by Alec Hutson
“Then what about the girl?” Nel exclaimed, gesturing at Sella.
Seric shrugged. “Don’t know what you should do. All I do know is that she’s your problem, not mine.”
The harbor of Ven Ibras was natural, formed by a pair of sandy arms that reached out from the island. Their rocky fingers nearly touched, which left only a small gap to pass through; Keilan could see the ancient remains of a large ship that had foundered on something submerged under the waves, and he was glad Seric knew how to navigate these waters. Beyond this treacherous barrier a half-dozen great ships lay at anchor, all of wildly varying make. Keilan recognized a Dymorian caravel like he had seen before in Herath, its upswept sterncastle lined by wooden merlons that made it resemble a floating castle tower, and there was a long sleek ship, the lidless eye of Lyr painted near its prow. Tied to all the ships, banners like the one Seric had raised up his mast snapped in the wind, though there seemed to be at least four or five different designs and colors that Keilan could see.
Rising beyond the docks, which bristled with the masts of smaller boats, was the town itself, clinging to the side of a sharply sloping hill. The forest was so thick that the buildings seemed to be either emerging from among the tangle of limbs and leaves or in the process of being swallowed by it. The base of the hill almost touched the sand of the beach, and only a thin crust of buildings did not cling to its side as it soared upward.
“Look!” Sella cried, pointing at the gleaming rocks as their boat passed through the mouth of the harbor. Keilan squinted, and with a start realized that what he had assumed to be rocks of a reddish color were in fact basking lizards the size of small horses. The creatures were so still that for a moment he entertained the notion that they were stones carved as guardians for the town, but then one slipped off its perch and splashed into the dark water, vanishing at once.
“Locals here call them gug-gug lizards ‘cause of the sounds they make at night,” Seric said, expertly steering their boat through the gauntlet of rocks and sandbars. “They swim in the shallow waters and lie around in the sun, but they’re also out there in the forest. They keep away from where people live, for the most part, but don’t go exploring beyond the edge of the town. They have a bite that’ll freeze the blood in your veins, and a few of ‘em have found a taste for man flesh.”
Sella clutched at Keilan’s arm, and he could see the excitement in her wide eyes. “They’re like dragons, Kay! Like in the stories you used to tell me!”
“They’re just animals,” Nel said, shaking her head. “No treasure to steal away or riddles to trade for. And you’re about the perfect size for a snack.”
Seric guided them up to the docks and found space among the other boats, then—nimble as a cat—he leapt off to wrap a rope around a wooden pillar. A gaunt old man in ragged clothes rose from where he’d been crouching and without a word Seric passed him a coin. The old man bit down on it, then grunted in satisfaction and turned away.
“He’ll watch the Beggar while we’re ashore,” Seric said, motioning for them to follow him. As Keilan stepped on to the wooden planks he noticed Senacus had donned the amulet that hid his true nature and packed away his white-scale armor. Probably a wise decision if they did not want to draw undue attention to themselves.
The docks were a riot of activity, sailors from what seemed like a hundred different lands milling about. Despite all the time Keilan had spent in crowded cities over the past months he had never been around such a swirling assortment of color and cultures. Every shade was represented among the chaos, from the ebony of the distant jungles of legendary Xi to the milk-pale skin and red hair of Dymoria. Some attended to tasks, repairing bits of broken boats or carrying boxes and rope, while others congregated around the stalls and tables that had been set up where the shadow of the forest infringed upon the sand. This seemed to be the market of the town, and the array of goods on display was dizzying. Piled high on a length of red wood were bolts of luxuriant cloth that looked to be as fine a weave as Keilan had seen the magisters of Dymoria wearing. Elsewhere, under a checkered tarp a fat man sat fanning himself with a broad leaf, urns brimming with colorful spices and peppers spread before him. The largest crowds were gathered around a charcoal pit over which several cooked chickens dangled, and a man with a cleaver who was expertly dismembering a crisped bird.
“I remember Pelos saying something about how the island was a shadow of what it had once been,” Nel remarked as they parted to make way for a pair of hairless men carrying what looked to be a broken mast on their shoulders.
“It was,” Seric said over his shoulder as he led them towards one of the paths leading up the hill. “Ven Ibras was founded as a way-stop for the pirate ships that preyed on the shipping lanes between the Empire of Swords and Flowers and the northern lands. Twenty years ago the Shan navy finally had enough and smashed the pirates in a great battle.”
“The Bloody Shoals,” Keilan said, remembering what he had heard earlier.
“Just so. From what I gather, Ven Ibras withered to almost nothing afterwards—then, perhaps a decade ago, merchants started using it as a central place to trade goods, somewhere that was beyond the watchful eyes of the Shan emperor and the other kings along the coast.”
Sella squealed as she caught sight of a burly man with a bright yellow snake wrapped around his neck; it almost looked like it was nesting in his bristly black beard. The serpent lifted its head from his shoulder and swayed in her direction as if curious about the noise, its tongue flickering. Sella gave a cry and clutched at Keilan’s arm, but to his surprise he found her eyes were bright with excitement.
They started to ascend the path up the hill—carefully, as it was slicked by a layer of leaves fallen from the canopy arching overheard, and also because hidden beneath those leaves was a tangled skein of roots. Shadows moved in the high branches, chittering as they passed. On either side of the trail, houses of red wood were set back among the trees and vines, all of them raised up on stilts that left a gap taller than Sella between the ground and the platforms upon which the structures had been built.
“I’ve been here during storms,” Seric said, anticipating Keilan’s question, “and the water just pours down the hill. The houses would be flooded if they were built lower.”
Keilan imagined a torrent of water flowing beneath the stilt-houses as the Shael raged above and the waves crashed against the beach below. It seemed a precarious life, bounded by the dangers of this wild island and the merciless sea.
It was cooler in the shadows of the forest, but biting insects swarmed them as they struggled up the steep path, clouds of small black flies and also larger, humming things that looked like dragonflies but caused blood to flow when they jabbed with their curving stingers.
“Ow!” Sella cried, slapping at the air. She dashed ahead a ways in an attempt to escape the insects.
“We need to get inside,” Nel said, wincing as she rubbed at her neck.
“Aye,” Seric said, pointing up ahead at a rambling building of gleaming red wood recessed among a copse of twisted banyan trees. “That there’s The Haven, the beating heart of the island. Best place for a drink and to find answers.”
Keilan’s first thought as they pushed through the door was that if this was the heartbeat of the island then somebody needed to go fetch a physicker. The air seemed to hang honey-thick inside, and the few shapes hunched around the rough-hewn tables ignored their entrance. Insects bumbled in the amber light filtering through the large slatted windows, their droning the only sound in the large common room.
“Hm. Gets a bit more fun at night,” Seric said, ushering them towards the back, where a hugely fat Shan reclined on a chair that seemed specially built to support his bulk. Perched on two much smaller stools were a pair of boys younger than Keilan—from the cast of their smooth faces they could have been brothers, but one had straight hair black as ink, and the other an unruly mop of golde
n curls.
The fat Shan stirred as they approached. “Seric! Been a long time. I just got word you sailed in flying my colors. That mean you’re looking for work?” He raised a massive hand to indicate Keilan and the rest. “Who are they? Your family?”
Seric forced a chuckle, as did the two boys. That must have been a joke, Keilan realized.
“No, Pak. Passengers who paid their way to get here. They have business on the island.”
The Shan’s uptilted eyes narrowed. “Traders, then? What goods did you bring?”
“Not traders,” Nel said, stepping forward. “We’re looking for someone.”
The Shan gestured for them to seat themselves at his table and snapped his fingers towards the drowsing serving girl pillowing her head on her arms at another table. She jerked up at the sharp sound.
“Fenny! A bottle of Lyrish blue. And some spiced crayfish.”
“We don’t want to impose –” Nel began, and Pak snorted.
“Ha! That’s for me, girl. If you want something, you bloody well order it yourself. Unless, of course, you have business to discuss and we reach a good deal.”
Nel flashed a crooked smile. “An ale for me, then, Fenny. And for my friend here.” She inclined her head towards Keilan. “Milk for the child and the big fellow.”
“I don’t want milk,” Senacus said curtly, and he turned to the serving girl. “Water, please.”
Everyone jumped as the Shan slapped his hand on the table. “Ha! Milk and water. Are you sure you lot have come to the right island?”
“That depends,” Nel said, leaning forward with her hands clasped together. “We’re looking for Chalissian ri Kvin.”
The serving girl placed a dusty green-glass bottle in front of the Shan, but he ignored it. “The Bravo? Well, he’s here in Ven Ibras, but he’s not the most friendly of sorts. I doubt he’d agree to see you.”
“Can you send him a message?”
Pak rubbed one of his chins at Nel’s question, as if considering. “Might be I could. My boys here could run up to his manse, pass a message to him through his steward Gen. Say… for a copper drake?”
“I have Lyrish copper, but the same weight. And that’s fine.”
The fat Shan grimaced, as if wishing he’d asked for more. “Done, then. Alax, Erix, scurry on over to the Bravo’s place and tell him… ” He looked at Nel expectantly.
“Tell him we’ve come asking about someone he once knew,” Keilan interrupted. “A girl with silver hair. Tell him it’s very important we speak to him about her.”
The two boys glanced at each other, and then as if by some unspoken agreement they slid from their stools at the same time and dashed for the door, nearly knocking over the serving girl who was returning to their table with a greasy basket overflowing with bright red crayfish.
“Oy! Watch it, you monkeys!” she yelled at their retreating backs, then slid the steaming basket onto the table and turned away, muttering.
“Eat,” Pak said, gesturing at the crayfish, suddenly more generous. “It’s good to seal a bargain with food.”
They had cracked the last of the shells and Keilan was sucking the delicious juices off his fingers when the door to The Haven banged open and the two boys burst through. Seric and Pak paused their rather dry conversation about the price of various fruits in different cities at this time of year as the boys ran up to the table.
“Pak! Pak!” they cried in one voice between great gulping breaths. “Gen said to send them up at once! He said he’s been expecting them!”
They would die in these mountains.
It was only a matter of time before the genthyaki or the Pure found them, she was certain, but at the first glimpse of their pursuers she had resolved to slit Demian’s throat with the dagger he had given her, then plunge the blade into her own heart. She would not go back. And for Demian, it would be a mercy. The pain she had endured under the palace… the loss… Better to die a quick death here than suffer like she had. Like she still did.
A harsh screech made her look to the sky, her heart in her throat, but it was only one of the carrion birds turning slow gyres high overhead, its raptor gaze no doubt fixed on Demian. Alyanna glanced back at the shadowblade—he was slumped forward with his head down, the only indication he was still alive the fact that he had not yet slid from his saddle.
She had been dreading that sound as she led the horse through the narrow valleys and along the rocky slopes of the Spine. The creak of leather and the slither of cloth as he toppled over, and then a final thud as he hit the ground. It was only a matter of time, she knew. His wounds were too severe; she had done what she could with her limited skill, cleaning and binding where the paladin’s sword had scored his side, but his end was fast approaching. The thought left her hollow. Demian had been her steadfast ally for over a thousand years… he had always come when she needed him, and though she had never admitted it to him, she had relied on his calm strength in those dark moments when her own convictions had wavered. Without him, the other sorcerers would never have joined the ancient compact that had resulted in their immortality. He had always been a rock for her to cling to, no matter what storms were raging.
He was her friend. And when he died, she would truly be alone.
Alyanna paused, her breath ghosting the chilly air, and squinted up at the jagged peaks rising around them. It was as if they were inside the maw of a monstrous creature, its teeth gnawing the sky. So high. How would they find their way to the other side of the Spine? It had been a miracle they had not ended up at the bottom of some rocky gorge, a feast for the birds that had followed them so patiently since they had left the plains.
The narrow defile they had recently descended into was choked with stunted trees and rocks tumbled from higher up the slopes. The horse was having trouble picking its way through the detritus, but at least the way was not impassable. That would change eventually, though. And when it did, Alyanna would be faced with the decision of what to do with Demian. Could she leave him behind, after he had descended into the catacombs to rescue her? It was a choice she did not want to have to make… but she knew it would not be her who faltered first. She was getting stronger, somehow, despite the arduous journey. It was this light inside her, this terrible, blazing light. The Cleansing had burned away her sorcery, leaving nothing behind, not even the ashes of her power, yet it was somehow strengthening her body—her legs barely ached after a day of hard climbing, and the pain from the inquisitor’s tortures had faded to a distant memory.
What had they done to her?
“Demian,” she said softly, touching him lightly on the leg. He stirred, raising his head, and tried to focus blearily on her. Around his broken nose the flesh was mottled purple, but the rest of his face was even paler than usual.
She gestured at the mountains ahead of them. “Are we still going in the right direction?”
He licked his cracked lips, obviously struggling to see into the distance. “I think so.”
Alyanna sighed, hoping his head wasn’t addled. The mountains certainly all looked the same to her.
“No,” he said, more firmly. “I know so.”
She glanced at him sharply. “How?”
Demian raised a wavering hand, pointing at something up ahead. Alyanna turned, then gasped, her hand scrabbling for the dagger in her sash.
A man crouched on a lichen-stained rock, watching them. He was dressed in a simple tunic and leggings of black cloth, and a silken veil covered the lower half of his face. A penumbra of shimmering darkness sheathed the sword at his side.
He hadn’t been there a moment ago, she was sure of it.
She mastered herself. “Greetings,” Alyanna cried, her voice echoing in the gorge. “We seek sanctuary with the kith’ketan. We beg the daymo for his assistance in our time of desperate need.”
The shadowblade said nothing, but below
him, from the darkness cast by the rock, stepped another of the assassins. Above his veil his eyes were a vivid green, and they narrowed as he studied Alyanna.
She gestured behind her, at Demian slumped in his saddle. “I bring with me the man you call the Undying One. He lived for centuries among you, I know this. We were ambushed by paladins of Ama, and they wounded him badly. He needs aid.”
The shadowblade on the rock leapt lightly to the ground. He approached Alyanna, his hand on the twisted ebony hilt of his unnatural sword. “Your eyes,” he said, his voice cracking slightly, as if this was the first time he’d spoken in a long time. “You have been filled with the light of Menekar’s god.”
“Not by my choice,” Alyanna said, more harshly than she intended. “They Cleansed me…”
“Are you the sorceress the Undying One brought into the presence of the daymo, and with whom a bargain was struck?”
Alyanna swallowed—the assassin had not let go of his sword’s hilt. “Yes.” She winced, half expecting him to lash out with that shard of darkness.
But he did not. The shadowblade nodded and turned away from her. “Follow me,” he said simply, then began to pick his way through the stone-strewn gorge.
Alyanna let out a shuddering breath. She jerked the reins she held, and the horse clattered forward over the rocky ground. “You might have said something…” she said, but then she saw that Demian’s head had lowered again, and he was swaying unsteadily in his saddle.
“God’s blood,” she muttered, going to him and laying a hand on his leg so he wouldn’t fall. He jerked awake again at her touch, then groaned and clutched weakly at his side.
“The kith’ketan…” he began, and she gave his leg a gentle squeeze.
“They are taking us back to the mountain.”