“Something about the wheat looked funny?” Piran echoed with a strange look on his face.
“Aye,” their guide explained. “It smells off, and some of the grains are dark.”
“Show me,” Piran said with sudden fierceness.
Baffled, Blaine and Connor exchanged questioning glances. They followed the fisherman into a storage room filled with sacks of grain. Piran fell to his knees beside one of the sacks and stabbed it with his knife, letting the grain pour out into his cupped hands. Connor was close enough to see that about half of the kernels were a dark brown, instead of their normal light gold.
Piran let out a string of curses that were potent even for him. He looked up at Blaine and Connor with a pained expression. “Bad grain,” he said. “Ergot. I saw this once on campaign. Something turns the humours of the grain poisonous. All the things in the captain’s journal—the fits, madness, visions—the poison in the grain does that.” He shook his head. “Poor blokes never knew what hit them. If they didn’t die from the fits, they likely pitched over the side.”
“But the captain said he and the officers weren’t affected,” Blaine countered.
Connor remembered something he had seen in the captain’s quarters. “The biscuits!”
“What?” Blaine and Piran both turned toward him.
“There was a partially eaten tin of hard biscuits in the captain’s quarters. What if he and the officers didn’t eat the spoiled grain? If they had their own supplies, they wouldn’t have caught the madness.”
Blaine drew a deep breath. “If you’re right, then it’s likely the Nomad’s crew died or deserted her not long after that last entry in the journal.” He shook his head. “With the crew gone mad, the captain and his officers were dead men.”
Their fisherman guide looked on in horror. “What do we do, then? There’s food and drink aboard, and we need both back home.”
“We can’t take the grain,” Piran said, standing and dusting off his hands. “That’s for certain, or we’ll end up like they did.”
“Piran’s right,” Blaine said. “But the other supplies should be salvageable. I’ll talk to Darden, explain why we need to throw the grain overboard. He’ll make sure there’s no trouble about it.”
“What about the ship?” Connor hadn’t realized he had spoken aloud until they turned toward him. “What we’ve seen of it, the ship itself isn’t damaged. I hate to leave it out here.”
“We found fresh sails down below,” the fisherman who had led them to the galley replied. “So if anyone’s of a mind to rig new sails, it can be done.”
Blaine nodded. “Let’s make a report to Darden. I daresay that among the four fishing boats, we’ve got enough sailors to get the Nomad back to Bay-town.” He looked to the fisherman. “Go tell the others not to eat any breads or biscuits that they find, before we bring trouble onto our own boats.”
“Right,” the man said, and left them alone in the galley.
Piran looked at Blaine. “You know, a ship like this could make it back to Donderath,” he said quietly.
Blaine’s expression was unreadable. “I thought of that, too.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
EVER THOUGHT YOU’D BE SEEING EDGELAND from the deck of a ship like this?” Piran shouted above the wind in the Nomad’s sails as they neared the port of Skalgerston Bay.
Blaine shook his head. “Never thought I’d be on board any ship bigger than a fishing buss again.” He glanced around, looking for Connor, who was nowhere to be seen. He didn’t come to Edgeland as a convict, Blaine thought. He doesn’t understand how sweet it is to be on deck like a free man.
A crowd mulled near the docks, trying to figure out what to make of the ghost ship. Blaine and Piran hurried down the gangplank and shouldered through the mob, with Connor scrambling behind them. Ifrem hailed them from the doorway to the Crooked House.
“Brought back quite a fish there,” he said with a nod toward the Nomad.
“Question is—do we keep it or throw it back?” Blaine replied.
Ifrem nodded, and Blaine knew that the tavern master recognized the real question: Now that some of us can leave, do we? Who goes and who stays? And if we leave, where do we go?
“A ship like that can hold four or five hundred people,” Ifrem mused quietly. “That could take quite a strain off the colony, if people were of a mind to leave.”
“And go where?” Blaine asked, watching the wind billow in the Nomad’s sails.
“If things are as bad as Engraham and Connor told us, Donderath may be in need of some sturdy colonists.”
Blaine met his gaze. “Go back?”
“Go home.”
“Home didn’t want us, remember?”
It was Ifrem’s turn to shrug. “King Merrill didn’t want us. Merrill is dead.”
Blaine looked away, uncomfortable with the feelings that stirred at Ifrem’s words. “The only home I’m anxious to see is the homestead, and my bed. That’s where I’ll be if the Council has a mind to discuss anything. Just make sure they leave me time to get some sleep. Otherwise, I’ll be crankier than usual.”
“How could we tell?” Ifrem cracked a smile. But by that time, Blaine had rejoined Piran and Connor in flagging down a cart.
Blaine, Piran, and Connor climbed into the back of a farmer’s wagon and covered themselves with the feed sacks and horse blankets they found there. No one was in the mood for conversation, and Blaine wedged himself into a space between hay bales where he was sheltered from the wind and relatively safe from falling overboard. Exhausted, he leaned against the bales and dozed.
“Hey, Mick, wake up. We’re home.” Piran’s voice cut through the fog of sleep as a strong hand shook Blaine’s shoulder. Blaine blinked, trying to clear his head. They were back at the homestead. The small house was lit up, offering the promise of warmth and shelter. Blaine jumped down from the wagon.
“Did you catch anything?” Kestel greeted them merrily, standing in the doorway, her cloak clutched around her.
“Bigger than you can imagine,” Piran said with a grin. “We caught ourselves a whole ship!”
Dawe ambled forward and helped to take their heavy cloaks and fishing gear. “A ship?”
“An abandoned merchant ship,” Connor supplied, stripping off his coat and stumbling as he tried to remove his boots. “No one on board.”
“What did you do with it?” Verran wanted to know from where he stood in the doorway to the small sitting room.
Piran shrugged. “Sailed it back to port. I guess what happens now is up to the Council,” he said with a look toward Blaine.
“Don’t look at me,” Blaine said, his mood still off from the dream. “I’m just one lone voice, not the whole damn Council.”
“Well, we’ve been busy while you were out trawling,” Kestel said, hustling them into the sitting room. A cheery fire warmed the room, and on the hearth, in the embers, a cauldron held what smelled like venison stew. Verran helped her fetch bowls, which she filled, and Dawe brought two freshly baked loaves of bread from the kitchen.
“Sit. Eat.” Kestel was trying and failing to suppress an ear-to-ear grin, with a look Blaine had come to associate with a successful scheme. “And we’ve got company.”
“Company?” Blaine asked between gulps of stew.
“That would be me.” Blaine and the others turned. Arin Grimur, their vampire rescuer, stood in the doorway.
Blaine looked questioningly at Kestel, then from Grimur down to the bowl in front of him. “Is that where the venison came from?”
Grimur gave a slight smile that revealed just the tips of his elongated eyeteeth. “I felt it was only right to bring a gift when I came to visit. Some of the trappers are willing to give me blood in exchange for my protection. Between them and the deer, I fed well enough to keep me satisfied until I return to my home.”
“We certainly wouldn’t want you feeling peckish,” Piran muttered, unconsciously raising a hand to rub his neck.
To Blai
ne’s amazement, Grimur chuckled. “I assure you, I pose no threat. You’re quite well protected.” At that, Grimur’s gaze slid for a moment to rest on Connor, who looked away.
I wonder if Connor understands his ties to that vampire back in Donderath any better than we do, Blaine mused.
“Arin came down to study the maps with us,” Kestel said, taking a seat between Blaine and Grimur as if Blaine’s lack of a hearty welcome had not escaped her notice.
“Maps?” Blaine asked with a warning glance.
“I persuaded Ifrem to let us borrow his map. We put it alongside Connor’s and took a good look at that obsidian disk of his. I think we’ve figured out something—something important,” Kestel said, ignoring Blaine’s wary look.
“Which is?” Piran’s voice sounded as unconvinced as Blaine’s.
“We think we know how we might be able to restore the magic,” Verran replied.
When they had finished eating, Kestel and Dawe cleared away the dishes. Verran brought the chairs in the room closer to circle the table, while Grimur spread the maps open and laid Connor’s obsidian pendant in the center of Ifrem’s map.
“Here’s the map of Edgeland Ifrem had,” Kestel said, a hint of glee in her voice. “And here’s Connor’s map of Donderath. Do you see anything alike?”
Blaine frowned and studied the two maps. “The same ‘u’-shaped symbols that Ifrem said stood for magic places and null places. Some odd gibberish that no one seems to understand.” He looked up at Kestel. “Am I missing something?”
Kestel’s smile was triumphant. “Verran’s the one who spotted it. Look at what happens if you put the two maps on top of each other.”
“If you do that, you won’t be able to see the one on the bottom. Big deal,” Piran said irritably.
Kestel rolled her eyes and gave an exaggerated sigh. Grimur did not move, but it seemed to Blaine that the vampire actually repressed a smile.
“Don’t be so literal, Piran,” Kestel said. She reached for a gossamer jumble that had been set to one side. Blaine had assumed she had cast aside a shawl, and he frowned when Kestel picked up a fine silk scarf that was nearly see-through. She stretched the delicate fabric tight between her hands and held it over the Edgeland map. “Now do you notice something?” Kestel looked pointedly at Blaine.
Marked on the fine silk in dark strokes were the symbols of magic and null. And it was clear at a glance that those symbols on the silk matched the symbols on the Edgeland map.
“What’s on the scarf lines up with the map. Of course they do, if you copied them. Hard to see why you’d sacrifice a silk scarf for that,” Blaine replied.
Kestel moved the scarf, still held taut between her hands, until it was over the Donderath map. “Connor, you’re a clever man,” she said with a glance to tell Blaine that the comment was a gentle dig at him for missing… something. “Tell me what you see.”
Connor leaned forward. “The pattern is the same from map to map,” he said, looking to Kestel for corroboration. She let one end of the scarf fly into the air in celebration.
“Yes!” She waved Blaine and Connor closer to the maps. “The pattern of power and null is identical on these maps of Donderath and Edgeland. Which means…”
“That you think those nodes are a key to the missing magic,” Blaine finished for her.
“Exactly.” She brought out another drawing, this one on yellowed parchment. Blaine moved closer for a better look at the new drawing. “Grimur was kind enough to bring us something else,” Kestel said. “Look at this.”
“What is it?’ Blaine strained for a good look, but saw only a network of regular lines, almost like a spider’s web.
“They’re called ‘meridians.’ ” Everyone turned to look at Grimur. “That drawing was made by Elos Torinth, a mage who was a contemporary of Valtyr.”
“The one who made the maps,” Blaine replied.
Grimur inclined his head in acknowledgment. “Exactly. Torinth believed that the meridians were the places where wild magic, visithara, was strongest. The meridians and their power are a natural force, according to Torinth, and in addition to the lines, there are also ‘wells’ and ‘deserts,’ where power is much stronger or weaker.”
“The nodes,” Kestel murmured. “Places of power and no-power.”
“Yes.” Grimur gestured toward the yellowed parchment. “But there is also something very interesting about the parchment that you haven’t noticed. On it are marked the locations of the twelve old noble houses, the manors—actually, fortresses—of the original Council of Nobles who supported Donderath’s first king.”
The others crowded closer for a better look. “Quillarth, Rhystorp, Doranset, Glenreith,” Kestel read, with a glance to Blaine as she read the name of his family’s manor. She read the other names, a familiar litany from court. Kestel paused. “There are thirteen names. But only twelve old houses.”
Grimur nodded. “Quillarth was not originally the castle of the king. King Merrill’s line won the crown in the Lowland Insurrection three hundred years ago. Mirdalur, the thirteenth location, was the fortress—castle—of King Hougen, Donderath’s first real king.”
Blaine frowned. “I’ve never heard of Mirdalur.”
“That’s because it was destroyed a long time ago,” Grimur said, a wistfulness touching his voice that made Blaine think perhaps Grimur remembered the manor from his long existence. “During the war between Donderath and Vellanaj. Quillarth Castle replaced it.”
Grimur gave a knowing smile. “This map has another secret. Do you see a pattern in the locations of the old houses?”
Dawe bent closer, intrigued by the puzzle. “Well, the old houses are clearly built along the meridians,” he mused. “Not too close to the ‘wells’ or to the ‘deserts’ of power. But they don’t match the pattern of the nodes on the other maps.” He straightened. “I give up.” The others nodded in agreement.
Grimur leaned down and traced several lines with his fingers. “Imagine lines connecting these houses in this way,” he said. His touch made a crude stick figure.
Verran frowned. “That’s pretty close to the way Charrot’s constellation looks in the sky—according to the astrologers, anyhow,” he said.
Grimur smiled as if pleased with a prize student. “Exactly. Now look at this,” he said, turning the map a half twist and connecting more dots with a finger-stroke.
“Esthrane’s stars,” Kestel said.
“And this,” Grimur added, tracing invisible lines for the third time.
“Torven,” Piran said. “Any fisherman worth his salt can sketch those star figures.”
“The connection to the constellations could just be luck,” Blaine said, struggling to dampen his growing irritation. He had the feeling Grimur was leading them somewhere, and Blaine didn’t like being led in the dark. “I understand building the old houses on the meridians. They probably had mages telling them where it would be ‘auspicious.’ But those star figures are hard enough to see in the sky—they take more beer than imagination, if you ask me. It’s all in what you want to see.”
Grimur regarded him for a few seconds in silence. Blaine had the uncomfortable feeling that the vampire took more meaning from his outburst than Blaine had intended. “Perhaps,” Grimur replied mildly. “And yet, I can attest that in the days of the old houses, astrologers were consulted as frequently as mages, and the omens they read from the stars guided the hand of the king.”
“So you don’t think it’s coincidence,” Kestel supplied.
“No,” Grimur said. “I don’t.”
“What does all this have to do with making magic usable again?” Blaine snapped. “And why tell us? We’re not mages.”
“Because the configuration of fortresses created back when King Hougen took the throne changed magic on the Continent—and I’d bet, here in Edgeland and elsewhere. Before Hougen’s time, there were few if any mages of great power. Magic was mostly of the seer and hedge witch variety. After Hougen, we saw powerful
mages arise, and magic became an art of war.”
“You think something about the fortresses and the meridians ‘created’ magic as we know it?” Blaine challenged.
Grimur shrugged. “ ‘Created’ is perhaps too strong a word. Perhaps ‘harnessed’ or ‘channeled’ might be more accurate. But something changed after Hougen with the role magic played on the Continent—until this last battle between Donderath and Meroven.”
“Word came to Quillarth Castle right before I left that Meroven had attacked the noble houses before attacking the king,” Connor said. “If at least some of the noble houses were linked, somehow, to the magic itself—”
“It would have been like snuffing out a candle,” Verran finished. “Those Meroven sots probably never had any idea that by attacking the old manors they were destroying the very magic they themselves were using.”
“This is all very interesting,” Blaine said, “but how does it change anything? If what Connor says is true, the manors were destroyed. What does all this information matter if it can’t fix the problem?”
“Maybe it can.” Grimur met Blaine’s gaze.
“How?”
Grimur pointed to a spot on the map. “This is where Mirdalur’s ruins still stand. King Hougen’s castle. All of the meridians from the other original noble houses pass through Mirdalur, and Mirdalur is the head of the figure that looks like Charrot’s constellation. I believe Mirdalur could be the key to putting things right.”
“You don’t seem to get what I’ve been saying,” Blaine retorted. “None of us have the power to do what you’re expecting. And we’re in Edgeland, not in Donderath. We’re a world away.”
“We have a ship,” Piran said quietly. “We could get there, if it would make a difference.”
Grimur went to a leather bag that sat against the wall. “There is another, older magic that plays a part in this,” he said. “I have had this book for more than a hundred years, but until I saw Connor’s pendant and the writing on the map that the pendant decoded, I did not know what I held.” He walked around the table with the map, toward Blaine. “I have spent the last four nights using the pendant to translate what was written. It’s a journal by a mage of great renown, Archus Quintrel. He wrote down what had been an oral tradition among mages until then, the secret to how the magic was channeled.”
Ice Forged (The Ascendant Kingdoms Saga) Page 32