Voyage of the Shadowmoon

by Sean McMullen

  “The temple guard—”

  “—will be stopped at the docks, told to return to the temple as if nothing has happened, and offered another forty circars to let you in again. You will, of course, not be paid until you produce the correct oracle sphere.”

  “There is no fairness in this. I endured great danger.”

  “And brought me nothing.”

  Laron scowled and shook his head. “Miral is nearly down, I must get back to the Arrowflight.”

  “Whatever. Return tomorrow, I shall give you another two spheres.”

  “Why is the oracle sphere so important?” he asked, tossing the fake into the air and catching it.

  “It is old, old sorcery, fashioned by a race older than the creation sagas of our world and commanding forces that we cannot even dream of. More than that, you do not need to know.”

  Staying awake seemed such a simple thing until one had to do it after five practically sleepless nights and no food at all for as long. The supply of brushwood fuel was cunningly measured so that too much piled on at once would burn out before morning. One had to actually be awake, not to … nod! Velander caught herself falling forward. The fire was still burning: she had drifted away for only moments. She tossed a bundle onto the flames and sat back, again drowsy with the smoke and fatigue.

  Someone to talk to was all she needed, but Terikel was keeping her own vigil after no more sleep or food than Velander had been allowed. Terikel was suffering, too, and her soulmate’s ordeal could not be wasted. Velander cast about in her mind for a problem, and thought of Warsovran’s fire-circles.

  The tests had begun sixty-four days apart, halved to thirty-two, then sixteen, then eight. There should have been a test on the second morning of her fast, then one on the fourth, and one on the fifth. Convergence. Laron had mentioned convergence and Laron always knew more than he let on, she had noticed. Laron also liked forcing people to work things out for themselves. Somewhere in the temple complex a bell rang the eighth hour past noon. Another test would be happening at this very moment, then at two A.M. the next day, five A.M., six-thirty A.M., seven-fifteen A.M., seven forty-two A.M … . and soon after that the tests would converge on some time around the ninth minute past eight A.M. Larmentel time. That was it! Nine minutes past eight A.M. tomorrow Warsovran would become able to use the fire-circle at will ... or perhaps it moved back to lengthening intervals after the convergence. Perhaps he had to make his conquests very quickly, or the interval would become sixty-four days again.

  She thought to the years ahead. To be ordained in the Metrologan Order one had to do six years of study, then vow to follow ordination with six of travel, six of research, and six of teaching. It was not a totally celibate order, but marriage was not permitted until the teaching years began. She put another bundle of brushwood on the pyre, then circled it slowly to keep herself alert. Terikel had once endured this ordeal, after all, and now she was fasting again for Velander. Don’t fail Terikel, Velander told herself as she forced her legs to walk.

  Velander was down to two bundles of brushwood when a brilliant bead of light appeared on the eastern horizon. Her fire was still burning brightly as the sun rose into the sky, and in tribute the temple bells began to peal out the good news. Priestesses and students streamed out of the darkness and Velander was swept away to warm broth, a bath, a suit of blue robes, and a lengthy audience with the Elder. All through the celebrations and ceremonies Velander thought of Terikel, who had endured the same privations yet received nothing more than the satisfaction of supporting her soulmate. A canvas pack with the symbolic contents of dried fruit, water, a writing kit, coins, and books was presented to Velander. The Elder signed her ordination scroll, blotted the ink, then rubbed it with beeswax to waterproof it.

  “Twice the usual number of subjects in half the time,” the venerable priestess said approvingly. “But what is your favorite?”

  “Mathematics,” Velander replied dreamily. “Oh, and languages! Languages, definitely.”

  She was taken back out to her room, where the seamstress was waiting to adjust the cut of her robes. After adding a few personal things to her pack, including some amberwood hairpins and a brass cylinder with the medicars’ mark engraved on it, she stood still for her fitting. Sleep washed over her like waves over a sandbar, and she chattered to stay awake.

  “What has been happening over the past five days?” Velander asked.

  “In the temple, port, or world?” asked the seamstress.

  “Start with the world and work back.”

  “The king of Zarlon has invited Warsovran to send an ambassador. That fire-circle thing of Warsovran’s has him as frightened as our own monarch, you know. I think it’s all a trick. Notice how it is always set off in the same place? I think it’s just slaves spreading hellbreath oil. The eunuch guard Druskarl sailed on the evening of the first day of your vigil, and who do you think was waving and weeping on the pier? Why it was Worthy—”

  “Has Warsovran’s weapon been tested again?” Velander interrupted, shaking her head to clear it.

  “Twice more, as I’ve heard.”

  “Twice more? In five days?” Velander asked slowly, pleased that her convergence theory—or perhaps it was Laron’s—was holding true.

  “I’m sure of it. I have my sources.”

  “Are they reliable?”

  “Oh … yes and no. If a Councilium meeting is called within a quarter hour of an auton bird arriving, I know that another fire-circle has burned. Pah, the way that Warsovran has been squandering hellbreath oil! Just what is he trying to prove? He’s just like a little boy playing with fire, and one day the fire will get out of control.”

  Suddenly a jumble of figures began to cascade into order in Velander’s mind. The Elder’s words returned, followed by those of the seamstress … . twice the subjects in half the time … one day the fire will get out of control.

  Velander knew only four of the fire-circles’ diameters, and even those were approximate, but a trend was there: a third of a mile, no figure, just over a mile, two and a third, four and two-thirds … And what of the latest tests? Six should have been nearly ten miles across; and seven, over eighteen.

  A deep, cold chasm suddenly opened up within Velander. Twice the diameter in half the time! The fire-circle was doubling with each detonation, but after only half the previous interval. It was not being tested, it was out of control! Velander calculated frantically, oblivious of the seamstress chatting to her as she adjusted the pack’s straps. Detonation eight, just under thirty-eight miles after one day. Detonation nine, seventy-five miles after half a day. The tenth would have been at two A.M. and a hundred fifty miles across, followed by one at five A.M. a staggering three hundred miles from rim to rim. It was nearly six A.M. now, so about half an hour ago a fire-circle must have seared the life from a circle six hundred miles wide. The next would stop a mere ten miles short of Zantrias in perhaps twenty minutes, and after that … Larmentel was an hour behind, on sidereal time!

  Screaming the single word, “Run!” Velander tore away from the seamstresses and ran from her room. She fled down the stone corridor beyond, swaying and stumbling from five days of fasting. It was three miles to the beach, but Terikel had to be warned first. Velander ran across the plaza of the temple complex where her pyre was now ashes, and into the dormitory cells. Terikel’s cell was empty, with the bed made up. The refectory! Velander ran down the stone steps and across a courtyard where stone dragons breathed water into a lampfish pool, then she burst into the refectory. The first shift of priestesses and novices was eating breakfast in silence while a novice stood at a lectern, reading aloud from an ancient text.

  “Terikel!” Velander shouted. Silence and stares answered her. “Run for the beach, the fire is coming!” Velander added by way of explanation, then whirled and dashed out.

  There was one last chance: that Terikel had fallen asleep in the Chapel of Vigils when the temple bells had rung out to announce Velander’s ordination. T
he chapel was not far from the main gates to the temple complex, just beyond the Gardens of Contemplation. Velander screamed Terikel’s name as she ran, shattering the serenity of those who were there to meditate, then stumbled up the steps to the chapel. The glowing stub of a coil of incense was tagged with Velander’s name, but the benches beyond were empty. Velander hurried past each row, in case her soulmate was asleep on the floor. Outside, the thief-bell was ringing, and people were calling her name.

  Soon they would catch her; they would think she was having a fit. Explanations would take time, perhaps hours, but only minutes remained. It was three miles to the docks. Druskarl had said the Arrowflight could be sunk, but still hold air to breathe. It would take long enough to convince Feran of the danger, let alone the Elder. Velander took the stub of incense and extinguished the glowing point in the skin of her left wrist.

  “By this mark I’ll carry your memory forever,” sobbed Velander. “Forgive me for deserting you, soulmate, but I tried my best.”

  The gates of the temple complex were not yet locked as Velander neared them, but the two guards were alert with their glaves at the ready. Velander stopped and panted a tangle of life force between her hands, then flung it. One guard fell with glowing amber coils wrapped about his ankles, but the other tried to slam the gates shut. Already weak from the first casting, Velander breathed more etheric life force between her hands and flung it, binding the second guard to the heavy oak slats of one side of the gate. The effort of casting so much energy cost Velander greatly in strength. She shambled through the gate, barely able to hold herself upright. The pursuing priestesses would catch her in moments unless … The casting binding the first guard suddenly collapsed and streaked back to Velander, swirling around her head and quickly dissolving into her skin. As the second casting returned to her, she was able to break into a headlong, unsteady run again.

  The Metrologan Order wore light sandals and loose trousers under a short outer robe, well suited to running. Velander dodged past a wood cart delivering fuel for a baker’s oven then ran through the market square where stallkeepers bartered with customers. So much life, but they will all be dead within an hour, she thought. The sky was clear, and there was no wind. It was a perfect, flawless morning. Children were playing knucklebones on the cobbles, and two town constables were making a leisurely patrol with their spears held casually over their shoulders. Should warn, must warn, Velander told herself, but any delay was dangerous. She could snatch up one child and try to save it, but the constables would soon catch her and explanations would take hours. Pain lanced at Velander’s side and her lungs burned, but still she ran. She cleared the square. Two miles to go, perhaps less.

  She ran on more slowly, but still at her body’s limit. Down was safe, down was to the sea. She looked up as the port watch-house loomed, then stumbled over a gutter and sprawled. Dragging herself up, she ran again. One mile to go now. Knives seemed to plunge into her bleeding left knee at every step. The wares of the streetside stalls became more nautical: netting, floats, cordage, sails, tar, ship’s biscuit. Suddenly the buildings vanished, and Velander was facing clear sky and masts. The docks! Her legs betrayed her, she fell, crawled a few yards, then got up. She stumbled a few paces farther, fell again, then crawled for the pier.

  “Worthy Sister, are you all right?” asked a docker in alarm.

  “Leave me alone, pilgrimage,” she wheezed.

  With an ever-growing crowd behind her, Velander forced her aching legs to support her again and shuffled along the flagstones of the stone pier. Five ships along, unless they had sailed already. Five ships to—the Arrowflight! She literally fell down the gangplank and flopped to the deck, gasping for Feran.

  Laron’s pale face filled the blue sky that Velander lay staring into. There was a patch of beard hanging from his chin. He felt her pulse and put a hand to her forehead. His fingers were strangely cool.

  “Exhausted,” he concluded. “Deckswain, bring water.”

  “Boatmaster,” Velander panted in a whisper.

  “He is busy—” began Laron.

  “Must see boatmaster. Fire-circles. Half the time, twice the distance.”

  “Fire-circles? I—Please, explain.”

  “Expanding, expanding as … convergence progression.”

  At the last two words Laron’s eyes widened with alarm. “Cast off—now,” he hissed to the deckswain. “Do it quickly.”

  “But sir, the boatmaster said to wait for his word before we cast off for our practice, er, drill, and it’s still earlier than what he said.”

  “Cast off. Hurry!”

  “But Laron, sir, we ought to ask the boatmaster—er, but like, after he’s finished consultin’ with his client—” said the deckswain.

  “Damn the boatmaster!” snarled Laron, drawing him up off his feet then flinging him in the direction of the forward mooring rope. “I’m aware of the boatmaster’s client. Cast off, now! The rest of you to the sweeps—hurry. Hazlok, not you! Take the steering pole, head for the deep turning area.”

  They were under way as Feran emerged. He was stripped to the waist, wearing only sailcloth trousers.

  “Why are we under way—” he began, then he saw the girl on the deck. “Velander?”

  “Release hatches,” she panted, now louder. “Sink.”

  “Shush!” he hissed urgently, dropping to his knees and bending over her. “There are people on the docks.”

  “Soon—all dead. Fire-circle, coming.”

  “Velander, Warsovran’s weapon is at Larmentel. Your fast has—”

  “Out of control. Reach here, only minutes. Twice the distance, half the time.”

  Feran looked to the crowd gazing across from the stone pier, looked to the upturned gigboat bolted to its frame, then looked to Laron. “Well?” he asked. “What is she saying?”

  “Twice the distance, half the time. I revised a few rough figures in my head, and they match what we know of the fire-circles better than my convergent regression theory. Its expansion parameters are called a progression, and it seems to be moving to a convergence.”

  “So what does that mean?” Feran demanded. “Will it kill us?”

  “Yes,” replied Laron, with the calm of one already dead.

  The voyage from Gironal had taught them all to trust Laron’s judgment, especially where mathematics was involved.

  “How long?” Feran asked.

  “A convergent progression would double the fire-circles’ diameters as the intervals converge on zero, and there is a parallel progression expanding the circles to infinity. Considering the distance from here to Larmentel is a lot less than infinity—”

  “How long?” Feran demanded, the veins of his temples standing out beneath his curly hair.

  “Soon. Velander said minutes. I would have to check the figures more carefully, but her estimate looks depressingly sound.”

  “Damn,” Feran said softly, striking his fist into the palm of his hand. He walked across to where the carpenter was rowing at a sweep oar.

  “I’ll row for you, D’ Atro. Go below, and at my order release the sink hatches.”

  The man goggled at him, then gestured to the crowd on the pier. “But, sir, we’re within sight of at least five hundred people. They’ll know our secret.”

  “Soon it will not matter,” Feran replied.

  “But you’re the boatmaster, sir. That Laron is getting too big for his—”

  “Do as I say!” Feran shouted suddenly, his eyes blazing. “If Laron says jump, then jump! If Laron says croak, then croak! Now do—”

  Directly to the north a curtain of light as intense as the sun’s face streamed from a rent in the sky that spread up from the horizon to loom over the port city within three heartbeats. At the Blackstone Hills the dazzling light winked out, replaced by a wall of flames and smoke that towered over Zantrias. It was as if a god’s guard dog had lunged for the port and reached the end of its chain. The flames and smoke boiled high into the air, and heat like t
he blast of an open oven seared the faces of everyone watching. Shatteringly loud thunder rolled over the port, reaching into the bodies of everyone there and shaking them to the very bones.

  “Oh shit!” said the carpenter.

  People began screaming even as the thunder was echoing away, and many on the wharves leaped into the water. Others rushed for the ships that were still tied up along the pier, and fights broke out with the crews as they tried to cast off, desperate to escape. Feran stared back at what Velander had spared them, then rushed to where Laron was helping her up.

  “Navigator, how long have we got?” he cried.

  “Worthy Velander?” asked Laron.

  “Less than half an hour, more than twenty minutes,” Velander replied, staring to the north where the sky was now a wall of brownish white, roiling smoke. “You must sink the Arrowflight. Now!”

  “Soon, when we get to deeper water.”

  The Arrowflight’s masts were hinged, and a single bracing bar at the stern secured all the ropes holding the two masts vertical. As it was released, the masts came down together. Nevertheless, the masts and rigging took many precious minutes to secure. Several ships and boats had managed to get under way in the meantime, and one battle galley had actually cleared the harbor and was headed straight out to sea. With the hatch chocks knocked out, the Arrowflight began to sink. Feran ordered his crewmen under the gigboat, but Velander stayed at the starboard rail, gesturing intricately with her hands and muttering words of formation.

  “Get back here, hurry!” shouted Feran.

  “Another moment,” she called back without turning. “I’m casting an ocular.”

  “We don’t have a moment!” cried Laron. “Get back or die.”

  Water was already ankle-deep on the deck as Velander abandoned her incantation, splashed over to the gigboat and ducked under with the crewmen. The Arrowflight gave a loud gurgle, then sank on an even keel. Moments later it thumped softly onto the sand of the harbor’s bed.