“I can’t,” he said, looking at his friends. “I have to go after Ferius.”
Cam gave a choking sound, and Hem dropped his second pickle into the river. Both gaped at him, eyes wide and jaws unhinged. Only Bailey did not seem surprised. She looked at Torin sadly and nodded, understanding.
You always understood me more than anyone, Bailey, he thought, looking into her brown eyes, and his heart gave a twist. He would miss her on his journey. All his life, Bailey would mock him, dare him into trouble, and wrestle him when her temper flared. But she had also shared her roof with him for ten years, and she knew his heart, and she loved him.
“Why?” Cam sputtered. “Torin, let that weasel sail far away and forget about him. Why chase him?”
Hem nodded. “We’re finally rid of him.”
Torin stepped closer to his friends. “We’re not rid of him for long. You heard what Ferius said. He plans to bring an army back here. He doesn’t simply wish to protect our village.” Torin shuddered. “He means to lead men into the night. He means to butcher Elorians in revenge.” His friends paled, and Torin continued speaking, voice low. “I must travel to the capital too, and I must speak to the king. I must stop Ferius from sparking a full blown war.”
Hem whimpered. “A war … Arden hasn’t fought a war since … not since your father’s days.”
Torin nodded. “Yes, not since my father fought alongside the king, battling Verilon. The northerners were a cruel foe, my father said, bearded barbarians clad in furs, riding bears into battle, swinging hammers as large as plows. But as cruel as Verilon is, and as strange with its snow and pines, it’s still a kingdom in Timandra. Its people are still fellow children of the light. But a war with Eloria…” Torin looked eastward toward the dusk; he could just see the shadows beyond the fields and trees. “This is a war that could destroy not just our village, not just our kingdom, but the world. I have to stop this.”
“But how?” Cam demanded, fists clenched at his sides. The scrawny shepherd shook his head. “Ferius is a monk, and the king is, well … a king. You’re a gardener. Who will listen to you?”
“The king will,” Torin replied, voice soft. “My father saved his life.” They stared at him silently, and Torin closed his eyes. “It was in the forests of Verilon. The king had lost almost all of his forces, just as many fallen to the cold as to the Verilish hammers. They were only a thousand left, trudging along an icy mountain, when a Verilish horde attacked. My father said there were at least ten thousand of them, burly men all in fur and iron, riding bears. Their leader, a towering man with a great yellow beard, swung a hammer at King Ceranor. My father leaped, taking the blow against his shield. The shield shattered, its shards blinding the barbarian, saving the king’s life.” Torin had heard the story many times as a child. He opened his eyes. “The king will listen to me, the son of his friend. Do you remember when he visited my father’s funeral in Fairwool-by-Night? I was very young then, but the king will remember me. He owes my family a debt. I won’t let Ferius poison his mind. I will urge calm and we can end the bloodshed.”
Bailey nodded, came to stand beside him, and placed a hand on his shoulder.
“And I’m going with you,” she said.
Torin shook his head forcefully. “No, Bailey. I need you to stay here and protect the village.”
She snorted. “The only threat to Fairwool-by-Night just sailed upriver. You’re not getting rid of me that easily, Winky. I’m going after that snake with you, and if I get a chance, I’m going to stomp him under my heel. We do this together, you and me, like we do everything.” She grabbed his arm and tugged him. “Now come on—back home. You’re going to pack.”
As she dragged him through the village, Torin looked around at the burnt homes, fresh graves, and blood on the cobblestones. With every blink, he saw the robed figures sweeping through the village again, driving their blades into flesh. Torin swallowed, his throat tight.
If we can’t stop Ferius, war will burn us all.
Bailey dragged him back into their home, tossed him a pack, and began rifling through drawers, stuffing her own pack with jars of preserves, changes of clothes, and even her old rag doll. She moved quickly, mumbling to herself, and Torin saw that her eyes were damp.
“We’ll sail upriver,” she said. “We’ll be moving against the current, but we’ll have the wind in our sail; it’ll be twice as fast as walking.”
Torin lifted an apple from a bowl and pocketed it. “It’ll still take half a month. Merciful Idar, Bailey … stuck on a boat with you for half a month.”
She snorted. “I’ve been stuck in this house with you for ten years. I’m used to it.” She grabbed two wheels of cheese and tossed him one. “I hope you pack enough food, because I know you’re hopeless at fishing.”
Moments later, they stood back at the docks. Green cloaks draped across their shoulders, fastened with raven pins, sigils of Arden. Cast iron pans, loaded packs, and rolled-up blankets hung across their backs, and sturdy boots held their feet. They wore breastplates over their tunics, for outlaws sometimes sailed upon the river. Their swords hung from their belts, and Bailey’s bow and quiver hung among her supplies.
Their loads heavy, they walked toward their boat, a single-masted vessel named Bailey.
“I still think it’s silly that this boat is named after you,” Torin said, climbing onto the deck. “Couldn’t your grandfather have given it a sensible name?”
She climbed aboard after him, rocking the boat, and twisted his arm painfully. “It’s a beautiful name, and at least he didn’t name it Winky.”
They untethered the Bailey, filled its sail with air, and floated away from the docks. Along the riverbanks, trees rustled, grasshoppers hopped, and blackbirds sang. Cam and Hem stood waving goodbye; the latter waved while weeping into a handkerchief. Torin waved back, wondering when he’d see them again.
It was a beautiful day and his best friend was with him, but Torin’s belly knotted and iciness filled his chest. He gazed at the shrinking village—smoke still rose from it—and the shadow that loomed beyond.
“Don’t look back there,” Bailey said and tugged his arm. “Come on, lazy, help me at the rudder.”
He sighed and they sailed on, leaving the shadow behind.
CHAPTER NINE
A FESTIVAL OF FIRE
After only a few miles, Torin decided that he fully, completely loathed sailing.
Ferius had vanished far in the distance, and Torin felt like his progress was hardly faster than walking. The current kept trying to drag him back toward Fairwool-by-Night, and the wind filled the wrong side of his sail, just as determined to take him back home.
“Tack left, damn it!” Bailey said, standing beside him with her hands on her hips. “Don’t sail into the wind, let it hit your starboard side.”
Torin grumbled and tugged on the sail, struggling to adjust it. “I am tacking left. The current keeps pulling us the wrong way.”
Bailey rolled her eyes and shoved him aside. “Let me do it. Useless gardener boys with their clumsy hands. You’re only good at plucking weeds, you are.”
He glared at her but let her take the sail. Grumbling, he returned to the rudder and adjusted it. With a few tugs, creaks, and curses, they managed to position their starboard side forward. Amazingly, the boat began to move against both current and wind, sailing toward the southern riverbank.
“See?” Bailey said. “It’s not that hard.”
“It’s amazingly hard,” he replied.
She groaned. “It’s what these boats do every year. Boats can’t just float wherever wind or water take them or they wouldn’t be very useful, would they?”
Torin longingly gazed at the riverbank. “I wish we could walk. It would be easier.”
“And slower.” Bailey moved forward to take the rudder. “Even like this, we’re sailing faster than walking. And look at those riverbanks, all thick with rushes and grass and trees. I bet there are snakes in there too.”
Torin wouldn’t mind trudging through the vegetation; it still seemed preferable to sailing. His hands were raw from tugging the sail ropes, and his stomach churned as the boat swayed. Along the northern riverbanks, he saw rushes, alder trees, and beyond them grassy hills strewn with boulders. Far in the distance, he could make out the green haze of forests. The wilderness of Arden lay there, the ancient kingdom of the raven, the land his father had fought for.
When Torin turned toward the southern riverbank, he saw a different land. The grasslands here flowed into a distant, green and yellow haze. On the horizon, he saw hints of lush forests. Here was a land forbidden to him. The kingdom of Naya lay south of the Sern River, a realm of jungles, warriors clad in fur and leaf, and leashed tigers that fought alongside men.
“Torin, stop sightseeing and help!” Bailey said. “Idar’s beard, do you want to hit the Nayan riverbank?”
Muttering under his breath, Torin helped her adjust the sail, bringing the wind against their port side. They began to sail northward, heading back toward the Ardish side of the river, a full mile away from the southern bank.
“Are we going to zigzag the whole way?” he asked. “This will take forever.”
“Only until the wind turns in our direction,” Bailey replied. “If both current and wind are against us, they’re against Ferius too. We’re moving just as fast as he is.”
Torin wasn’t so sure. He gazed ahead along the river, squinted, and shaded his eyes with his palm. He could see no sign of the Sailith monk. He sighed.
“If Ferius reaches Kingswall before us, he’ll stir up trouble,” he said. “He’ll get the king to send armies downriver, and—”
Bailey shushed him and punched his arm. “We’ll beat him there.”
Rubbing his arm, Torin walked across the deck to check his water clock. Torin had received the timepiece—a contraption of wood, silver, and glass—for his eighteenth birthday, a gift from Lord Kerof. Water dripped from its top receptacle, a yellow glass bulb, draining into an indigo bulb. When one bulb was empty, Torin could flip the clock, letting it count time anew.
“The water measures the flow of ancient days and nights, as they turned before the world froze,” Lord Kerof had said when granting him the gift last autumn. “You see, the world too once had day and night, one following the other. We worked and toiled in the sunlight, then slept in the darkness, and Timandrians and Elorians were one.”
Torin had only laughed at the fanciful tale. Elorians—with their pale skin, oversized eyes, and large ears—once being the same as Timandrians? The night actually blanketing Timandra, then retreating from the sunlight, only to return a clock’s turn later? It was impossible, simply a story for children. But Torin found the timepiece beautiful, a piece of art, and he often used it to track how long he went between sleeping, eating, and tending to his gardens.
“We’ve been sailing for a day already,” he said. “And I can still see the barley fields in the east.”
Bailey hopped toward him, pinched his cheek, and fled with a laugh. “It’ll be a long journey, Winky. You’ll be a sailor by the time we’re there.”
They sailed on.
The wilderness flowed at their sides, green and lush with birds, deer, and trilling frogs. The sun shone in a clear blue sky, and fish leaped in the waters.
When the clock’s day bulb emptied, Torin yawned, stretched, and slept for a while upon the deck. He awoke half a bulb later, took the sail, and let Bailey sleep. Luckily by then, the wind had shifted and now blew from the northeast; he was able to adjust his sails and propel the boat faster upstream.
With the Bailey sailing smoothly, he stood above the living Bailey for a moment and watched her sleep. Her head lay upon her palms, and she mumbled in her slumber. When awake, Bailey was nearly intolerable, always mussing his hair, pinching his cheek, and sometimes—when he set the rudder wrong—twisting his arm. When sleeping, however, Torin could almost—almost!—find her pleasant and rather pretty. She smiled in her sleep. Her two golden braids gleamed in the sun, and freckles adorned her nose. Sometimes, like now, Torin wondered who she was to him. A foster sister? A good friend? Or maybe … maybe Bailey was becoming more than that, becoming a woman to love?
No. Torin shook his head forcefully. He had no use for those thoughts. Bailey was insufferable. Sooner or later, she would wake up and snort, roll her eyes, and tease him, and all the freckles and golden braids in the world wouldn’t make her pleasant.
The water clock turned again, and they kept sailing.
The river curved southwest, taking them into humid, hot lands where flies bustled, mist hung in the air, and trees thickened along the Nayan riverbank.
By the fourth turn of the clock, a forest grew along the southern bank like a green wall. Torin recognized cocoa trees, redwoods, and cedars. Vines coiled around their trunks, and lichen hung from their branches. Reeds rustled along the water. Torin wanted to explore the trees—many plants he did not recognize grew among them, and he wished to collect a few—but Bailey slapped his hand when he reached for the anchor.
“You’ll have time for your exploring later,” she said with a glower.
And so Torin was left with watching, his eyes wide, as the verdant forests of Naya flowed by, mist coiling between the trees. Turtles, monitor lizards, and cranes covered the riverbank, drinking from the water and watching the boat sail by. Thousands of birds of every color flocked between the trees. Once Torin saw an actual tiger moving between the branches, and the beast met his eyes before disappearing into the shadows.
A clock turn later, Torin saw a sight that drove the breath from his lungs.
“Look!” he said to Bailey and grabbed her arm.
She followed his gaze and gasped.
Along the southern riverbank, Nayan warriors stood among the trees. They wore tiger furs, and tattoos coiled across their bare chests. Their skin was pale and their hair orange and wild, and braids filled their beards. They held bows and spears, and Torin sucked in his breath, sure they would attack. With their woolen tunics and tanned skin, Torin and Bailey were clearly Ardish, folk of the northern riverbank. Would these southern warriors see them as enemies?
Hesitantly, Torin raised a hand and waved. He had seen several Nayans before, traders who sailed reed ships to Fairwool-by-Night, trading furs and herbs for iron tools. But he had never seen their warriors. They seemed even mightier than the Elorian he had fought; muscles rippled across these rainforest dwellers, and their weapons gleamed. They stared, eyes hard, saying nothing.
When their boat sailed on, leaving the Nayans behind, Torin breathed a sigh of relief. Hostilities with Eloria were bad enough; he did not relish violence within Timandra too.
“Still want to wander around those trees, looking for new plants?” Bailey said with a crooked smile.
He nodded. “I still do.”
“Well, too bad, because I’m still not letting you.” She stretched and yawned. “Now take the rudder. I’m going to sleep. And don’t hum as you sail this time!”
He flipped his timepiece again, and they sailed on.
The water clock had drained twelve full days when they finally saw Kingswall in the distance. Torin and Bailey stood upon the prow, watching the city approach.
Torin’s father had come from here, but Torin himself had never seen the city. His eyes widened at the sight, and his breath left his lungs.
“Kingswall,” he said. “Capital of Arden. A bit larger than Fairwool-by-Night, isn’t it, Bailey old beast?”
Walls surrounded the city, topped with dozens of turrets, their bricks pale gray. Guards in plate armor manned the walls, armed with crossbows and spears. Banners fluttered from the towers, sporting black ravens upon golden fields. Behind the walls rose hills covered with houses; their walls were built of wattle and daub like homes at Fairwool-by-Night, but here red tiles covered the roofs rather than thatch. Higher up the hill, Torin saw buildings of brick. Several temples rose here. Some were Idarith temples; their roofs were domed, th
e tips bearing golden semi-circles, symbolizing Timandra. Others temples championed the Sailith Order; they bore steeples topped with full golden circles, calling for sunlit domination of the world.
Steering the boat closer, Torin pointed at the city. “Do you see the palace on the hilltop? The one with all the towers?”
She punched his arm. “Of course I see it. It’s … it’s … well, it’s bloody magnificent.”
Her eyes were wide, her jaw unhinged. Bailey too had spent her life in their village. The largest building there was the Watchtower; it would have disappeared in this city of steeples and domes. The palace alone sported ten towers, their bricks white, their battlements crowned with banners.
“That’s where we’re going,” Torin said, pointing at the castle. “That’s where the king lives. I hope he remembers me.” He sighed. “And I hope Ferius hasn’t caused too much trouble yet. He couldn’t have gotten here too long ago.”
Bailey squeezed his hand. “Look, Torin! Merciful Idar, their port alone is larger than ten Fairwools. Look at the size of those ships!”
They sailed closer, the larger vessels dwarfing the humble Bailey. Ships sailed around them, their masts tall as towers, their sails wide. A hundred more ships swayed at a hundred piers, some only dinghies, others carracks that could hold a thousand men. Upon the docks, dockhands were unloading barrels, boxes, nets full of fish, and even wild animals in cages. Several men were turning a winch, raising a great beast off one ship; the creature was as large as ten horses, its skin gray and wrinkly, and a second tail seemed to grow from its face.
“It’s an elephant,” Bailey whispered and rubbed her eyes. “I saw a drawing of one once, but … dear me, I never knew they were so large.”
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