She almost chuckled darkly as she imagined what Wissa would have done to the reeve.
No worse than you did, Sayri, she reminded herself coldly. The laugh stopped before it started.
She was a murderess too—best not forget that. She had taken that blade and walked over to the reeve, and she had killed him. Without thought, without conscience, and without remorse. Especially without remorse—even now when she remembered the reeve, she thought of him with only fear and fury. Even now when she thought of what she had done, she only felt a morbid satisfaction, a dark relief. She did not feel any guilt. That made her less than human, somehow—she was, or had been in that instant at least, no more than animal. Just like the boxcat on that summer afternoon, so long ago, as it took down a desperate, wailing swamp boar.
A killer.
She thought of going over to Wissa and telling her about the reeve, then decided against it. The girl had sworn to protect her; how would she feel knowing what horror Sayri had already faced? It would serve no purpose. No; let Wissa see her as clean and pure; innocent. Let Wissa believe that she was saving Sayri from the nightmares of the world.
She need not know that Sayri had already lived through one, and had, in her own way—for just a moment—become one.
・
The Master had rarely spoken to either Sayri or Wissa since departure, seeking to keep his distance as much as his men did, but on the fifth day he approached them as Sayri took supper in the galley, Wissa quietly at her side. It was a small room, long and thin, with a single table lined by benches. Perhaps a dozen men could sit shoulder to shoulder, but Sayri had never seen more than half that many. She imagined the rest were on duty or sleeping; a sailor’s life seemed to be filled with duty and offered little relaxation time. That said, she often saw men on deck lounging about socializing or even catching catnaps, and the Master never seemed to mind. Perhaps it was the way of things on a ship; never off duty, but never working particularly hard.
On this day there were four men eating when she and Wissa came in; most finished their meals in silence, listening to the groaning of the ship around them, and left soon after. The Master and another sailor often seen on deck with him—Sayri thought perhaps he was the first mate—remained behind. The other man was no larger than the Master was, making her wonder if he preferred that his subordinate officers not stand taller than he did. If so, it would limit the advancement opportunities for most of the men.
The Master cleared his throat gently, then spoke softly to neither of them in particular, but obviously in their direction. “I must warn you, young ladies, that this area of the sea we are now entering is heavily patrolled by Somrian ships.”
Sayri wasn’t sure what to make of the statement—wasn’t the entire sea controlled by Somria now? That was what she had understood, but the nuances of naval war were beyond her understanding.
Wissa seemed less confused, however. “And if they were to come upon us, Master, what would they be inclined to do?” she asked, matching his easy tone, and speaking in that careful, deliberate manner in which she had when first meeting him, obviously concealing her heavy accent.
The Master did not hesitate. “If they catch us, Collector, they will attack,” he said gravely.
“And how likely are they to catch us, Master?” Wissa quickly demanded.
“That,” he said, taking a breath, “depends on the ships. We are a fleet vessel; only scouts and corvettes will have the speed to engage us. However,” he went on, drumming his fingers on the table until a glare from Wissa stopped him, “most of the ships we meet will probably be of that type. And they will likely be in groups,” he added.
Wissa glared at him. “You describe a situation whereby we will most likely be attacked and boarded,” she said accusingly.
The Master was clearly not comfortable upsetting a Collector, least of all Wissa, but he shrugged nervously and went on. “I can’t see any point in misleading you, Collector.”
“I understand, Master. I appreciate your honestly. Please order your men to lower our colours and raise a white flag in its place.”
The Master stared at her, dismay and shock evident on his face. “That’s the signal for a surrender!” he cried, his voice rising involuntarily. “You intend to give up the ship to the first Somrian vessel we come across??”
“Lower your voice, Master, or you will upset my aide,” Wissa said, nodding in Sayri’s direction. In fact, Sayri was nearly as upset by the idea of surrender as the Master was—she couldn’t let the Somrians stop her from reaching Arad! But she remained silent; she felt that Wissa hadn’t revealed the entirety of her intent.
“I apologize, Collector,” the Master gulped, no doubt recalling the tight grip with which Sayri had clutched his throat through the Link. “But surely you do not mean to surrender this vessel.”
“My intentions are my own, Master, and not yours to question,” Wissa replied coldly. She was, Sayri realized, becoming quite adept in acting the part of a Collector; even Sayri herself found her intimidating and mysterious, despite being aware that she was not truly a Collector. “But to ease your mind, we will not be giving up this ship. The white flag will serve to prevent attacks upon this ship. The rest,” she concluded, her eyes glittering with intrigue, “I will handle.”
At that, Wissa stood to leave, and Sayri followed quickly behind, acting precisely the part of a handmaiden. Though Wissa followed her every other time, in that moment there was no doubt as to who was the leader. In that moment, Wissa was nothing less than a Collector.
The enemy ships were sighted two days later, at dawn. They had probably been close enough to see well before, but had been missed in the darkness. When the cry went out, they were clearly visible, and already heading on an intercept course. There were three of them, all about the same size as their vessel.
The Master called out for full sail and a course to flee, but Wissa strode to him and ordered him to take down sail and turn to face the enemy. The Master didn’t glare at her, but his face was clouded as he bowed to obey.
It didn’t take them long to close and come about; shortly thereafter, two were alongside, their yellow Somrian flags prominent atop their masts. They did not come in contact with their ship, however, but held within shouting distance.
“Identify ya vessel!” came a shout from the starboard ship. Sayri could see the man who called out; he was lean and dark-haired, and solid like Arad. All the men aboard that ship had dark hair.
“We are the Lady’s Challenge, out of Promotory, in the Lords’ Lands,” the Master returned, glancing at Wissa, who stood within speaking distance of him.
“Why ya fly white?” the other Master called back. “Are ya surrender na vessel to tha authority na Somria?”
“No,” their Master replied. He looked down at Wissa again, frowning, then called back, “We are carrying a Collector on neutral business!”
“A Collector?”
“Aye, a Collector,” the Master confirmed.
Wissa turned to Sayri, who stood at her elbow. “Can you . . . touch him from here?”
“No,” Sayri said. “He’s too far.”
Wissa nodded. “Master,” she said, her voice as cold as ever, “inform the commander of that vessel that I will go aboard.”
The Master called back Wissa’s message, then ordered a boat lowered, and a sailor aboard. “Are you sure about this, Collector?” he asked tentatively. “If they take you prisoner, there is nothing I can do.”
Wissa ignored him. “Come,” she said to Sayri, climbing over the rail. The ship was low enough that she didn’t really need to climb down; she could reach the boat with her foot, and stepped carefully into it. Sayri followed obediently.
As they were rowed across, Wissa spoke quietly to her, low enough that even the oarsman likely couldn’t hear. “Can you still the wind?” she asked, her voice calm. “Or blot out the sun?”
Sayri’s heart was, in contrast to Wissa’s cool exterior, racing like a wild horse. �
�No,” she answered in a hush, strained voice, wishing she could be as calm as the taller girl.
Wissa looked at her. Her expression was of concern; Sayri realized that it was for her. “I need to know if you can help,” Wissa said. “I’m not sure if I can bluff them, and killing them all might be impossible. Besides, there are two other ships,” she added.
Killing them all . . ? Sayri stared at her. That she could even have said such a thing astounded her. Could Wissa truly be that deadly?
“Sayri,” Wissa urged softly.
“I—” Sayri tapped her teeth together, thinking. “I could blind him,” she suggested. “Just for a moment.”
“Good enough,” Wissa said resolutely, facing the other ship again. They were pulling up to it.
The rail was slightly higher; Wissa hooked a foot in a rope near the waterline, and climbed over. Sayri followed suit.
“True, a Collector. Well, is na that s’ unusual,” the ship’s Master said, standing on the deck before them a few paces away. He was tall, Sayri saw now; she had judged him Arad’s size, but he was much larger. His massive shoulders and long arms had made him seem short. She swallowed nervously; he had a collection of mean-looking warders behind him, all armed.
“Yes, it is,” Wissa said. “Now you know, and you will allow us to leave in peace.” She sniffed softly, looking down her nose at them as a sprinter might at old meat.
“You are ma prisoner,” the Master said, chuckling. His voice was thick and heady. “You should fetch na healthy ransom. Take them below,” he commanded his men. As they moved forward, he added, “feel free ta indulge ya fancies with na girl. Leave na Collector unspoiled.”
Sayri’s stomach lurched. No . . . Not a victim! She prepared to call on the Link.
“You do not understand what a Collector is, I see,” Wissa replied icily. She had not even flinched as the men approached; Sayri wondered how close she would allow them to get. “I imagine plotting your course home will prove a task without your eyes.”
Her heart pounding, Sayri recognized her cue. Blind him, she said to the Link.
The world stopped, her heart with it.
That person is not protected by wise means, she thought. You may be held responsible for damages. Are you sure you want to do this?
Just block his vision, she answered. Don’t damage his eyes.
Motion restarted. The Master cried out suddenly, clapping his hands to his eyes. “Kill na witch!” he bellowed, thrusting his hand in their direction.
The warders drew steel and advanced quickly on Wissa, who glanced at Sayri then faced them calmly. She pointed a finger at the first and said in voice like death, “Kneel.”
Sayri was flustered, but she gathered in the Link and tapped the backs of his knees, gently. They buckled, and he dropped to the deck, his eyes wide.
The other warders paused. Wissa glared at them, then deliberately removed a short, curved dagger from within her robes, testing its edge on her palm. “I may next separate your heads from your shoulders.” Her countenance was ferocious; even Sayri was unnerved. The men took a step back. “I will allow you to watch while I tear apart your men,” she told the Master. Sayri released the veil from his eyes.
The Master blinked, his hands coming slowly from his eyes, a mixture of fear and astonishment displayed on his face. “Hold,” he ordered. The men had already stepped back; at his word, they took another away from Wissa, lowering their swords eagerly.
Wissa gazed at the Master dully, her eyes showing only impatience. “Are you quite done?” she asked him.
The Master ran both hands down his face, stretching his cheeks until red pockets showed beneath his eyes. When he released them, his eyes remained red and shone with tears. “Are—are many like you in na Lords’ Lands?” he asked, trepidation clear in his tone.
“You need not worry, Master,” Wissa replied quietly. “We have no interest in your little war. We are bound for the island with the volcano. Is it close?”
“I—yes,” the Master said quietly. “Just na few days southeast.”
“Then we shall take our leave. Be assured that our vessel will take no action against your fleet until after returning to dock. And do not think to attack us once we are distant—if I am forced to blind you from a distance, I will not be inclined to reverse the effect.” She turned to leave; Sayri followed, but not before noting the blood drain from the Master’s face.
The Somrian ships did not follow once they resumed their course, but sailed west in a group. Sayri did not believe they would simply let the ship go; perhaps they would keep their distance until confident that the Collector had been dropped off, although Wissa had not explicitly said they would disembark.
She hoped they would leave them alone and heed Wissa’s bluff. She also hoped that on their return voyage Arad would be with them, and could send them away.
Her attention turned back to the island. Only a few days, then.
・ ・
The sun was low in the western sky, a blazing inferno the colour of blood, when they sighted the island.
Sayri had previously spoken to the Master, inquiring of the volcano. The conversation had been somewhat bizarre, with the presence of Wissa hovering imperiously nearby preventing the Master from dismissing her, as he no doubt wished he could.
“Master, I need to speak with you regarding our destination,” Sayri had said, approaching him where he stood atop the aft castle, a few strides from the sailor who held the steering board.
The Master had frowned at her, showing no more desire to speak to her than the crew, but had nodded politely nonetheless. “How can I help you, young lady?”
“It is not just any of the southern islands we must needs reach, Master,” Sayri had said carefully. “But a special island. This one has a tall mountain that spits fire.”
The Master had taken a deep breath, glanced over at Wissa, then replied, “In truth, young lady, that story’s no substance to it. No island of such exists. It’s a legend,” he had advised.
Sayri had shook her head. “No, Master, I realized you have heard otherwise,” she had said, speaking concisely, “but I have learned in Somria that there is truth to the rumour. There is an island with a volcano—a smoking mountain—and we must go there.”
A patronizing smile had threatened to emerge on the Master’s face then, but he had suppressed it, replacing it with a serious mask of feigned interest. “Young lady,” he had gone on, speaking slowly as if to a person of questionable intelligence, “I understand there are a number of very convincing stories in the old country of Somria, and I have no doubt there are many regarding this mountain of fire. But I assure you, I have sailed these seas for many years, before there was any danger from Somria warships—and I have never seen such an island. I surely would have,” he had added authoritatively, though he had glanced again in Wissa’s direction to be certain she was not approaching.
“I am not speaking of myths and legends, Master, but of eyewitness account,” Sayri had replied, losing patience. Then, when he had opened his mouth to object, she had said, “Regardless of your beliefs, this is the island we seek. I am told it is a short journey east of the largest island. You will set sail for that vicinity as we approach the chain.”
The Master had bowed politely, and said no more.
Not long after, a great cloud of smoke appeared in the southeast. Some time later they discovered its source; a black mountain that rose from the emerald waves. She glanced back from the bow in the Master’s direction. From his place at the stern, he bowed silently and deeply to her, held it for a long moment, then raised his eyes again with a regretful expression. Sayri nodded to him, a quick dismissal, and turned forward again. That’ll teach you to question a girl from the Lower Valley, she thought fiercely, then laughed out loud at herself. She was acting like a stubborn child. She turned back to the Master, smiling, and gave him a light-hearted shrug. He returned the smile and bowed his head again, this time in appreciation.
Yet,
she had doubted. She had not truly questioned Ooji Elder, but how could such a mad place actually exist? Here it was, though, presented before her. Sailors stood at the rails astonished; no doubt they too had heard the legends, but had never believed them true. It was as if they were sailing out of the real world and into a storybook, where the laws she had learned growing up no longer existed, and anything could happen.
She hoped it were true. She could find Arad, stop the fighting, and they could go home and live out their lives in peace and happiness.
In a storybook, anything could happen.
Wissa came up beside here. “The mountain is smoking,” Sayri said, her eyes on the distant dark triangle and the plume trailing from its peak. “Will it spit fire? Will we be in danger of being incinerated?” She knew that Wissa could have no idea, of course, having only recently accepted that the volcano could be real. Sayri, however, was more concerned for Arad than herself.
“Is na th’ mountain,” Wissa replied. She pointed. “See how th’ smoke is running up ‘is sides? The fires are in th’ forest surrounding it. It must b’ from th’ battle.”
“How will I find Arad?” Sayri lamented. “In all that smoke, and men fighting everywhere? It’s seems impossible.”
“Y’ will.”
She turned; Wissa was staring at her. Her eyes were full of confidence—no; more than confidence. That look, Sayri had only ever seen once; in the eyes of the Proselyte when he spoke of the Great Link. It was a look of zeal. Wissa had such utter faith in Sayri that she could not imagine failure—or, perhaps, she could not stand to imagine it.
Sayri hoped she could prove worthy of that faith; she herself had little. Only that Arad was there, and she must find him. And somehow, the Link could help her do just that, if only she could grasp how.
45 CONCENTRICITY
The smoke was burning his eyes, but Gallord-Smit didn’t rub them. He didn’t want to blink and miss their opportunity, so he allowed the tears to build up and run down his cheeks, wetting the cloth he wore covering his mouth and nose. He glanced quickly right and left, seeing all his men poised to fire on his word. All were focused on the thick bank of swirling smoke gathered in the clearing before them.
Sayri's Whisper: The Great Link Book 1 Page 55