s, but she still managed to glower down at him.

  “Uncle Tharadis! Where’s dinner? I’m hungry!”

  “Sorry, Nina. I’ve been busy today.”

  Her face broke into a wild grin as she leapt down the steps and threw her skinny arms around his waist. Though she couldn’t have weighed much, Tharadis staggered back a step before wrapping his arms around her in a tight embrace.

  Dransig looked away. It had been a long, long time since he had ever held anyone like that.

  Tharadis released her. Holding on to her uncle’s hand, she took a step back and sized Dransig up with a frown. He noticed the wooden eggs were painted like smiling raccoons. “What’s a Knight of the Eye doing here?” she casually asked. She looked up at Tharadis. “Are the sheggam coming over the Wall?”

  Grinning, Tharadis mussed her hair. “No, Neensy. No monsters are coming. He just got lost and is trying to get back home.”

  Dransig felt his hackles raise. Even the children here knew what he was?

  She turned back to Dransig. “Where’s your sigil? Did they throw you out of the order?”

  Tharadis lifted Nina’s chin up to look at him. “That’s not the kind of questions we ask strangers. He’s minding his own business. And so should you.”

  She nodded. Then, grinning, she ran over and seized Dransig’s hand without letting go of her uncle’s. “Did you know,” she said as she dragged both of them towards the house, “that Uncle Tharadis has a copy of First Night, Last Night? It was written by a man named—”

  “Prothugesh,” Dransig finished with a hoarse whisper.

  Nina cocked her head. “You know him?”

  “Yes,” Dransig said, half-dazed. “He founded my order before Andrin’s Wall was completed.” And before the Rift came into existence, he realized. If there was anything close to a holy text for his order, it was First Night, Last Night.
But when the Knights of the Eye had been heavily persecuted hundreds of years ago, every known copy of the work had been destroyed. Well, he thought, every copy known to those in the Accord. “May I … see it?”

  Before Tharadis could open his mouth to stop her, Nina nodded and dashed inside with a wild grin. Dransig heard the pounding of his heartbeat in his ears as he waited. He felt as if some ritual should be observed before such a holy moment, but when Nina returned, she handed him a book as if she were loaning him a doll.

  “It’s pretty old,” she said, “so be careful with it.” Tharadis stood behind her, arms folded and shaking his head with a small smile.

  But Dransig didn’t care about them. The world faded from his attention; all that existed in that moment was the book in his hands.

  The binding was intact, but very, very brittle. So much so that Dransig feared to ruin it by opening it. Much like his own sigil, the title that had been embroidered into the leather was gone, with only the discoloration of the leather and the pockmarks where the thread had been to indicate where it once was.

  From what he could tell, it was the genuine article. Which meant that Dransig held his order’s holiest relic in his hands. “I’d very much like to read it,” he said when he rediscovered the use of his tongue.

  “I’m sure you’ll agree that there’s no time for that now,” Tharadis said. “You can read it on the road. I’m taking it with me. It’s one of the few things of value I own, and I may need to barter it.” Tharadis shrugged. “As you can tell, I’m not that wealthy.”

  A hundred questions competed for the use of Dransig’s tongue. “Barter it?” he finally asked in a horrified tone. Reluctantly, he handed the book to Tharadis.

  A woman stepped into the doorway. She had the typical Naruvian coloring—olive skin, thick black hair, but streaked with bits of gray. It was pulled back in a bun, though a few skeins hung loose to frame her face. Dransig guessed she was the owner of the house, and thus Tharadis’s mother. She raised an eyebrow at Dransig before turning to Tharadis. “Taking in strays now, are you?”

  “Just doing my job. He isn’t trouble himself, but trouble’s on his tail. So I’m taking him back to the Accord.”

  Dransig raised his hand. “That’s not necessary. If you just let me go, I’ll be able to fend for myself.”

  “I’m the Warden,” Tharadis said. “Protector of Naruvieth. Even if you are not a Naruvian yourself, I will make sure you’re safe until you are out of Naruvieth. Besides,” he added, “I wouldn’t want you to accidentally stick around.” It seemed Tharadis thought since Dransig had come against his will, that he likely wouldn’t be able to get himself out.

  And perhaps he was right. “I understand your concerns. But you don’t need to escort me all the way to Rift. I can take care of myself once we’re free of the city.”

  Tharadis’s mother disappeared inside and reappeared only moments later, holding a heavily-laden pack. “So, it seems you're changing your plans again,” she said as if Dransig had never spoken.

  Tharadis walked up the steps, took the pack, and hugged his mother. “I should only be gone a couple weeks. Once all of this is taken care of, I’ll head right back home. I don’t want to spend any more time in Garoshmir than I have to.”

  After sliding the book in, he shouldered the pack and gathered his niece up in his free arm. “Behave, all right? Listen to your grandma. By the way, where’s your aunt?”

  “She didn’t say where she was going,” Nina said. “Probably out at the Face.”

  “I bet you’re right,” he said, mussing her hair again as he straightened. “Listen to Aunt Esta too, Neensy. Unless she gives you bad advice.”

  Nina smoothed her hair out with an expression of mock distress.

  “Dransig,” Tharadis said, turning. “It doesn’t look like you’ve got any supplies besides your weapons. I’ve got enough to share until we reach the outpost down in the lowlands.” Just then a soldier trotted up to Tharadis, saluted, and whispered something in his ear. Tharadis nodded and said, “Take care of it. Slow them down.” The soldier saluted again and left, taking two others with him.

  Tharadis turned to one of those that remained. “Rellin, I’m leaving you in charge until I get back.”

  “What about the woman in the carriage?” asked Rellin.

  Tharadis sighed. “I won’t be able to deal with that now. Larril will just have to take care of it all himself. He has the final word on the matter. Do whatever he says to do about her.”

  He spared one final smile for his niece before looking back at Dransig. “Let’s go.”

  Chapter 4: The Face of Naruvieth

  Awarm breeze ruffled the hem of Esta’s sleeveless yellow dress and stirred the dark brown curls of her hair. With the trees at her back, she sat with her knees tucked against her chest, arms wrapped around them, sandals tossed aside. A mere two paces beyond her bare feet began the steep incline of the Face, which separated the city of Naruvieth from the lowlands sprawling before her, stretching towards the horizon. The hilly lowlands were mostly covered in drytrees, but here and there pockets of land had been cleared for farming.

  Beyond the lowlands was the Rift. For as long as Naruvieth existed, so had the Rift, the magical barrier separating their little tip of peninsula from the rest of the world. Esta had seen the strange orange light of the Rift up close years ago, when she was still a child. She was enraptured—there was a thing of magic, close enough, if not safe enough, to go up and touch—and, at the same time, incensed at the unfairness of it. The Rift was all that kept her from being able to go explore the world she had read about in all the stories, the world she desperately wanted to see and experience.

  Her favorite story was of the Steeds Who Would Not Yield, horses so large that six people could sit atop one. Some of the stories of the Steeds were simply too fantastical to believe: that light shone through their skin as if their muscles were made of fire, and that they could read minds. But knowing that an element of the fantastical lived in her stories only made her eager to find out more, so that she herself could distinguish fact from fiction and truly know what kind of world she lived in.

  Yet, as she got older, she gradually began to accept that the world she loved would stay right where she had found it: in the telling of stories. That world was forever beyond her reach; she was stuck with Naruvieth.

  All of that changed last year, when she was just eighteen. She remembered where she was when she heard the news: sitting at the wheel in the back of Melnek’s pottery shop, face streaked with red clay. In front of her sat her latest “creation,” though the small, lumpy jug seemed more of an abomination at the time. She sat there, staring at the pathetic thing in disappointment, when someone had crashed into the shop, screaming the news: the Rift has been bridged.

  Her yearning to see the world, which had been tamped down to a few mere sparks, roared to flame like never before.

  With each passing day, her desire to leave Naruvieth only deepened. Yet with each passing day, leaving seemed more unlikely.

  It didn’t take long for people to start complaining about the new bridge—called the Runeway by the people who built it. The complaints came in from all quarters, save the merchants, who saw the Runeway for the tremendous opportunity it was. Worse, her brother shut down the construction of the Runeway, saying it was his duty as Warden of Naruvieth to do so, given all the complaints. Since then, there had been a very uneasy truce between Naruvieth and the Accord lands.

  All because of her brother.

  Worst of all, he was using that very same Runeway to travel to the Accord’s capital city to petition them to put an end to the construction of the Runeway permanently. While Esta was forced to stay here.

  It was almost as if he were using that stupid sword of his to cut out Esta’s heart.

  She sighed. That wasn’t true; she knew he was just trying to do the best he could for his people. But she couldn’t help but suspect that he was secretly trying to get back at her fo
r all the trouble she caused when she was younger, sneaking out of the house and getting lost in the lowlands.

  Esta stood and dusted off the back of her dress before lacing up her sandals. As she did, she inspected her hunting gear arrayed next to her, just to make sure it was all accounted for. She knew it was, but checking it was also a good habit that she needed to keep up. She wasn’t a kid anymore, getting tangled in brambles and crying until her big brother came and saved her. She could take care of herself.

  She stuffed everything in her pack, slung it over her back, and picked up the spear, feeling its heft. It was a good weight, perfect for the boars that ran wild down in the lowlands. She couldn’t fire a mug to save her life, but she knew how to make a good, simple spear.

  Much as she thought about it, Esta couldn’t just leave Naruvieth behind. Though she thought she was more of a burden that not, Melnek still depended on her. And so did her mother and Nina. She had to go to Melnek’s shop in the morning.

  But the night was hers. To Farshores with anyone who thought otherwise.

  She began walking towards the main road leading to the switchbacks down the Face when she heard something beyond the tree line.

  It sounded like dry, brittle plants crushed underfoot.

  Esta spun into a crouch, spear leveled in front of her, heart pounding in her ears.

  When she saw who it was, she dropped the tip of her spear and let out her pent-up breath. “Nedrick, what are you doing here?”

  “There’s only one reason I would come out to the Face,” he said, “and that’s to find you.” His narrow face wore its typical stern expression, an expression Esta saw far more than she liked. It turned to disappointment when he saw what she was holding. “I don’t like it when you’re out there by yourself at night. It’s not safe. If something happened to you, who would you call for help?” He held out his hand for her to take but didn’t step closer. “Why don’t you just come back to town with me?” His eyes were wide with apprehension.