9780981988238

by Leona Wisoker

  “The hask arranged for you to go through the trials, but it's a farce. He doesn't think you can do it. He intends you to fail. I believe you can succeed.”

  He waited, his shadowed stare fixed intently on her face.

  Alyea stared back, frozen, unable to believe what he had just said. She had to take three potentially fatal trials just to serve as king's proxy at Scratha Fortress? Madness.

  Another piece turned over and connected: a full desert lord had to verify Gria's bloodline. None of the other Families, from the sound of it, would offer such a concession, and Scratha had been banished to the Stone Islands; calling him back could take months.

  Furthermore, Juric's words implied that if Alyea survived the blood trials, she'd be granted more authority on the basis of her gender than Cafad had ever held. The logic of that escaped her, but this wasn't the time to argue southern customs.

  Alyea could name Gria heir to Scratha and annul her slavery. If she survived the blood trials.

  “How long do I have to decide?” she said, barely above a whisper.

  “The hask bid me bring you to him for your first trial,” he said. “But I am a Callen of Comos, follower of the winds. I answer to myself alone, and my trial is always the first to be given. At your request, I can begin your trials. But once begun, you must continue; you cannot change your mind halfway through.”

  She shut her eyes, feeling ill. Events had spun too far from anything she'd expected. Every time she thought she understood, something else knocked her off balance. Juric had said he thought she could do it; did that mean he favored her, or was that a simple assessment without bias either way?

  “I'll do it,” she said at last. “With you to start the trials. Let's get this over with.”

  He lifted a hand and rapped sharply on the side of the carriage. “Then we begin now.”

  * * *

  Chapter Thirteen

  Idisio discovered two things over the next several days. The first, and most obvious, was that he hated sea travel. He hated the constant motion, he hated the enclosed spaces, he hated the fact that he couldn't leave if he wanted to. He hated that if something happened and the monstrous thing sank, he'd be dead because he'd never learned to swim.

  He didn't get seasick, but he couldn't sleep and his appetite vanished. He couldn't decide what felt worse: sitting in the tiny cabin they'd been given and staring at swaying walls or sitting out on deck watching the swaying waves. Shortly after they boarded, Scratha handed him a thin sheaf of blank parchment, a pen and inkwell, and a bound book of children's stories to practice his still-uncertain skills; but the idea of trying to concentrate soon held little appeal.

  He couldn't even vary the monotony by visiting the horses. They'd been left in Sandsplit Village as a “gift” for Yuer. Idisio suspected more politics he didn't understand had been involved in that gesture.

  The second thing he realized was that he missed Riss's company. She'd been very quiet since that first night at the inn. She could be found out on deck in all sorts of weather, just walking or standing by the rail, staring out at the waves Idisio hated so much. She hadn't given Idisio more than a distracted wave and a half-hearted smile since they boarded.

  And Scratha didn't seem inclined to talk either. He spent most of his time brooding: standing at the rail himself, staring south and west. His replies to comments or questions remained curt and mostly uninformative; Idisio gave up trying within a day of leaving Sandlaen port.

  The sailors, on the other hand, talked. In fact, Idisio sometimes thought they never shut up. One in particular, a brawny man with developing streaks of grey in his bright red hair and a thick coating of freckles everywhere else, seemed to always be singing, talking, or laughing. Seasongs, old ribald desert tunes, northern hymns, slave work-songs: the man seemed to know every tune ever penned in the kingdom. The second day out, he sang a verse that made Idisio sit up and stare, unable to believe the man's gall:

  There was a king, a lovely king

  Who loved a lady fair

  He didn't hold her to himself

  But let her spread her wares.

  He grinned at Idisio's shocked stare, and went on to the second verse: And in the town they said of him

  The rot had caught his brain

  The lady fair, that spread her wares,

  Should not be seen again.

  “A little off-key, I think,” the man said, and ambled over to where Idisio sat openmouthed. “At least, by your face.”

  “I can't believe you're singing that,” Idisio said.

  “What, 'The Lay of Dusty Rose'? You've never heard it before?”

  “I've heard of it,” Idisio said carefully. “But it's banned, with an execution order on anyone who sings it.”

  “Oh, if I only sang allowed songs,” the man said, “I'd have nothing fun to sing about.” He turned away and went back to his work, lifting his voice in another verse, one Idisio hadn't heard before:

  The lady she stayed by her king

  (And by all the town as well!)

  And when the time came for her end

  They rang the great king's bell.

  The king he went quite mad with grief

  And screamed out like the crows

  For ten days full he mourned his whore

  Whose name was Dusty Rose.

  “Gods,” Idisio said under his breath. He understood now why the singers he'd heard had never made it past the second verse before being firmly evicted from the area.

  The next four verses became increasingly explicit as they told the story of the sorrowing king's decision to take his lady's name for his own, and his death, shortly after that, from the “rot” that had killed the original Dusty Rose.

  Upon finishing, the sailor turned and bowed in all directions. The others roundly ignored him, although one or two grinned.

  “Ah, talent is never appreciated,” he said, coming to stand beside Idisio. “Red.”

  “Sorry?” Idisio said, startled.

  “Red,” the man repeated. “My nickname. Red. Kinda hard to forget.” He raked a hand through his hair.

  “Oh,” Idisio said. “I'm. . . .” Not for the first time, he wished he had a nickname like that. The only tag he'd carried on the streets had been “Lifty”: not a name to introduce oneself to honest people by. “Idisio,” he finished.

  “It's true, y'know,” the man said unexpectedly.

  “Sorry?”

  “The song. Dressed up a bit, but true at the core. That's why it's banned.”

  Idisio had grown up hearing the gossip and back-door history of Bright Bay, but that notion had never crossed his ears before. “Really?”

  “Really,” Red said with a straight, earnest face, then laughed again. “Don't take it all so serious, Idisio. You worry yourself into an early grave that way.”

  He clapped the boy on the shoulder and sauntered away, whistling. Within a few steps, he'd broken into another song:

  There is a lake, a ghosty lake

  Far to the north it lies

  And they say should a woman draw near

  She gets a big surprise. . . .

  The words faded, drowned out by the creaks and pops of a ship under full sail.

  “He's mad,” a voice said from behind Idisio.

  Turning, Idisio saw another sailor looking at him from a few feet away.

  “Don't pay him no mind. The more attention he gets, the worse he is. You're just a new audience for his nonsense.”

  “I figured,” Idisio said, feeling vaguely disappointed for some reason. “But. . . .”

  “What?”

  “Well . . . is it true? That song?”

  The sailor sighed. “That's the bitch of it. He's at his craziest when he's telling truth.

  Red turned out to be the best part of what became too long a voyage. Scratha stayed moody. Riss continued to ignore him. The other sailors, talkative as chatterbirds with each other, gave Idisio only the briefest of noncommittal nods as they went by. Only
Red displayed openly friendly behavior. Idisio couldn't decide whether to take the man seriously or not, but he was always entertaining. When the sailor worked on deck, Idisio usually tried to find a spot nearby.

  Red only repeated the song about the “ghosty lake” once. It told of a lake to the north of the Great Forest, populated by strange creatures that seduced innocent women and stole any children that came from the union:

  And the king he heard of this

  By his pious advisor's word

  “Evil” they named the lake

  But truer to so name the priest's heart. . . .

  It wasn't a funny song; it didn't have a regular rhythm or rhyme, and it cut closer to the bone than the one about Dusty Rose. The song painted the king as overshadowed by his Northern Church advisors, and a helpless plaything of their malice; Idisio, suspecting the song referred to either Ninnic or Mezarak, had his doubts on that view.

  Red didn't bow for applause afterwards, and Idisio decided against asking for the truth of that song; he didn't want the answer. He stopped following Red around, afraid of hearing more songs like that. He chose instead to spend his time on deck standing at one of the rails, staring out at the passing view.

  To the east, the Kingsea seemed to stretch in an endless sheet of frothed blue and green; to the west rose the Horn. Red sometimes paused beside Idisio, dropping a casual remark or two before moving on again.

  “That bump up there,” he said once, pointing over the starboard rail, “that's a fair-size way-stop. I been through there. Strange people; they've been digging the dirt out from around their houses so long, most of 'em look like they're up on little pillars.”

  “Why would they do that?” Idisio asked, mystified.

  “To build more houses,” Red told him, and wandered away again. Idisio squinted up at the distant ridge Red had pointed to, thought about it, and decided the man had been pulling his leg. Nobody could be that foolish.

  But in a rare moment of conversation with Scratha, his master confirmed the sailor's story.

  “Brickroot grows thickest up there,” Scratha explained. “It's a profitable business and the main Horn industry. Most buildings in the outer desert areas are made of some form of brickroot blocks. I know the waystop he mentioned; they've carved their existing soil down to the underlying rock in places. Stupid, really; there's no replacing the dirt they're selling. They'll have to look for another means of income soon.” Something about that thought prompted Scratha into another brooding fit, and Idisio slunk away without his absence being noticed. Another time, Idisio stood watching a ship passing to port, some distance away, when Red stopped beside him. The sailor squinted and said, “Merchanter. Look, Idisio: see that flag? Pay attention to those colors. That's out of Stass; one of merchant Deiq's ships, carrying sweets and fruit. Man makes a living on it. You ever try suka?”

  “Once or twice,” Idisio said. His mouth watered at the recollection. “What did you have? A stick or a chew?”

  “A stick,” Idisio said. The soft candies had been more expensive, and so harder to steal; he'd never tried, more concerned with survival than sweets.

  Red rummaged in a worn belt pouch and handed Idisio a small, soft candy wrapped in brightly colored paper. “Here. Try one of these.” It tasted even better than Idisio remembered. The soft taffy clung to his teeth, giving him a moment's worry that he'd be scraping it off with a splinter, and then abruptly dissolved into nothing more than a lingering sweetness and a marvelous memory. He rolled his eyes and sighed blissfully. Red grinned and nodded.

  “Thank you,” Idisio said fervently when the last scrap of taffy had melted away. “That was wonderful.”

  “Wish I had more for you,” Red said, “but I got to save a few for my boy.”

  “You have a son?” Idisio said, and tried to think of the usual thing to say next. “Um, how old is he?”

  “I'm not sure,” Red said. He turned to stare south with an expression not unlike Scratha's brooding look. “I just found out about him. Maybe ten, maybe fifteen by now. I don't know. I lost track of the years, somewhere along the way.”

  “Um,” Idisio said, at a loss again.

  “Don't even know for sure he's mine,” Red said, still staring into the distance. “But he's got red hair, and that's not so common in the southlands. Well.” He shook himself, gave Idisio a distracted smile, and moved away.

  They passed by the port of Stass that night. Idisio was disappointed when Scratha told him, the next morning, that he had slept through it; he'd been hoping to stretch his legs on land. Scratha had insisted that they all stay below during the stop in Bright Bay, to avoid being seen–a sensible precaution, and Idisio hadn't argued. But he'd been looking forward to seeing Stass Port, and said as much aloud.

  “You didn't need to wake up,” Scratha said. “I paid the captain extra to provision heavily in Bright Bay so we wouldn't lose time stopping there. We're headed for Agyaer.”

  Idisio still didn't understand his master's driving urgency, unless it was to get off this wobbling monstrosity called a ship. But Scratha still wasn't talking; every hour they traveled further south, the more he drew into his proud, isolated lordly shell. Idisio, seeing the flickering of madness in the man's eyes almost constantly now, prudently withdrew and avoided him as much as possible.

  Riss took to staying in her cabin, coming up less and less frequently for air. Even Red became curt on occasion, although he always apologized immediately and profusely, and went out of his way to make Idisio laugh again. The other sailors went on ignoring everything, doing their work, gathering in clusters to rest, and dispersing to work again.

  Idisio busied himself with reading, writing, and practicing aqeyva meditations. The meditation provided the most relief; he found it possible, even easy, to slip into a trance for hours. Any long stretch of time when he wasn't aware of the ceaseless swaying around him was perfect as far as he was concerned, and soon he spent more time in trance than out of it.

  Even so, the voyage stretched out too long and too lonely. Idisio let out a long breath of deep relief at the cry of “Agyaer!”

  The port city sprawled along the coast for miles before the docks came into view. An imposing slope of rock dwarfed the city, which spread mostly across the broken and erratic skirts of that wall. Caravans, mules and people could be seen trudging up a wide stair cut into the cliff. Looking at that steep path, Idisio had a bad feeling that they'd be climbing it themselves soon.

  Closer to the ship, tiny coast-hopper boats rowed busily back and forth along the shoreline, laden with everything from huge baskets of fruit to bolts of fine cloth. The sounds of singing and laughter drifted across the water, punctuated with drum beats, rhythmic and arrhythmic all at once. Idisio stood at the starboard rail, entranced.

  “Welcome to Agyaer,” Red said, leaning on the rail beside him. His eyes were bright, his expression expectant as a child about to open a gift. “See that, over there? That blue roof? That's where Yhaine lives. I'd almost forgotten about her. Years ago and more than one bottle, as the saying goes. I'll be seeing her soon enough, and my son.” He shook his head, eyes fixed on the distant, barely visible roof until it was lost to sight.

  “How did you find out?” Idisio ventured, not sure what to say. “About your son, I mean?”

  “Ran into an old friend of mine, one I hadn't seen in years,” Red said, craning as if in one last attempt to see the roof. “I've been working Stone Island and Kismo ships out in the Goldensea; more profit to be had, more exciting. But excitement gets old, and so have I. This side of the Horn has nice, easy work, long as you stay on coast runners like this one. I wouldn't go on one that tacks out over the open water of the Kingsea, not me. What was your question?” He looked back to Idisio, his bright blue eyes puzzled. “I'm sorry. I've been losing track of things lately. Can't seem to stop thinking about Yhaine.”

  “You answered it,” Idisio said, trying to smile.

  “Oh, good.” Red smiled vaguely, then his expression sh
arpened. “Idisio—would you . . . d'you think you could go with me?”

  “Ah. . . .” Idisio blinked, taken aback. “Go where?”

  “To see Yhaine,” Red said as if it should have been obvious. “I don't know, I just . . . I haven't seen her in so long.” He turned and looked back at the passing town, brooding again. “You don't have to come to the door with me, just . . . just walk me there. I'm afraid I won't make it all the way to her door if I go alone.”

  “What do you think will happen to you on the way?” Idisio said, utterly confused. What good could a scrawny boy do against something that could overpower a large man like Red?

  “I'm afraid I'll bolt,” Red said starkly, his hands tight on the rail and his gaze straight ahead. “I'm scared, Idisio. You'll remind me of what I'm going for. Just you being there will remind me.”

  Idisio opened his mouth, shut it again, and swallowed. He wasn't sure if he'd just been handed a compliment or called a child.

  “I don't know if I can,” he said. “My master's in a hurry for some reason.”

  “I'll have a word with him,” Red said with sudden determination, and turned on his heel, almost sprinting away before Idisio could say a word to hold him back.