Once the door closed, Elena studied the twisting grain of the wood. Was the plainsman correct? Was she truly right in betraying Joach’s confidence? As she bit her lip, the queasiness again rose in her gut, but this time her churning belly wasn’t entirely the result of the ship’s motion. Since when had her faith in Er’ril overwhelmed the trust in her own family? She pictured Joach’s face when he had first spoken of his suspicion of Er’ril and had sworn her to secrecy: the urgency and love in his eyes, the wordless trust of a brother for a sister.
For the second time, Elena rushed to the chamber pail.
“STAND FAST, TRAVELER!” the gatesman called. He stood atop the wall, half hidden by a stone parapet.
Mycelle stepped her gelding back to better eye the guard. Fardale stood tense at her horse’s side, seeming to sense Mycelle’s wariness.
After spending a night at a Graymarsh inn, Mycelle had left with the first rays of the sun, knowing it best to reach Port Rawl in daylight. Now here, she was surprised to find Port Rawl’s south gate closed and locked. To the west, the late afternoon sun was still well above the horizon—and in a town notorious for its nightly carousing, the southern and northern gates were seldom barred before the moon rose, if at all. The two-story stone barricade, nicknamed the Swampwall by the natives, encircled the entire city, except for the section of the town that fronted the bay. The wall’s function was not to protect its inhabitants from marauders but simply to act as a stone dike between the town and the poisonous denizens of the nearby swamps. As such, the gates were seldom lowered and rarely manned. In Port Rawl, the townspeople did not like locked doors between them and a quick escape when needed.
Mycelle leaned back in her saddle. “I’ve business to attend and need to enter,” she called up. “Why are the gates secured?”
“What business have you in Port Rawl?” the guard called back. He was a portly fellow whose hard-earned coppers apparently were spent quickly on ale and good food. A wicked scar—another feature most likely earned in those same hard pubs—trailed from his right ear to his nose. “Which caste vouches for you?”
His inquiry surprised Mycelle. In Port Rawl, no one asked another’s business, not if one meant to live until the day’s end. Curiosity was not a healthy pastime in Port Rawl.
“Of what concern is my business to the town’s garrison?” she returned, putting proper threat in her voice.
“Since the attack on the docks two morns ago,” the guardsman answered, “all who seek entry must be registered and vouched for by one of the town’s sixteen castes.”
“This is news to me,” she said. “I’ve been hired as a guide by a group of travelers due to arrive in the city, and I am here to meet them.”
“A hired guide?” He seemed to check a list near his elbow. “That would put you under the mercenary caste. You’ll need to register with their caste’s leader as soon as you enter and agree to their authority.”
“I belong to no caste. I seek only to—”
“Without a caste’s allegiance, you’ll be jailed if found on the streets without the proper papers.”
Mycelle frowned. Such a requirement went against all that Port Rawl once upheld. The sanctity of anonymity was one of the unwritten rules that guided all commerce in the port city. The attack by the possessed fishermen had shaken the town worse than Flint or Er’ril could have suspected. Her eyes narrowed as she considered her options. She suspected the new laws were not for the safety and protection of the citizenry but were devised simply as another way to eke bribes and tariffs from travelers. Knowing she had no choice, she straightened in her saddle. “Fine,” she called back up. “Open the gates!”
The man nodded and signaled someone hidden below. The clink of chains and creak of rope marked the raising gate. As soon as the bars had risen high enough, Mycelle tapped her gelding forward. Fardale followed, padding in the shadow of her mount.
Two other guards flanked the inside of the gate. The one closest to the wolf backed a step and began to unsheathe his sword.
“Harm my dog,” Mycelle warned, “and you’ll find the point of my sword buried in your belly before my dog can howl.”
The man lowered his blade back into its scabbard and took another step away as Fardale passed.
The guard to the other side of her mount cleared his throat. He had the bowed legs of a sailor, but his missing left arm and sullen features suggested the injury had grounded him from decent work aboard any ship. He now earned his coppers with whatever duties he could scrounge, like manning the city’s gates.
The guard’s gaze wandered appreciatively over Mycelle’s physique. “I belong to the mercenary caste,” he said with a thick tongue, his eyes slightly hooded. “You’ll find Master Fallen on Drury Lane in the Eastern Quarter. For a fee, I can guide you there.” He held out papers toward her.
Mycelle suspected any coin offered would only get her led to a blind alley where other of his ilk would jump her. “I know the city,” she said, taking the papers. “I can find my way.”
“That’s only a temporary pass. By twilight, it’ll expire.” His voice lowered in conspiratorial tones. “If you’ve not found Master Fallen by then and gained his seal on your papers, you’ll be taken by the watchmen. But with my help, I can get you to the mercenary’s lodge in plenty of time.”
Sure, Mycelle thought silently, he’d get her there—but bound in chains and ready for sale in the slave pits. She grinned at the man. Only menace shone from her lips. “I’ll manage.”
She kicked her horse and entered the Southern Quarter of the city. Here, the craftsmen and artisans took up their residence. Even in Port Rawl, certain basic needs had to be met. She passed a small cobbler’s shop on the right. Her nose was greeted with the familiar smell of leather dyes and curing hides. It seemed even pirates needed sound footwear.
Farther along, the ringing of hammer on anvil announced the presence of a smithy well before the open doorway revealed the smoldering forge and the burly blacksmith. Other shops included a chandlery with candles of every size and shape displayed in the window, a tailor’s shop with bolts of cloth leaning in the doorway, and even a silversmith whose work most likely involved melting ill-gotten gains into untraceable new contours.
Yet as common as these shops appeared, no one could mistake this for any ordinary town. Here the shopkeepers all carried conspicuous swords, and their expressions were anything but inviting. Even the slender tailor, whose tiny hands were well suited for his craft, had a muscled guard posted by his stoop. It seemed trust was not offered with the wares sold here. And from the demeanor of the patrons who frequented these fine establishments, trust was in little demand.
A clutch of gaunt women gathered their cloaks about them as she neared. Then seeing the rider was a woman, they dropped their guarded stances and stared openly at her. A few whispered behind palms at each other and pointed at the huge treewolf at her side. Mycelle knew the townswomen must think her daft to travel alone through the streets of Port Rawl, even here in the tamest section of the town. Few women dared risk the streets without someone to guard their backs. Mycelle suspected each woman here was armed with a dagger or a crooked dirk under her cloak. And if any were attacked, all would come to the victim’s aid in a mutual bond of survival.
As Mycelle passed, she stared at the feral eyes of these hard women. Pact or not, Mycelle also knew that for the right price any of the women here would turn on another. In Port Rawl, truces were short-lived and only born of immediate necessity. The solidarity shown here was as insubstantial as the morning’s fog.
Mycelle continued on through the Southern Quarter, aiming for the central bazaar named Four Corners, where all four sections of the city converged. As she rode, no one gave her much attention besides the occasional furtive stare. Mycelle, though, kept up her guard. She knew the presence of the huge wolf and her two crossed scabbards were giving any attackers momentary pause.
Still, Mycelle kept both eyes and ears attuned to the flow of traffic
around her. Even Fardale’s hackles were raised in wary attention. Occasional growls flowed from his throat when anyone approached too near.
Walking her horse past an apothecary, Mycelle’s senses were suddenly struck by a melange of elemental magicks. Her seeking skill thrummed strongly. She slowed her mount. Through the doorway, Mycelle spotted shelf after shelf stocked with tiny jars and bottles of various herbs and medicines. This was no ordinary apothecary dispensing willow’s bark and dandelion tea. Whoever ran this shop was skilled in the elemental art of healing. And from the way Mycelle’s own senses were responding, the healer here was a strong one.
Mycelle pulled her horse to a stop, intrigued.
Inside, the practitioner could be seen in the shadowed interior behind a counter. A cluster of candles lit her features. Dressed in a simple gray frock and black shawl, she was an old woman of wrinkled visage. Her snow-white hair was bound in a single braid and coiled like a nesting serpent atop her head. Though the small woman was old, Mycelle sensed that the winters had hardened her like a wind-burned cypress. Even her skin was the hue of burnished wood.
From behind the counter, the healer seemed to be staring back at Mycelle, apparently curious of the stranger on horseback by her door. But Mycelle knew this was only a trick of light. There was no way the woman could see her. The healer had no eyes. Under her brows was only smooth skin. No empty sockets nor thick scars marred her face. Mycelle guessed that the healer must have been born this way. Poor woman.
To add to the illusion that the woman could see her, the old healer straightened and waved to her, indicating that Mycelle should come inside.
Fardale suddenly growled, drawing Mycelle’s attention away from the woman. From the top of the door frame, a small face appeared, hanging upside down. The beast’s head was the size of a ripe pomegranate. Though framed in fur the color of a dying fire, its face was as bare as any human’s, dominated by two bright black eyes and wide grinning lips. It chittered at them and crawled lower down the door frame, revealing small clawed hands and feet that gripped the wood as efficiently as its hands. Even a long tail, furred in rings of black and gold, helped hold its place in the doorway.
“His name is Tikal,” the old woman behind the counter said. She had a melodious accent that Mycelle could not place. “He is from my jungle country of Yrendl.”
Mycelle’s eyebrows rose. She had heard tales of the thick jungles far to the south of the Wastes but had never met anyone who claimed to have traveled there. Even by sea, it was easily an entire winter’s journey.
“What brought you so far from your homelands, healer?” she asked. She knew she must get to the mercenary caste soon, but curiosity detained her.
“Slavers.” Her reply was matter-of-fact, not bitter or angry. “A long time ago.”
Mycelle, embarrassed by her prying question, was ready to bid the woman a good day and be on her way, but the old woman again waved her inside, more persistently.
“Come inside.”
“I have no need of a healer.”
“And I don’t have all day.” The healer turned her back on Mycelle and began running her fingers along the shelves behind her, as if searching for something. “I know about the friends you seek.” The healer stressed the last word, making clear she knew Mycelle was a seeker.
What was this? Wary but curious, Mycelle climbed from her horse. She felt no taint of black magick here. Just what did this old healer know? “Fardale, guard the gelding.”
The wolf moved to stand between the street and the horse, hackles raised. Satisfied, Mycelle slipped through the doorway. The fiery-maned beast still hung from the frame by its tail and chittered at her as she passed. Mycelle checked the corners of the room for anything suspicious before she approached the counter. She sensed no other presence. “What do you know of my business?” Mycelle asked as she stepped forward.
The woman did not answer.
Behind Mycelle, the door to the apothecary swung closed and latched with a loud click. Mycelle suddenly remembered that curiosity was not a healthy pastime in Port Rawl and recalled the tiny tailor with the hulking guard. Since when in this city did a blind woman operate a shop all by herself?
A gruff voice rose behind her. “Touch your sword and die.”
“TOO OFTEN AN ordinary dream is confused with a weaving,” the huge ebony-skinned Brother explained to Joach, “even by those skilled in the art.”
In the galley of the Seaswift, Moris and Er’ril sat on the bench across the pine-planked table from Joach, both wearing dour expressions. Joach was not going to let the presence of the plainsman sway him. “It was a weaving,” Joach said with determination. “Er’ril will betray us.”
By the galley’s hearth, Flint tasted the stew’s broth. He sighed with satisfaction, then spoke. “Joach, you’re a blasted fool.”
Joach’s cheeks burned at the bluntness of the fisherman.
Flint gave his stew one final stir and settled the lid on his brewing pot. “You should have come to us first. Bringing this to the attention of your sister and burdening her with your secret was just damn wrong. She has enough to bear without you worrying her with false weavings.”
Joach’s blood still burned with the knowledge that Elena had broken her promise to him and spoken of his dream to the plainsman. Elena had not even come to this meeting, too sick to leave her bunk, but Joach suspected shame also kept her hidden. His fists clenched on the poi’wood staff that lay across his knees. Here was all the proof he needed. Under his palms, he felt the dire magicks in the wood flow like oil on skin. “The spell from the dream worked,” he argued. “How could this not be a true weaving?”
Er’ril answered. “At its heart, black magick deceives. That foul staff of Greshym’s should’ve been burned long ago.”
“You’d like that,” Joach spat, “since in my dream, it was the staff that kept you from my sister.”
Er’ril’s brows darkened and lowered over his eyes in threat. “I would never betray Elena. Never.”
“As you said,” Joach mumbled, repeating the plainsman’s words, “black magick deceives.”
Joach and Er’ril glared at each other.
“Enough!” Flint said, punctuating his word with a strike of his ladle on the table. “I’ve heard enough of this nonsense. Black magick or not, your dream’s truth can be weighed in another way.”
“How?” Joach asked.
Flint pointed his spoon to Moris. “Tell them. I’ve a stew to stir before it burns. I won’t have this nonsense ruin my meal.”
Moris had remained silent during the exchange, apparently content to let the fire of their words die down before imparting his knowledge. “Now that I have your attentions again,” he said, fingering his silver earring, “I will finish explaining what I started. First, Joach does have a sound argument for initially believing the truth of his dream. The black spell did work.”
Joach sat straighter on his bench. At least someone here was talking sense.
Moris continued. “All aspects of a weaving, when studied closely, must prove true for the dream to be called a weaving. The spell did work, but that is only one element of the dreamscape. And as Er’ril said, black magick is tricky. Perhaps it was not the words of the spell learned in the dream that ignited the magick in the staff, but simply your own will wishing it to happen. Your dream must be examined further before you put such fervid faith in it.”
A seed of doubt found its way into Joach’s heart. He trusted Moris—the dark-skinned Brother had saved his life in A’loa Glen—and his words now were compelling. “How can we judge the truth of my dream when the events are yet to happen?”
“It is in the details,” Moris said.
“All the details,” Flint echoed from the hearth.
Moris nodded. “Tell us your dream again, but I will query you further on certain aspects of your story, attempting to find anything false. If even one element is found to be wrong, then your dream was not a weaving.”
Joach re
moved his hands from the staff and placed them atop the table. “I see. So everything must be true—or none of it is.”
Flint snorted. “Finally the boy is thinking with his head and not his gut.”
Joach chewed his lower lip. Maybe they were right. He reached and fiddled with the dragon’s tooth that hung around his neck. “The dream began with Elena and me atop a tower in A’loa Glen. We were—”
“Stop right there,” Moris interrupted. “Describe the tower.”
Joach closed his eyes and pictured the spire. “It was narrow . . . coming to a point no wider than two horse lengths. I couldn’t make out much else, since I never peered over the parapet’s edge.”
“What else? What color were the stones? What towers neighbored it?”
Joach brightened, remembering. “The stones were a burnt orange, and there was a huge statue of a woman bearing a sprig from a flowering tree across the way from the tower.”
“The statue of Lady Sylla, bearing the branch of unity,” Flint said.
“Hmm . . . And beside her,” Moris added, “the Spire of the Departed is a reddish orange.” The two Brothers stared at each other meaningfully. “Perhaps the boy had a passing glimpse from one of the Edifice’s windows while imprisoned there.”
Flint grunted noncommittally. “Go on, Joach.”
He continued to describe the attack by the black winged monster.
“Sounds almost like a wyvern,” Moris said, “but none of its foul ilk have been seen in ages.”
“But who knows what the Gul’gothal lord has dredged up to protect the island?” Flint mumbled, his brows pinched together with concern. He now ignored the stew beginning to steam from around the pot’s lid. Joach caught the quick glance toward Er’ril. Was that doubt in the old man’s eyes? Flint waved his ladle at Joach. “Tell us about Er’ril’s attack on your sister.”
In Joach’s chest, twisting emotions roiled. He had initially feared that they would not believe him. Now he was more afraid they would. If Er’ril was a traitor, whom could they trust? Joach stared at Er’ril, who still wore the same stoic expression. Joach swallowed hard before continuing his story. “After dispatching the beast, I heard the creak of wood behind me. I turned and saw Er’ril pushing open the door, his face half crazed, his arm already raised with sword in hand. I knew he meant us harm. He slammed the door and latched it, blocking our only means of escape.”
Wit'ch War (v5) Page 5