“And do you know where your people might be hiding out there?”
Kast licked his dry lips. “No, sir. But the mer’ai move too slowly through these seas.”
These words raised heated murmurs among the other elders. The mer’ai were not wont to hear their shortcomings. Only Sy-wen’s mother and Master Edyll remained quiet.
“Once again, Master Kast, what do you propose?” Edyll asked after the others calmed down.
“I propose that Sy-wen ignite the bond in me and release Ragnar’k. The dragon’s ability to fly will greatly enhance the search and—”
Sy-wen’s mother spoke for the first time. “No. We already discussed this when we left the coast. It is not safe. One dragon is no match against the fleets of the Dre’rendi. Unless the Bloodriders have grown lax, they will easily spot a huge black flying past their sails. Even if an arrow does not take you down, you will alert them to our presence. If we hope to pin down the Dre’rendi and bend them to our wills—”
Now it was Kast’s turn to bridle. “Bend them to your wills? Do you believe yourselves still our slave masters? The Dre’rendi cast their blood upon the seas so the mer’ai could escape to the Deep. It was our ships that held off the Gul’gothal forces so you might live. And do you come back now and think to take us again as slaves? We won our freedom in blood!”
His words had no effect on the cold features of the woman. “We know our histories. We also know that the Dre’rendi have one more debt to pay before they can be truly free.” She waved a hand toward her own cheek. “Do you still mark your sons with the tattoo of the seahawk?”
“Yes, we have not forgotten our old oaths.”
“But do you know why we asked this of you?”
Kast remembered when Sy-wen had bonded to him. During the spell, they had shared a glimpse of an ancient sea and a deal struck upon a dragon-prowed boat. His ancestor had agreed to mark each male when of proper age with the tattoo of a hunting seahawk drawn in the dyes of the blowfish and reef octopi. Kast’s fingers brushed his own cheek and neck where once such a seahawk tattoo had rested. He remembered Sy-wen’s first touch, before the dragon had claimed him and changed his tattoo. It had been a brand upon his skin, binding him to her will, enslaving him for as long as they touched.
Kast glanced at the row of elders. “Why?” Kast asked harshly. “What more do you want of my people? I’m sure they will freely come to fight the Gul’gotha. You do not need to enslave us again.”
Master Edyll answered. “You misunderstand, Master Kast.”
“How so?”
The humor had returned to the elder’s lips. “Have you never suspected?” When Kast did not respond, Master Edyll continued. “In the old tongue, your very name declares your secret. Dre’rendi means dragonfolk.” Master Edyll waited for his words to sink in and for Kast to understand.
Kast just shook his head.
The ancient elder finally sighed. “The seahawk tattoo is not to enslave your people to us, Master Kast, but to bring them back home. Our two peoples must be united again.”
Kast found it hard to breathe. “What are you saying?”
“I am saying, Master Kast, that you are mer’ai.”
PINORR DI’Ra, THE ancient shaman of the Dragonspur, stood by the bowsprit and stared out over the empty seas. The morning breezes tousled his long white hair. He combed the loose strands back from his eyes. Once, when his hair was still black, he had worn it in a warrior’s braid, but that was long ago, before the rajor maga had come upon him. Claimed by the sea gods, his sword had been taken from him, and he had had to untie his braid and don the robes of a shaman. It had been a day of both shame and honor. His lips grew hard at the memory. May he never suffer such a day again.
Pinorr sighed and studied the endless waves. Since he had woken this morning, the sea had called to him, summoning him with a nagging ache in his skull. At this age, he was well familiar with the call. “What is it you want?” he mumbled to the empty water. “Can’t you leave an old man to his warm bed and dreams of the past?” But he knew better. The seas could never be refused.
Closing his eyes, he reached out with his senses. He pushed aside the salty scents from his nose and ignored the soft breezes that brushed his shaven cheeks. He searched much farther than his own skin. Reaching over the horizon, he found it at last—a hint of lightning in the air, the distant wail of wind. He knew the warnings. A fierce storm brewed, rising from the south.
He frowned and opened his eyes. Though the day was clear and the sky blue, by nightfall, the seas would roar and the winds would scream. These southern storms were the worst, whipping the rain-laden clouds of the tropics to crash and tear at the boats of the Shoals. With the boom of thunder in his ears, Pinorr stared at where the ocean met the sky. What brewed over the horizon was one of the worst southern squalls—a true ship killer.
Grim news for the fleet.
Pinorr spat into the sea, adding his water and salt to the great ocean, thanking the gods below for their warning.
“Papa,” a small voice said at his knee, “they’re coming.”
Pinorr continued to stare out at the sea. The child who sat by his ankles was not his own, but the daughter of his eldest son, whose spirit had returned to the waves before the babe was even born. And with her mother dying in childbirth, the youngster had known no other guardian but himself. Pinorr had at first tried to correct Sheeshon’s perception that he was her “papa,” but the poor child was weak in the mind and had never understood. Eventually he had given up trying.
“Sheeshon, who’s coming?” he asked softly, coddling her delusions. He knelt beside the child. Sheeshon was almost ten winters of age, but she still had the wide-open eyes of an infant. When her mother had died in the midwife’s arms, the poor child had had to be cut free from her cooling belly. Unfortunately, the healers had not been quick enough. The child had already been touched by death, her mind damaged.
Pinorr wiped the drool from the girl’s chin with the sleeve of his robe and smoothed back the drapes of black hair. Her face, though innocent, could never be considered pretty. The lids of one eye sagged, and she only had partial use of her lips on that same side. It was as if half her face had melted and drooped. He touched her cheek. Who will watch after you when I am gone? he wondered sadly.
Sheeshon continued to ignore his question and his touch. She concentrated on the piece of whalebone in her tiny fingers, working it this way and that. Her small carving tool continued to dig and scrape at the bone. “I’m almost done, Papa.”
Pinorr smiled at her serious expression as she worked. Though she was addled in the mind, her fingers were skilled; they flew over the bone, feeling, digging, rubbing. With such skill, she might have been able to be apprentice to a master carver, but her dull wits made such a dream impossible. He leaned closer. “What is it you’re carving, dear?”
She waved him away. “No peeking, Papa! I must hurry. They’re coming!” She was so earnest, her brows wrinkling together, her eyes pinched as she worked.
“Come, dear, I must go see the keelchief. A storm rides down on us.” He reached for her shoulder.
“No!” Sheeshon stabbed at him with her small knife, driving him away. “I must finish!”
Pinorr rubbed at the long scratch where the tool had caught the back of his hand. He frowned—not in anger, but surprise. Normally, Sheeshon was so pliable, so easy to direct here or there. This new strident behavior concerned him. He matched it with his own stern words, in a voice that made many keelchiefs cower. “Sheeshon, leave your carvings till after your meal. I’ve work to do. Do you wish to be left with Mader Geel?”
The child’s fingers paused. She finally raised sad eyes toward him, tears streaking her cheeks. “No, Papa.”
He instantly felt like the lowest mud wader. He sighed and leaned closer to Sheeshon, enveloping her tiny hands in his large and bony fingers. Her hands were like embers in his palm. A sickness must be coming on the girl, her skin feverish. Was this the rea
son for her sudden temper? He regretted his words even more.
“I’m sorry, Sheeshon,” he said. “You are my heart.” He pulled the damaged child to his chest. He kissed her on the top of the head.
She mumbled something softly to his chest.
Leaning away, he asked, “What was that, my dear?”
“They’re almost here,” she said, not meeting his eye. Her fingers clutched the figure she had been carving, but she no longer worked at it.
“May I see?” he asked softly, indicating the carving.
She hesitated, then slowly released her grip on the piece of whalebone. “I wasn’t done,” she said in a half pout. “I can’t see them clearly until I’m done.”
“That’s all right. You’ll have time after the high sun meal.” He took the offered chunk of carved bone and tilted back on his heels, raising the figurine to the sun.
He blinked at her work, stunned. Her skill was breathtaking—and she considered this unfinished. The detail work, the smooth curves, even the spread of fragile whalebone into thin wings—all was in such perfect symmetry. He rotated the sculpture in the sunlight. This could be a master’s work.
“I wanted to paint the dragon black, Papa. It’s supposed to be black!” She slammed her tiny fist on the deck planks. The child’s frustration tremored her voice. “And her hair is supposed to be seaweed green!”
“Whose hair?” Then he tilted the sculpture and realized that a small figure rode the back of this handsomely rendered dragon. He had overlooked the tiny rider; she was dwarfed by the huge dragon. “Who is this?” he asked the child.
Sheeshon wore a crooked frown, one side of her lips slack. “Papa, it’s who’s coming. Aren’t you listening?”
He smiled at her imagination. “Ah, so these two are flying here to see you?” He handed back the figurine. “Where are they coming from?”
Clutching the figurine to her chest, Sheeshon glanced around the empty deck to make sure no one was eavesdropping. Once satisfied that they were alone, she turned wide eyes toward him. “From under the waves.”
“Ah, so it’s a seadragon then, like from the stories of the mer’ai.”
“But this one flies through the skies, too.” She lifted the chunk of scrimshaw and dove and glided it about the air.
“I see,” he humored her. “Are they going to take you up with them on fine adventures?”
She stopped flying her dragon and turned to stare him in the eye. Her look was shocked. “Oh, no, Papa, they’re gonna kill us.” She then went back to flying her dragon about the air.
He sat back farther on his heels, watching his son’s poor child. Pinorr rubbed his palms together as if to remove the clinging dust of whalebone from his skin. Mostly, though, he wanted to warm the chill that had suddenly set in with the girl’s words.
Just the ramblings of an addled mind, he told himself as he stood up. But in his ears, he still heard the distant boom of a storm from over the horizon. He stared again at the peaceful seas while lightning and thunder echoed in his skull.
He was now certain.
Whether upon the winds of a squall or the wings of a dragon, doom raced toward them all.
SY-WEN STARED AT Kast’s stunned expression, sharing his shock. How could Kast be mer’ai? The large man stepped away from the coral table as if to escape the elder’s words. Blood drained from Kast’s face, making the tattoo of Ragnar’k stand out like a black blaze on his neck and cheek.
“What is this nonsense you speak?” Kast muttered.
Sy-wen turned to face the council. Surely Master Edyll was making some joke at the poor man’s expense. Kast shared none of the aspects of her people—no webbed fingers, no inner eyelid. Even his dark complexion was so unlike the pale and luminescent features of the mer’ai.
It was these very differences that had first attracted Sy-wen to the brooding man. Even now, the sight of him stirred her heart. His wind-hardened features, ruddy skin, and hair as dark as midnight waters were so unlike her own people. He was like a granite island in a tepid sea.
Master Edyll sat silently, a ghost of a smile on his lips as he recognized her confusion. Sy-wen’s mother remained perched like a stone statue beside him. The other council members muttered amongst themselves, clearly upset with their senior member’s revelation.
Mistress Rupeli, a small brash woman who painted her cheeks in florid hues, twisted in her seat to face down Master Edyll. “You speak our secrets too freely,” she warned the old man. “You may be the head of the council, but that does not give you the right to reveal mer’ai secrets to . . . to this . . . this outsider.”
“He is not an outsider,” Master Edyll said. “He is a man of the sea, as are all Dre’rendi. And more than that, though you may wish to believe otherwise, he is also mer’ai.”
Sy-wen could keep silent no longer. “But Kast is nothing like us. Just look at him! How could you name him mer’ai?” Sy-wen felt the Bloodrider’s eyes swing in her direction. His gaze burned her cheeks. She had not meant her words to sound so dismissive of Kast, as if the man were somehow unworthy to be classified as a mer’ai.
Glancing a quick apology his way, Sy-wen noticed the hurt in his eyes. Her blurted words had wounded him deeply. She should have known better. In the days prior, she had sensed the feelings the man had for her—emotions she had dared not acknowledge, not until she knew her own true heart. Kast had waited these many days for any word from her, some sign that she shared his feelings. But for his patience and kindness, she now only rewarded him with her disdain.
Kast turned stiffly back to the council. “Sy-wen is correct.” He raised his hands and splayed his fingers, revealing the lack of webbing. “None of my people are marked with the signs of the mer’ai. You are deluded.”
Master Edyll’s face grew grim. “If you are so sure of mer’ai history, Bloodrider, then tell me yours. Where did the Dre’rendi come from? What land gave birth to your clans?”
Sy-wen turned to Kast, awaiting his answer. His feet shifted under him. After a long silence, he answered. “We have no homeland. It is said we were birthed from the seas themselves. But the land grew jealous at our birth and cursed us, transforming us into ordinary men so that we might never return to the sea. Exiled from our mother’s bosom, we forever ride the waves, seeking a way back home.”
As Kast spoke, Master Edyll’s smile returned.
“It is just a hearthside story,” Kast stated, glowering at the senior elder. “A myth. But in your eyes, I can see what you’re thinking. You believe the story of our ocean birth to be some sign that our two people share a common heritage. Well, I say again: You are deluded! We share nothing with you, except a history of slavery.”
“Even there you are wrong,” Master Edyll said.
“Then speak plainly, old man,” Kast said, a worried glint in his eye.
Master Edyll turned to Sy-wen instead. “I’m sorry, my dear. With the exception of a few scholars and the council itself, what you are about to hear has been kept hidden from our people. I must ask you to keep this secret.”
Sy-wen glanced at her mother, but again the woman had grown distant, not meeting her eye. Swallowing hard, Sy-wen turned back to Master Edyll and nodded. “Wh-what secret has been kept from us?”
“The true history of our people,” he stated plainly.
Sy-wen’s brow wrinkled. “But I know our histories.”
“You know what we taught you, not the truth. Shame can make one do foolish things, even hide the truth from one’s self.” He glanced significantly toward the other elders.
“I don’t understand.”
“First, I ask that you listen with an open heart,” Master Edyll said. He eyed the large Bloodrider beside her. “You too, Master Kast. Then judge if I am truly deluded.”
Kast simply nodded, his features gone hard, arms crossed.
Master Edyll settled back in his seat. “Long ago, before the lands of Alasea were even settled by man, the mer’ai were fisherfolk. We lived on islands
far out in the Great Ocean.”
Sy-wen interrupted. “You mean we lived in the seas near these islands.”
“No, my dear, on the islands. We were once lan’dwellers.”
A shock passed through Sy-wen. Even though she had spent time among the men and women of the coasts and had learned of their nobility and courage, a shred of old prejudices still sickened her blood at such an idea. She raised and displayed her webbed fingers, as if to disprove the elder’s words. “How could we have ever been lan’dwellers?”
“We were,” Master Edyll stated plainly.
“Or so the ancient texts claim,” the youngest of the elders added, speaking for the first time. Master Talon wore his pale green hair tied with bits of polished coral and mother-of-pearl. As he spoke, he fingered a strand of beaded and braided hair that draped over his shoulder. “Not all of us accept these old tales as our true histories.”
Mistress Rupeli nodded her support. “Some of us know these old tales to be fabrications. I, for one, don’t accept your assumptions, Master Edyll.”
“Assumptions? The scholars, one and all, agree with the validity of the written histories,” Master Edyll countered.
“Scholars can be wrong,” Talon said, throwing back his thin braid.
“And even if the texts were written at the time of our origin,” Mistress Rupeli continued, “that does not mean what was scribed in ink was true. I say we—”
“Enough!” declared the final member of the council, the somber-eyed Master Heron. He slammed his fist on the table for emphasis. “The past is past,” he stated sourly, his bald pate shining in the wall’s glow. “We waste our time on this foolishness. What does our past matter? We should address the current situation. The Gul’gotha mass at A’loa Glen, and the Dark Lord’s minions scour the seas. It is only so long until they discover us and attempt to subjugate us, as they did Alasea. That is the issue we should be addressing.”
Sy-wen watched Master Edyll during this outburst. He just sat quietly, fingers folded on his lap. Finally, he spoke again once the others were quiet again. “The man has a right to know,” he stated softly. He waved a couple of fingers at Kast. “You cannot deny the truth that stands before you.”
Wit'ch War (v5) Page 27