They heard steps outside in the hallway, and D’Jenn came into the room without knocking, his rain soaked cloak dripping onto the bare wooden floor. He paused for a second, looking down at Dormael and Shawna who were clasped in a loose hug of sorts, but he offered no comment as he removed his wet cloak and kneeled next to Bethany’s sleeping form. Sensing that if they went on any longer it may become uncomfortable, Dormael and Shawna released each other and moved closer to the bunk to examine the youngling.
“She appears to be sleeping,” Dormael began, breaking the uncomfortable silence, “I found nothing amiss, and she doesn’t seem to be harmed. It’s the strangest thing I’ve seen.”
“Aye,” D’Jenn replied, his eyes never leaving Bethany, “she’s breathing steady and I cannot sense anything wrong with her. I think that ultimately Bethany had little to do with what happened. I think that the armlet used her as a sort of vessel - a means to accomplish what it wanted.”
“It was my fault,” Dormael sighed, “I should never have told her to listen in.”
“I don’t think so, coz,” D’Jenn said, “I think that it could have happened whether or not Bethany was listening. In the past, the armlet has awakened both when we were using magic and when we were not. The fact that she was touching her magic was harmless enough. The armlet would have used her anyway, if it so wanted. We’ve all had trouble resisting it, if I recall correctly.”
“It protected us,” Shawna commented, bringing both pairs of light Sevenlander eyes to regard her.
“Indeed it did,” D’Jenn mused, rubbing his goatee again.
“Now that I think about it,” Dormael said, “it has never truly tried to harm us. We assumed that the thing was dangerous, and obviously it is, but what I mean is that we assumed it was dangerous to us.”
“Maybe it was only trying to…to…,” Shawna uttered.
“To communicate with us,” D’Jenn finished for her. All three companions fell silent at that, mulling the idea over.
“Perhaps the thing itself is simply benign. Perhaps it is as an axe – a tool that could be used to chop down a tree, or to kill someone,” Dormael said into the silence.
“It obviously has some sort of consciousness though,” D’Jenn argued, “it feels, it communicates. The question is…”
“What does it want?” Shawna finished for him, and D’Jenn nodded in agreement.
“Remember when it tried to communicate with us at that camp just before we made it to Stormcoast? Bethany said something then, she tried to tell us something that we didn’t think about enough, I believe. She said that it was very sad, and that it only wanted to talk. She said that it wasn’t trying to hurt us at all,” Dormael commented.
“Yes, yes…she also said that it was very old,” D’Jenn mused, “Perhaps all it wants is some sort of companionship. If it has been such a long time since the thing has had any communication, and it is obviously an object with some sort of will, perhaps it is simply lonely.”
“Lonely…now that’s a strange notion,” Dormael observed.
“We must think on this awhile. Let’s not jump to any conclusions just yet, or start wearing the damnable thing around. We don’t know yet what it wants or the real extent of what it is capable of. I suspect that the display we saw earlier was only a taste of its power, and I’d not like it very much if it suddenly burnt a crowd to ashes in the middle of the Mistfall Tradefair,” D’Jenn declared.
“Indeed,” agreed Dormael.
“Then for now, we’ll just stick it back in the box. We’ll leave it unshielded though – our shields have proved little better than useless up to now, so I for one don’t see the point,” D’Jenn said.
“Agreed,” Dormael assented.
“Right, then I’m going to go try and help out up on deck. Mikael may need a few more hands now that some of his men are dead, and there are wounded and dead bodies to be cleared away,” D’Jenn stated, and with that he donned his wet cloak once more and strode from the room. Dormael watched him go mutely, and looked down at Bethany once more. Her face was serene, just like a sleeping child with no worries in the world. This child, though, had already seen things that most children her age didn’t even know existed. He felt sorry for the youngling again, and sighed deeply.
“You go on up and help out, I’ll watch her,” Shawna said quietly, laying a hand comfortingly on his arm. Dormael simply nodded and stood achingly, feeling old pains and new ones gained in the fight on deck. “Get that leg seen to again, you’re bleeding on my floor,” Shawna said with a slight air of rough-ended sarcasm, but a little tinge of worry as well. Dormael only nodded and chose not to jibe back at the girl. They had gotten too comfortable earlier, and if he flirted too much with Shawna he may give her ideas, or end up in her bed. Though ending up in her bed didn’t sound too bad to the wizard, he knew that the morning after, and all the days after for that matter, would be very uncomfortable for the both of them, and Dormael simply didn’t have any special feelings for the girl other than friendship. He had to admit though, she was pretty.
Shaking his head, Dormael left Shawna alone with Bethany and limped up the narrow stairs onto the deck.
****
Part II
Betrayals
Chapter Twelve
Seylia Six Strings
Mistfall appeared on the horizon on the forty fifth dawn of their travel. Though it was still a speck just on the bobbing horizon of grey ocean, Dormael had to admit that he felt a sense of relief upon seeing it there. The cries of the man in the crow’s nest above the mast that land had been spotted brought only half-hearted cheers from the men aboard Seacutter, but Dormael couldn’t blame them for their reduced exuberance. Ever since they had left the Galanian ship out in the sea, crippled to the storm and burning, Seacutter had been limping home with better than half her crew dead or wounded. Dormael couldn’t say with any truthfulness that he didn’t feel somehow responsible, somehow guilty for that. Still, the sight of his homeland was a welcome one, and it meant that things were still going somewhat according to plan.
The companions had spent the rest of their journey continuing Bethany’s and Shawna’s lessons, and the sparring matches between Shawna, Dormael and D’Jenn. The lessons had come along quite nicely, however Dormael and D’Jenn had yet to best Shawna in one of their matches. Still, they had gotten better at melee combat, and though Dormael had acquired more than a few new bruises, he was thankful that he had someone as adept as Shawna was to further their education in the art of fighting. The sparring matches had become quite the spectacle to the crew of Seacutter.
They hadn’t found out much about what exactly had happened between Bethany and the armlet on the day of the fight with the galleon. Bethany didn’t know much herself; she said that she had been listening to the battle with her magical senses, and the next thing she knew she was entranced by the armlet. They had known of the artifact’s hypnotic properties before that, so they didn’t dwell on it too much. Dormael and D’Jenn decided to spend more time teaching the girl about her gift to provide her with a better understanding of how to protect herself.
Mistfall was an artificial harbor, and like many things in the Sevenlands it was constructed with the help of magic. There were two giant breakwaters erected in the sea on the eastern and southwestern side of the bay, each with a watchtower erected at the tip of their respective peninsulas. The watchtowers served not only to light the harbor’s location to lost ships at night, but also to house the capstans for the harbor chain that could be pulled taut to block the harbor in times of war. The shape that the breakwaters gave the harbor was the cause for the name that many in the Sevenlands called Mistfall; The Crescent City.
As the Seacutter slipped into the bay, Dormael felt some invisible tension lift from his shoulders. Though he knew that their enemies wouldn’t stop simply because they had escaped to the west, at least he and D’Jenn were home, and he couldn’t help but find a little solace at that thought. It would be that much harder for the G
alanians to move around in the Sevenlands, and Dormael and D’Jenn had friends and family here. Dormael couldn’t keep a light smile from lifting the corners of his mouth.
“What’s on your mind?” Shawna asked, coming up behind his left shoulder. They had allowed the dye to wash out of her hair on the journey, and the sun shone through her reddish-golden locks and gave her face the strange illusion of being surrounded by light. She was wearing her battle leathers and was wrapped in a thick fur cloak to ward off the cold. She stood with her hips cocked to the side, resting one hand on the rail and one hand on the hilt of one of her deadly twin blades.
“What else? I’m home, and that’s always a good feeling. Mistfall…The Crescent City…I’ve spent many days and nights in the alehouses and the Conclave chapterhouse here. It’s not the most impressive or the most beautiful place, but the walls are strong and so is the ale. A man can’t ask for much more than that.”
“Were you born here, then?” Shawna inquired.
“No, I’ve just been through here more than a few times,” Dormael explained, “I was born in the northwestern part of Soirus-Gamerit. My family has a homestead there in the foothills of the mountains that mark the border with Runeme.”
“D’Jenn mentioned that your mother makes firewine,” Shawna commented, gazing at the other ships bobbing in the harbor of Mistfall.
“She does,” D’Jenn cut in, coming up behind the two of them, “his family owns a vineyard. Dormael’s family makes many different things, firewine being the most famous.”
“Where’s Bethany?” Dormael asked, not seeing the youngling with D’Jenn.
“She’s sleeping, and I didn’t want to wake her until we docked.”
“Is Mikael pulling her in at the Conclave’s wharves?” Dormael asked, receiving a nod in answer from D’Jenn and a raised eyebrow in question from Shawna.
“The Conclave maintains a chapterhouse here, as it does in every city in the Sevenlands. It has its own section of the wharves here in Mistfall, and none dock there save on Conclave business. Mikael will receive recompense there for any damages to his ship, and money to make up for the replacement of part of his crew,” D’Jenn explained to Shawna, who gave him an answering nod in return.
“Will we be staying in the chapterhouse?” Shawna asked, and D’Jenn looked inquiringly at Dormael. Dormael inhaled, considering the idea and finally let his breath out in a cloud of quickly dissipating steam. If they decided to stay in the chapterhouse, then they would inevitably have to speak with the head of the chapter, and that would also inevitably lead to questions that none of them wanted to answer. What they were carrying was for the Mekai’s eyes alone.
“I don’t think so. I’ll stop by there and send a message ahead to Ishamael for the Mekai. The rest of you head into the city and find us a decent inn. After this journey we’ll all need a good, hot meal,” Dormael replied. D’Jenn nodded knowingly, and Shawna accepted their judgment without comment.
Seacutter slid into the Conclave’s wharves, bobbing slowly on the calm water inside of Mistfall’s crescent shaped harbor. As the hawsers were tied and the cargo was beginning to be unloaded, the companions all said their goodbyes to Mikael and his men, and directed the captain to the dock office where he could receive his payment for his losses on the journey. Dormael, D’Jenn, and Shawna all checked their saddlebags and horses to make sure everything was in place, and then mounted up.
“Where will you put up for the night, coz?” Dormael asked, sitting slightly uncomfortable in his saddle after their long trip across the sea.
“I think we’ll stop at the Golden Mug, up near the Northern Trade Fair. It’s a comfortable place, and there’s good drink and entertainment to be found there.”
“Ah, the Golden Mug, eh? Weren’t you banned from the place for that bit of trouble with the innkeeper? I seem to remember something about his bed being covered in fish,” Dormael mentioned slyly.
“I was, but it’s under new ownership, and besides, that smelly son of a goat deserved what he got,” D’Jenn answered nonchalantly.
“What’s this?” Shawna inquired curiously.
“D’Jenn here got into an argument with the innkeeper a few years back about the finer points of customer service. D’Jenn got more than a little drunk one night and made a few observations about the taste of the man’s ale,” Dormael began.
“That’s quite enough, coz,” D’Jenn interrupted.
“Really, it’s an inspiring story,” Dormael continued anyway, “you wouldn’t want noble Shawna here to live out the rest of her day without the opportunity to hear it, would you?”
“You’re an ass, Dormael,” D’Jenn shot at him accusingly.
“One does his best,” Dormael bowed mockingly, “Anyway, so the innkeeper heard D’Jenn’s loudly voiced criticism and sent a few hard looking men to throw him out. Little did he realize that he was dealing with a wizard, and so D’Jenn made it painfully obvious to the man what he thought his brew tasted like.”
“By covering his bed in fish?” Shawna asked, with one eyebrow raised in an expression of incredulity.
“Not just his bed, dear,” Dormael explained, “also every ale barrel in the inn, which effectively ruined his stock for the next few days. I think there was quite a bit of seawater involved as well. It was an artful way to make your point, if I do say so myself.”
“It wasn’t the most dignified night of my life,” D’Jenn admitted with a sheepish grin on his face.
“Indeed it wasn’t,” Dormael agreed with a smirk of his own.
“Can we move on from this?” D’Jenn spat.
“Absolutely, I’ll go on up to the chapterhouse and send a quick message to Ishamael. I’ll meet you over at the Mug. Get me some cold ale, would you?” Dormael asked.
“Sure,” Shawna nodded.
“And D’Jenn?”
“Yes, cousin?”
“No fish in mine, please.”
****
Maarkov leaned patiently against the wall in the corner of the dark, smoky room. He watched the man, a sea captain of the Galanian Navy, blather on and on about magic and storms and “unforeseen difficulties”. It was making him sick. The whole thing was making him sick, that he should be called north from his amusements in Shundov to this swampy backwater camp to oversee the chase of some orphaned noblewoman and a pair of miscreant magicians. Damn Dargorin, and damn the entire breadth of the Empire for all he could give two shakes of his member. The whole thing could burn and he would shed not two tears for the stinking cesspool.
This room, this hole, was nondescript, as it had been prepared in a hurry to accommodate him and his brother. The boards were brown and there was naught but one rug upon the floor, the simple desk that dominated the room, and two chairs, one behind the desk, and one in front where the red-faced sea captain now sat sweating into his shirt. Maarkov chewed on the heavy pipe stem in his mouth, savoring the essence of the tobacco he was inhaling. That was the only pleasure that he could find in this rat-hole.
His brother Maaz, the stinking necromancer, huddled deep in his hood behind the cheap writing desk. Damn him too, with his dead eyes and dry voice, and his incessant thirst for power. It was he that had gotten the both of them into this, he that had damned his own flesh and blood to a life of misery and pain and tastelessness. It was he who had killed them both, so long ago. One day Maarkov would pay him back for it all. One day he would make all of them pay, and Dargorin especially. He had a special place in his blackened heart for the Emperor of Galania.
“You don’t understand!” the sailor was sputtering with a furious but pleading tone, “they opened the very heavens upon me! The skies themselves opened up and spewed fire to consume my ship! They summoned a storm to harry us and killed my men with lightning! How was I to combat something like that?”
“I am well aware of the abilities of wizards, dear captain,” Maaz rasped at him like some sort of serpent trying to charm a victim, “I have quite a personal understanding of the ma
tter, you see.” The sea captain shuddered involuntarily at that, but Maaz either pretended not to notice, or just didn’t care. His brother was used to people being taken aback and revolted by him. Sometimes he even gave Maarkov the creeps, he had to admit. As much as he hated his brother, he still held a slight bit of fear of him sometimes.
“Then you see that there wasn’t much that I could do,” the sailor asserted, wiping the sweat from his balding pate.
“Yes,” Maaz almost purred, a sound like leather sliding over grass.
“Then I am free to return to my ship?”
“Absolutely, there is just one more piece of business that must be seen to.” That was Maarkov’s cue. Before the man could register that he was in danger, Maarkov rose from where he’d been lounging against the back wall, drew his dagger and promptly shoved it through the man’s throat.
Blood spattered against Maarkov’s leather armor and over his face, but he gave no shudder nor did he shrink from the sight of it. Blood was just blood, and Maarkov had seen enough of it to fill an ocean. The sea captain’s hands grabbed at Maarkov’s knife hand and clenched with his draining strength, but Maarkov was solid as stone. Finally, after the last bit of bloody froth spluttered from the captain’s mouth, he fell limply to the floor, and Maarkov cleaned his dagger on the man’s shirt. His brother’s dark, chuckling laughter floated to his ears and Maarkov couldn’t help but be revolted by the sound of it.
The Sentient Fire (The Seven Signs) Page 36