The Riven God

by F. T. McKinstry

  “And your princess?”

  “I have no idea. I can only assume it matters because I saw it. Such things can’t be arbitrary. But interpreting them is another matter.”

  Lorth rose and walked to the Source. He gazed down, bathed in the force of Ealiron’s essence in his heart. A being vast enough to create a world. Another being powerful enough to damage that world and hide it in the shadows of Void. And at the center, a woman. He envisioned Banyae, holding his dagger in her hand.

  “Even the gods are subject to a woman’s simplest smile,” he said.

  “That is the way of it,” Eaglin agreed. “But I shudder to think what it could mean if a loerfalos is involved.”

  Lorth rattled out a black laugh. “As well you should, my friend. So do I.”

  Keepers and Hunters

  Rhinne awoke to the sound of a squawking bird.

  Time passed; a strange time, a no-time, fleeting and vast. She drew a breath of the damp air. The Ottersong. Her head hurt so badly she couldn’t form a coherent thought. Her dim surroundings came into focus as she moved. Her limbs were stiff with pain and cold; her legs were submerged in water. She dragged herself towards a higher, dryer part of the cabin. Rubbing her flesh back to life, she surveyed her situation.

  The top of the mast stuck through the caved-in roof and was embedded into the floor. Debris scattered the enclosure, most of it floating on one side: clothes and blankets, bits of spoiled food, candles, tangled coils of line, ruined maps, sailing tools, and the remains of her water barrel. Some of the cabinet doors had been ripped from their hinges; two of the windows were cracked and another had been blown out of its casing completely. The air was stuffy and foul, smelling of dirty clothes, rotting fish, and mildew.

  Rhinne reached down and took a piece of her shattered lantern into her hand. She blinked as the full impact of this sank into her. Then she closed her eyes and leaned heavily against remains of her bunk, her face pressed into the rough wood.

  She couldn’t imagine by what force she had survived. It was impossible. The cold, the water, having been tumbled in this boat beneath the sea; she couldn’t have survived that. Unless she had died, and this was it, some no-place between one world and the next. Floating on a broken boat.

  If she had died, would she not see someone, something? Her warrior god perhaps, holding that accursed book in his arms? Shaking his beautiful head? Trust the water, he had told her. What an utter villain.

  She jumped as the squawking repeated outside. Gasping with pain, she pushed herself up and crept to the gaping crack between the hull and what used to be the cabin hatch. Clouds drifted across a hazy sky. The diluted orb of the sun shone like an eye shrouded by age.

  A raven fluttered into view and alit on the broken mast.

  “You,” Rhinne rasped. Something like this had awaked her earlier. The bird preened its glossy black feathers. It had one white feather in its tail. What was it doing out here? Rhinne pushed herself through the crack like a timid cat and scanned the horizon in every direction.

  No land. Nothing.

  The bird took off and flew out of sight. Rhinne had no clear references by which to mark the direction of its flight.

  She lowered herself back into the cabin. Trust the water. She abruptly broke into laughter. She slammed her fists down and then shoved her face in her hands, laughing like a wild thing, tugging at her hair and rocking forward, clutching at her salt encrusted clothes. This was absurd. She had just died following the advice of a delusion and now a raven was harassing her. She was nothing but a weak, stupid creature that had been crushed by a bigger, stronger, smarter creature. So it was.

  Three days passed.

  In the clutches of hunger and thirst, rocking in the cycles of day and night and the swells and movements of the sea, Rhinne decided she was not dead, but living and stranded somewhere in the Sea of Derinth. At night, the gibbous moon told her that over a week had passed since her departure from Tromb. It rained once, giving her a brief respite from thirst. But her throat ached and every part of her body wept with too much noise.

  She saw the raven twice more; once at sunset the first day and again the day after, in the evening. She hadn’t seen it since. Wherever it had come from, it undoubtedly knew she would die and planned to feast on her remains. She thought long and hard on how she might turn the tables, capture and eat it herself.

  It had also occurred to her that the bleak creature served Ragnvald or Dore, and was giving them reports as to her whereabouts. Unfortunately, she had no bow or arrows, not even a knife. And a raven wouldn’t be easily ensnared.

  The midday sun shone brightly. Wind rocked the Ottersong carelessly along the ridges of waves. Bereft of a mast, both sails lay in shreds on their lines flung here and there amid the wreckage. Half of the foresail trailed in the water on the port side. The boat listed sharply in that direction. On the prow, the head of the otter had cracked off at the neck and been whisked away into the sea.

  Rhinne sat at the tiller, also broken, then put her head down on the beam. How long would it take her to die? She wished she might faint, or grow delirious, and then at least she could die in the arms of unconsciousness. That would come eventually. She gazed over the endless water, which she had long since ceased to trust.

  Her thoughts scattered as she spotted something in the distance: a dark thing hovering over the water. As it approached, Rhinne slumped back onto the beam. Damned raven. Her mouth watered.

  The bird swooped down with a raucous croak. Rhinne made as if to grab it, but weakness and desperation thwarted her from accomplishing that. The raven flew up and returned in the direction from which it had come.

  Expecting to see the creature vanish like the last of her hope, Rhinne’s heart skipped a beat as it merged into another shape. A hallucination? After a time, she discerned blue-green sails shining in the sun.

  A large boat ran the wind in her direction.

  Her heart started to pound. She had to be imagining this, her delirium upon her at last. How could she possibly be lucky enough to be found out here? Unless the raven brought them. Rhinne sat up with a sickening mixture of terror and hope. She looked over her shoulder at the remains of her boat. No place to hide. The other boat drew closer. A single figure stood at the helm; two others worked the sails. As they eased off, Rhinne made out a standard on the mainsail: waves, leaves and a gull woven in symmetry around an open eye.

  The Keepers of the Eye. Wizards. One of them called out, hailing her.

  Panicked, Rhinne rose to her feet too quickly. Her head whirled around. Too weak to recover, she lost her balance and fell into darkness.

  *

  Rhinne stood on the bow of the Eostar, her stomach twisting into a knot as she stared at the shores of Sourcesee.

  Days had passed since the Keepers carried her from the remains of the Ottersong and brought her back into the world. The sun had risen and fallen over the sea with such serenity that Rhinne suspected her rescuers had calmed the weather by their arts. Order of Albatross, they called themselves. Birds of a feather, they spoke little, had bright dispositions, and exuded a river of power beneath their easy talk and skilled maneuvers. With the help of a raven they called Nightshade, they had found her out here on their return trip to Caerroth.

  Rhinne had kept her business private and told the wizards little or nothing about herself. She helped out where she could, catching fish, mending sails, cleaning things, and keeping watch. She had made friends with Nightshade and enjoyed feeding it bits of fish or stroking its soft, black plumage while talking to it about the weather. Sometimes, the creature seemed to understand her.

  She cast a glance over her shoulder at Sirion, captain of the Eostar. The wizard stood at the helm in his blue-green cloak, his dark eyes gazing with unmasked fondness at the shore rippling with far mountains. Of the three men, only Sirion’s cloak had blood-red trim. He also wore a sword, and Rhinne had known enough warriors to tell he knew how to use it.

  She had to escap
e them.

  They had given her no reason to distrust them. Kind and patient, they had called a gull from the sky, affixed the creature with a message and sent word to Wulfgar of her safety. They promised her care once they reached Caerroth and that they would see her back to Tromb. But they didn’t know what awaited her there.

  If the Keepers who served on Tromb had joined the oborom, as was rumored, it wouldn’t take Ragnvald’s warlocks long to discover that Rhinne had not only survived Endwinter but also taken up with the Eye. If she returned to Tromb under the Keepers’ standards, her rescuers would find out who she was and possibly hand her over to Ragnvald without knowing what that would mean. But if she explained her situation to them, she risked too many questions, or worse, being accused of inventing the whole thing to cover up something shady.

  Shortly after sending their winged messenger to Tromb, the wizards had sent another to the west. That meant someone in the wizards’ citadel would soon know what little she had revealed. Best not to give them any more information. If they involved the Keepers on Tromb, Rhinne’s unlikely change of fortune would go badly.

  Returning to Tromb without the Keepers’ help posed a bigger problem, however. Rhinne had no money, no status, only her life. No one would give her passage for nothing and she dared not attempt stowing away for fear of starvation or discovery, an even worse fate depending on the nature of the men who caught her. She mulled it over day and night, looking for a solution. She had even whispered it to Nightshade and hoped for a reply. But then she had a thought.

  Bjorn. He had set sail two suns ago. Wulfgar had mentioned once or twice that their brother was at port in Caerroth. Rhinne could ask around; surely, someone would know of him, or help her to find him. Again, she thought of asking the Albatrosses for help. But if Bjorn were no longer in port she would be left in the same situation, having to explain to wizards why she had to return to Tromb in secret.

  She might be faced with that in either case. But if she could get away from them to find out, it might increase her options.

  Evening fell as the crew of the Eostar began to prepare for entry into Caerroth. The sky glowed yellowish-lavender and the sun cast a shining blanket of orange across the peaking tops of the waves. Rhinne helped them with their tasks, occasionally glancing at the wide mouth of the harbor. The shore had been a presence in her mind all day, like a beast quietly shadowing her.

  They entered the harbor, and Sirion guided the craft towards one end, where the land curved away. Amid rows and rows of every kind of craft, Rhinne noticed many boats similar to the Eostar, in deep colors, their hulls and sails containing different geometric symbols intertwined with leaves and birds. Each standard contained the Eye. Several large ships were moored farther out in the water. Rhinne searched for Bjorn’s ship the Eastfetch, but didn’t see her.

  After securing the Eostar to a dock and helping Rhinne out, the sailors began to batten down the craft and collect their things. A man in a gray cloak strode down the dock, brushed by Rhinne with a bland greeting and then had a word with Sirion that Rhinne didn’t hear. He returned to the shore, leaving a pall in his wake.

  Rhinne wrapped her arm in the edge of her cloak and held it out as Nightshade flew up and circled her with a deep-throated croak. The bird landed, adjusting its feathers. Rhinne gently touched the single white feather in the raven’s tail. Beyond the docks, the port city of Caerroth sparkled in the setting sun. Narrow streets wound into the city, bustling with people walking, pushing carts, and riding horses. Merchants clamored for business in markets filled with the bright colors of flowers, clothing, baskets, animals and other rare and beautiful goods from faraway lands. The smell of food wafted on the wind.

  Sirion leapt onto the dock and came to Rhinne’s side. “I need to see the harbormaster,” he said, his blond hair moving in the wind. He pointed to a gray stone building perched on the edge of a natural peninsula not far from the dock where they stood. “Just yonder. Shouldn’t take long.”

  Rhinne nodded, feeling a twinge of guilt in her heart about what she planned to do.

  The other sailors joined them. Marsin, an older man with graying hair, said, “I think Nightshade will miss you.” He made a sound that prompted the raven to flutter to him, leaving Rhinne with her silent remorse.

  “She’s not usually friendly to strangers,” said Oc, a tall, younger man who had said little to Rhinne on their journey.

  Rhinne accompanied the men across the docks and onto a rocky shore above the tide’s reach. Marsin and Oc said their farewells and disappeared into the crowd, taking Nightshade with them. When Rhinne and Sirion reached the harbormaster’s house, Rhinne stopped. “I’ll wait here.”

  Sirion hesitated, then nodded respectfully and continued to the door. A short time later, he emerged with a creased brow. “Well then,” he said with an uneasy smile, wearing the same cloud the gray-cloaked man had left behind on the dock. “Are we ready? We’ll go to the Shining Star. It’s run by the Keepers of the Eye. You’ll be well cared for there.”

  Rhinne glanced over her shoulder at the harbormaster’s house and chewed her lip. “How long before I get passage?”

  Some dreary moments passed before Sirion said, “He didn’t know.” A strange mixture of trouble and compassion fled over his face. “Come. You must be looking forward to some proper food.”

  Nodding hesitantly, Rhinne fell in step beside him.

  She was not hungry.

  *

  Lorth scattered the ashes of his fire two hours before dawn, leaving the small clearing in the forest the way he had found it before his rest. He went to his horse, a fine mare, pale with coal freckling her rump. He had acquired her during the Faerin occupation of Ostarin. The mare still wore their brand. Lorth hadn’t planned to steal her, exactly; she came to him on her own after he had merged with her heart to escape an armed escort.

  “Freya,” he murmured, drawing the reins over her head and guiding her around. “I told you the wolves wouldn’t bother you.” He mounted and headed through the dark woods in the direction of the road. He preferred to travel the wilds on his missions, but this one required more haste and, depending on the scenario, more profile.

  He didn’t usually receive reports from the Order of Albatross, Keepers of the Crafts who served the Eye in the sailing arts. However, given the mysteries set before him, Lorth had sent word to the harbormaster in Caerroth and asked him to put out orders that any news from the east be relayed to Lorth immediately.

  News came swiftly, from an unexpected quarter. The crew of the Eostar, on mission in Derinth, had found a wrecked craft, adrift and barely afloat, with a lone survivor. Badly hurt and weakened by hunger and thirst, she claimed to be from Tromb, the western-most isle in the Gray Isles. She was caught in a terrible storm. Unable to deviate further from their mission, the Albatrosses set course for Caerroth, promising to put her on the next eastern-bound ship home.

  When they had mentioned sending word to Tromb of her survival, she had begged them, with great distress, to make sure that a man called the Sentinel of the South, and none other, received it. They hadn’t been able to get a word out of her after that.

  Mysterious enough, but when Lorth got to her description, curly red hair, gray eyes, and dressed as if going on a hunt, he decided to ride to Caerroth himself and request that she accompany him to Eyrie. The woman Eaglin saw in Leda’s pool could have been anyone, anywhere. Red hair and fair eyes were common in the north. But Lorth had been a wizard and a hunter too long to ignore such blaring synchronicity. He had returned a message to the harbormaster to ask Sirion to bring the girl to the Shining Star and watch over her until Lorth arrived.

  Lorth might not have taken such measures if not for a discovery the day before. During his previous mission to the Gray Isles, he had made an enemy of Sedarius, the Raven of Wychmouth and Keeper of the Beryl Waeltower. Known by the islanders as the Guardian of the Gray Isles, the Raven bore the arrogance of his ancestry and generations of isolation in the rea
ches of North Derinth. He hadn’t approved of Lorth’s methods, even though those methods had saved his realm from a watery cataclysm. And so, not trusting Sedarius, Lorth had personally dispatched a Keeper of the Order of Osprey to each of the isles to make sure that their “Guardian” behaved. The Aenlisarfon would shit tripe if they found out about this maneuver. But Lorth was one of them now, and he had never lost the uneasiness he had felt while in those isles.

  When Lorth had attempted to project an apparition to Tromb to speak to Fin, the Osprey he had placed there, he discovered that the isle of Tromb was treecloaked, a term used to describe an energy shield cast by a god over some area of the earth. Dark as a pocket, the isle felt like a void he couldn’t cross. This was not an uncommon occurrence, but since a treecloak fell into the dominion of gods, the Aenlisarfon didn’t usually know why it happened. Lorth left it to Eaglin and the Council to decipher. He was not ready to pursue other means himself until he found the girl.

  You cannot force her to return with you here, Eaglin had said as Lorth prepared to depart. But try to convince her, if only for a short time. We must find out who she is.

  Lorth’s wolf-sense continued to nag at him, just as it had when he replied, Somehow, I don’t think this will be that simple.

  On the final day of his journey, Lorth rode through the afternoon, stopping once to care for Freya and take a short rest. Then he continued into the night. When he reached the outskirts of the city, he stopped by a spring cascading from a rock formation, and let Freya drink. The reflection of a gibbous moon rippled on the water. He removed and stashed away his Raven’s cloak, its edges stitched in the blood red of the Order of Raptor. Then he pulled down a spell that blended him and the mare with the darkness.

  He had no sooner mounted and clopped onto the path when something flew out of the trees on one side. The mare spooked, nearly unseating him. A large bird alit on a nearby branch with an insistent quork! Odd, a raven not roosting at night. Lorth stopped, but he didn’t bother to drop his cloaking shield: animals saw through them. He reached into his gear for a crystal and breathed a word over it. Light beamed forth, chasing wild shadows over the surroundings.