On the Wheel

by Timandra Whitecastle

  Diaz cleared his throat. “In Nessa they cling to the remains of an ancient way of life. It is a shadow of its former glory and beauty, nothing more than a husk.”

  Owen grunted. “Plus blood witches and mermaids. That has to count for something, right?”

  “Yes.”

  The others came up and squinted against the sunlight, finally out of the woodlands that skirted the cliffs of the two oceans on either side of the Suthron Pass. Standing on top of the crest of a high ridge, they paused in the sun and looked down.

  Below, a winding path down the cliffs to the turquoise Nessan Ocean led to a wide sea-lake, forded on each side by the rise of rock walls. Just visible from their high vantage point, fishing boats sailed the shimmering water, while the stone houses of the fishermen clung to the cliffs like barnacles. On a spit of land that split the sea-lake from the ocean, some ancient legion of the Kandarin Empire had built a small fortress. Inside it, they had raised a high wrought-iron basket that had once held the fire of a beacon, a chain of lights that stretched over the gap of ocean to Woodston and from there to the Temple of the Wind and into the northern realm of Moran. But that was long ago. Who now remembered such things? Diaz thought. Who recalled the connections, and ways of bridging the gaps between people? He looked down, searching for imperial soldiers, reflections from spear blades, horsemen riding in patrols across the sand. But there was nothing of threat to be seen. A sleepy fishing village, that was all. Mor Hafren, its name—if he remembered correctly. Black Harbor. He glanced eastward toward the ocean proper, toward the enchanted island of Nessa. Huge and glittering lay the ocean.

  On his signal, the small company made their way downhill to catch a ferry across the wide sea-lake and reach Woodston before evening fell.

  * * *

  Bashan found the boat. Along the stone pier of the harbor, those fishermen who had not sailed onto the sea-lake on the morning tide were mending their nets, caulking their boats, shooing away the omnipresent cats, salting their wares on the decks, or hawking their night’s catch. A smell of grilled fish permeating the salty air, the cries of the vendors at the market a confusion of noise.

  “That one,” Bashan said.

  He pointed at a boat, not in the water, but perched high and dry, its keel supported by rollers and wooden poles. The boat looked beautiful. She had been scraped clean and her elegant lines accentuated by the contrast between the new layer of wood and the black pitch caulking. She had a high prow—crowned, as all these boats were, with the double-headed horse to ward off wicked sea sprites—and a deep hull, and looked more seaworthy than most of the small fishing boats surrounding her. Diaz frowned. Her mast rested on trestles beside the stranded hull.

  “Merlin, she’s called,” a man said without any greeting. He stepped around from the other side of the boat, deeply suntanned and dressed in a light jerkin that was stained with pitch.

  “Like the fish?” Bashan smiled.

  “Like the bird,” the boat’s captain, said, stooping to throw some logs on a fire that burned under a bubbling pot of pitch. “You’ll be wanting her to ferry you, then?”

  “To Woodston,” Bashan told him. “There are six of us. You will take no other passengers along with us, and we will be generous.”

  The man cocked his head and squinted. “How generous?”

  Out of thin air, Bashan conjured a gold coin and made it walk on his knuckles. The likeness of his father, the emperor, was etched on one side. An old coin. The new ones carried the resemblance of the Empress Vashti, Bashan’s half sister. The man grunted.

  “Tomorrow, this time,” was all he said.

  “Not till then?” Bashan’s face fell.

  “I can’t launch her prop’ly till high water, and that’ll be tomorrow morning, and by the time I get her mast shipped and the sail bent on and the steerboard shipped, the tide’ll be ebbed again.”

  “Can’t you hurry up a little?”

  “I have no power over the tides, Lord. But perhaps you could pray for a miracle at Neeze’s Shrine,” the captain spat as the fishermen overhearing their conversation chuckled.

  Bashan jerked his head back, his lips pressed tightly together at the perceived insult. Then he forced a grin and bowed low.

  “Then I shall do that,” he said with an edge and motioned for Garreth to follow him. They both elbowed their way through the crowd of market-goers in the direction of the small stone shrine at the end of the pier.

  “Guess that means we have the afternoon off,” Nora said, eyeing the stalls. She patted a small pouch on her hip. It clinked with coin.

  “You shouldn’t go alone,” Diaz told her. “It will be frowned upon.”

  She rolled her eyes.

  “There’s an inn called the Sea Horse,” Diaz continued, pretending not to have seen her do it. “I shall acquire lodgings for us there.”

  “I’ll go with you,” Owen said. “Ow.”

  Nora had kicked at his ankle and jerked her head to make him go with her. Owen frowned and his fingers tapped on his bag. “I need to rewrap my books if we go on a boat. I don’t want the pages to get wet.”

  Nora groaned.

  “I’ll go with you, then,” Shade offered, and her face brightened.

  Diaz opened his mouth to forbid it but stopped himself. A strong desire to hold Nora back, to keep her at his side rose within him, but he swallowed it down. There was no reason the two of them shouldn’t go together. Nora was capable enough to protect herself, and with Shade… He gritted his teeth, letting the two of them pass before him while Owen remained at his side.

  “Master Diaz.” Owen readjusted the strap of his heavy book bag. “May I ask you a question?”

  “You may.”

  “Have you ever thought of…taking the Blade for yourself?”

  Diaz rolled his shoulders, relieving a little of the tension there, as they pushed through the crowd toward the inn.

  “It has crossed my mind once or twice,” he finally admitted.

  “Your mind or Suranna’s?” Owen’s eyes widened as Diaz sucked in his breath sharply. “I’m sorry. I didn’t—”

  “My mind.” Diaz frowned. “Though I’m sure it has occurred to the queen that I may be a suitable wielder. However, through Prince Bashan she could rule over the entire Kandarin Empire in secret. I, on the other hand, would be but a tool, forcing her to play her hand openly.”

  “Then why not take it and foil her plans?”

  Diaz stopped and gazed at Owen for a long time.

  “Are you offering yourself to me instead of to Bashan?”

  Owen’s lips pressed tighter together, and he walked on in silence for a few paces.

  “I’m testing my options,” Owen said. “I need to know…Nora needs to be safe from Bashan when I’m not there. Would you give me your word?”

  “I would,” Diaz answered immediately.

  Owen gave him a sly look. “Why?”

  Diaz’s eyes settled on a young woman with long dark hair. She was standing at the pier, utterly still in the bustle of the crowd around her, still but for the breeze tugging at the sleeves of her shirt, flapping the ends of her long skirt against her legs. Her young man caressed her cheek, and she nestled her face in his hand. Giving and receiving. Freely.

  She looked nothing like Nora, Diaz decided. Not one bit. His throat went dry, but he couldn’t tear his gaze away from their gentle kiss.

  “What else could I do?” Diaz didn’t turn to face Owen. “There are but few people who would talk to me, who don’t interrupt their conversation when I pass by or make the warding sign when I approach. Nearly all of them are in earshot. There are even some who tell me to my face to fuck off, instead of throwing stones or curses at me behind my back. That’s…refreshing, in a way.”

  “Though it took some getting used to, I guess?” A knowing smile hid in the corners of Owen’s mouth.

  “If you count me honorable enough to want my word, then I am more than honored to give it to you, Owen Smith.” Tho
ugh it was more than he deserved, Diaz added in his mind, rubbing over the scar tissue on the back of his hand.

  * * *

  The front door of the inn blew open with a bang. All eyes in the common room swiveled to stare at the huge frame silhouetted against the darkness of the night beyond. Garreth’s bulk dripped onto the wooden floorboards as he strode over to the table where Diaz sat with the three youths—Nora and Shade’s playing cards sweeping over the table in the brisk gust of wind that rolled in before Garreth, Owen securing knots around his parcel of otter furs and hidden books.

  “Come on,” the old warrior announced as he reached their table. “Time to go.”

  Nora and Shade exchanged a look.

  “Now?” Owen said. “The tide isn’t high enough for—”

  “Look, if I say it’s time to go, it’s time to go now.”

  Diaz closed his eyes and sighed. When he opened them, he saw that none of the youths had moved at Garreth’s behest. They were waiting for him, for Diaz’s final word. The thought lit a small fire in his stomach. Maybe not all was in vain. Maybe there was a way he could still be a guide to Bashan and these young ones. Unfortunately, the elated feeling didn’t last long, replaced by a niggling doubt that Garreth was here with good news.

  “It seems we are leaving ahead of time,” Diaz said, aware of the youths’ attention, but especially Nora’s. “Grab your things.”

  “Where are we going?” Owen wanted to know as they stepped out into the autumn night, the scent of woodsmoke overpowering the smell of fish.

  “The docks,” Garreth rumbled, picking a way through the nightly bustle of the pier crowd, all looking for entertainment, dead eyes like yesterday’s catch.

  “Bashan found someone who will ferry us over at night? Despite the tide being out?” Diaz asked warily. He remembered Bashan’s exchange with the captain of the beautiful boat. His suspicion was corroborated by the sharp tones that swept like an undercurrent through the raucous din of the evening crowd. They fell like a gull’s cry, dissonant and harsh on the ears.

  “Tide’s not out anymore. It’s rising. But, er…sommat like that, yeah.” Garreth looked back to make sure they were following him. His eyes roved over the men around them, sailors and fishermen, more and more of them turning their interest away from the easy women and taverns with cheap ale lining the pier, and to the dry dock where the boat had rested earlier.

  “Please tell me the prince didn’t steal the boat,” Diaz said in an undertone.

  “All right. I’ll tell you he didn’t.” The old man grinned, and his blind white eye reflected the silver light of the full moon. “I’ll tell you he paid some of the drunk folk to do it for him.”

  A cheer went up at that moment. Then a splash drowned it out. Diaz pushed past Garreth’s bulky frame, moving through the buzzing crowd into the unwholesome smell of tang and sea rot. At first he saw little on the water but the forest of masts nestled along the quay. Then he saw the beautiful boat, picked out in silver by a tear in the clouds overhead, a lone figure on the deck, waving at him. Diaz jumped down from the pier onto the quay and ran along the stones to stand even with the drifting boat. He elbowed his way through the mindlessly cheering group of young men, ears straining for the angry shout of the captain, which would doubtlessly pierce their fun soon.

  “What are you doing?” he called out.

  “Come on,” Bashan laughed. “The water’s just fine.”

  “Are you drunk?”

  The boat was already a way out. The water was black beneath him. Still, the prince expected Diaz to jump in and swim toward him. He gnashed his teeth, keeping back the curses.

  “Get out here!” Bashan waved again.

  “Oh, for fuck’s sake,” Nora said quietly, appearing by his side, her charcoal clothes blending with the night, leaving only her face and hands visible. “He didn’t really, did he?”

  Once more, the moon broke free from a cloud, lighting the ocean swell with phosphorescent green. This did not seem to hinder Garreth, who dived into the darkness below without a moment’s hesitation.

  “He doesn’t mean for us…? I mean, it’s a long way out,” Shade said, pale in the moonlight. “A long, looong way.”

  “You can’t swim?” Nora scoffed. “You seemed to do fine in the cistern.”

  What cistern? Diaz was confused.

  Shade shrugged. “Not any place else to practice in the desert. Open sea, though? That’s different.”

  “Just as deep.” Nora grimaced. She tugged off her shoes.

  “But…my books’ll get wet.” Owen turned to Diaz as though he had an answer to this plight. He didn’t, but he offered a solution anyway.

  “Hold them high over your head when you jump in.” Diaz demonstrated with his swords, leaping from the quay despite his better judgment. What am I doing? he thought, seething. There must be another way to be free of this. Of course, he could tell himself he merely wanted to give Bashan a piece of his mind without bellowing for all to hear. But could he believe it, too?

  The water was cold but still held some of summer’s warmth. It drowned out the noise of the crowd, leaving only the thunder of his heart. Diaz broke through the surface, one hand high in the air holding his swords, the other making long strokes through the waves.

  “Your books?” He heard Nora’s scathing voice over the water. “Owen. How can that be your priority in this situation?”

  “One of them is the book you gifted to me. It’s the only thing I have left of the Ridge.”

  Another splash. Owen. His squeals and gasps betrayed him.

  “I hate him so much right now,” Diaz heard Nora say.

  “The Lord Prince?” Shade asked.

  “Him too.” Another splash followed.

  Diaz looked over his shoulder. Both Nora and Owen struck out for the boat, Nora catching up with her twin, who floundered a bit, one arm holding his tightly wrapped bundle high. Shade stood alone on the stone quay, dithering.

  “Shade, come on!” Garreth bellowed.

  Diaz looked back to the boat. It didn’t even have a mast. What was Bashan thinking?

  Garreth pulled himself up and stood at the prow, hands cupped to his mouth.

  “Shade!”

  In the end, it was the sharp cry of the boat’s captain that made Shade hastily jump into the dark brine. A commotion started on the pier as a group of angry-looking men shoved past the bystanders, spearheaded by the darkly tanned man, still wearing his pitch-stained shirt, pointing in their direction. As Diaz pulled himself onto the low deck, arms trembling slightly, he saw the receding figure of the man raise his fist in the air, shouting words that the water would not carry to them. It was only later—maybe too late—that he realized the man’s tone hadn’t only held anger, but also a warning.

  Chapter 3

  The Merlin was a slender boat, fitted to sit ten people as rowing passengers, or fewer rowers but many crates and boxes of cargo. Nora overtook Owen and swam the last few meters toward the dark hull with burning arms, watching as Diaz threw his bundle with his swords over the side and hoisted himself over gracefully. He started moving toward Bashan, who sat, tiller in hand, grinning like a child about to be served cake.

  “You stole the boat?” Diaz’s voice was rough, the jagged edges more pronounced than usual.

  Nora’s heart fluttered. Diaz’s voice betrayed his emotions, and he was angry. Good. She swam alongside the boat and reached up to grasp the side. It was dry with salt, and she slipped back into the black water, cursing softly.

  “I borrowed the boat,” Bashan explained. “I left the fisherman a gold piece where his boat stood. And when we’re on the other side, in Woodston, I’ll have someone take it back to him. In effect, I paid a lot more than I would have.”

  “You stole the boat,” Diaz repeated. He then straightened as though remembering something, backed up, and stretched out a hand to Nora. She ignored it and scrabbled on board without his fucking help, thank you very much, groaning at the effort but b
iting her tongue. “And you took it without the mast?” Diaz asked. “Can you even sail? Can anyone of us?”

  “Garreth’s worked on a boat before.”

  Diaz turned his stare on Garreth, who was wrapped in a large fur, wriggling out of his wet trousers.

  “That I have,” the old warrior admitted over his shoulder, buttocks white and sagging like the moon.

  “And? What about currents and tidal changes? Do you know about them? And sandbanks?” Diaz’s eyebrows rose higher as he spoke. He turned back to Bashan. “How do you expect us to ever reach Woodston in one piece?”

  “The boat’s got oars, Telen,” Bashan huffed. He turned his face into the wind from the open ocean, and his black hair whipped across his face. “We don’t need to know how to sail, or even need a mast. It’s two, maybe three miles across the sea to Woodston. We’ll row.”

  “Two or three miles? In the dark?”

  Nora chuckled. Someone else was being reckless for once.

  Bashan turned back to grace Diaz with a scowl. He pointed past the boat’s prow. In the dark night, tiny orange specks of light gleamed on the opposite shore, lights still on in the streets and houses of Woodston.

  “We know where we’re heading. Woodston’s right there. And we’ll be there in a few hours. Tomorrow we’ll have a full day’s rest in clean beds before we carry on to the Temple of the Wind. How does that sound?”

  From the corner of her eye, Nora saw Diaz’s jawline tense. He raised his fists as though he’d march over to the tiller and punch Bashan or at least shake him hard. Nora held her breath, eyes straying to see what would happen while extending a helping hand to Owen, who passed her his bundle of books first. Her chest tightened as she looked over at the half-wight. Diaz opened his hands and clapped them over his face instead, steepling them over the bridge of his nose as though battling an oncoming headache.

  “One cannot judge a man by actions alone,” he muttered to himself. He stalked over to one of the long benches, threw down his bundle, and sat to row, gripping the oar hard. Garreth had stripped of his sodden clothes and was pulling on a dry woolen shirt. He had stopped—bare midriff and all—to see how the argument between Bashan and Diaz would play out, but now he simply grunted and took his seat on the bench to the other side of Diaz.