Sorrowfish

by Anne C Miles

  He whispered a prayer, hoping the Storm King would listen.

  “Keep Pezzik safe and watch over Bell. Help me to remember the fae’s message when I need to. Guide my path.”

  Dane changed vessels several times, avoiding notice. The barge finally reached the Thwn Channel. He boarded an actual ship at Bridgeton. Its mast seemed huge, though he was told the ship itself wasn’t large. Dane was pleased to find he didn’t suffer from nausea. He began to enjoy the journey. This channel flowed all the way to the Sundered City and the open sea.

  He spent hours watching the landscape, the forests and fields separated by low stone walls. Occasional towns and the odd fisherman drifted past. He sketched them in his journal and scribbled what he remembered of the fae’s message, committing it to memory.

  He wondered about Trystan, this bard who would receive his first lute. What was the man like? Was he worthy? Would he understand what he had? Could he be trusted?

  Dane’s attention was consumed by the view. As the ship drew closer to the delta, fresh water flowed into salt. The halves of the World Tree towered, glowing like giant pillars on either side of the channel. The Tree was enormous, bone white, its top shrouded. It had split perfectly down the center, like the city just beyond. Clouds served as the Tree’s canopy. They poured down the trunk, wrapping it with a thick, patchy fog.

  Men called the Tree by many names. Ceffyl Brenin, Wyrmfell, the Blood Tree. The World Tree. It was so immense and important it needed many names. Dane imagined the Wyrm scaling the Tree, winding around it. He shivered.

  Dane glimpsed the Tree’s ivory bark and its legendary sap as they slowly entered the rift that flowed through, gliding between its two halves. The blood red sap had been exposed to the elements for five centuries, a hardened, glistening scream. Wider than a palace. It looked like it was still bleeding. How could it possibly be alive?

  Yet it was.

  Dane shivered again and rewrapped himself in his cloak. The sap put him in mind of passing through a womb. Or a scar. The power of the Storm King, Lord of Lightning, had done this thing. Here, where it had happened, Dane could only glimpse a tiny portion of the power expended in that battle.

  “The dark one ascends,” Dane whispered.

  The words escaped before he realized what he was doing. Dane stopped himself with an effort. Suddenly, the murmurs of the other passengers rose to a cacophony. Many made the sign of the arc. Dane tore his eyes from the Tree and hastily arced himself as well. Both halves of the Sundered City shimmered in the distance, its terraced hill split into perfect sheer cliffs, mirroring the riven Tree.

  The ship docked on the Ciclaehne side of the Sundered City. The captain let them know he would be there two days and two nights. After, they would sail around the coast to Baehnt. Dane couldn’t miss the chance. He knew about this fabled port only from Pa’s stories. He had to see it.

  As soon as he stepped off the boat, Dane noticed the torso of a giant stone man, richly carved and eerily animate, jutting from the stone retaining wall. The lower half of his body was contained in the wall. He dominated the exit from the wooden piers into the main city. A monocle covered his stone eye.

  The grotesque held a carved book in one hand, which he looked at now and again. Anyone exiting the docks stopped to speak with him, and soon a queue formed. Dane watched the others. He expected the Speaker’s voice to boom, but it did not. Nothing but rumbling murmurs. Dane listened closely, trying to glean cues as to proper etiquette. While Dane had seen a few inert Speakers in Bestua, he’d never been this close to an active one.

  Dane joined the line of people seeking entrance, watching those ahead carefully. Each interacted with the Speaker for a few minutes before passing on through the large gate, the Wharf entrance.

  A man apparently said something the Speaker found Dissonant. The giant motioned and two grotesques approached, gliding up to flank the now-panicked man. “Take him to the guard,” said the Speaker. The little group moved through the gate. They disappeared into a large building, where, presumably, the City Guard would uncover his chicanery.

  The next person in line moved forward.

  Dane quickly abandoned his plan to pass off Poll’s name as his own and instead rehearsed a truthful response to the giant. The line shuffled forward again. Dane shifted from one foot to another.

  And it was his turn. A stone gaze pierced him, blinking down through a monocle. “Your name?”

  “Danethor Thomas, sir.” Dane said, giving his full first and middle name. He dared not give his surname but also dared not lie. The Dissonance of an outright lie could land him with the guard. Idly, he wondered why the creature needed to blink. For that matter, why have a monocle? Surely that was some sort of chymaera joke.

  “The name of your vessel?” asked the Speaker.

  “The Thundering Wave,” said Dane. “I’m stopping here for two nights. I’ve come from Teredhe, making a delivery in Baehnt.” All technically true. He was taking no chances. The Speaker paused, noting these details in his book.

  That couldn’t actually be a book. It was made of stone. But the Speaker was recording his answers somehow.

  “Do you have any need of direction or assistance?” he asked.

  This seemed to be the last question on Monocle’s list. He’d dismissed the man in front of Dane after asking it. The others had all declined, but Dane grabbed the opportunity.

  “Yes, sir,” he said, flashing his best smile. Speakers couldn’t be persuaded or even like people, but the smile covered his anxiety if nothing else. “Could you direct me to a good inn?”

  The stone man regarded him. He motioned to an imp perched on the roof of the closest building. “Follow that one,” he said. It was a dismissal. Dane gulped, trying not to show his obvious childlike wonder. But then again, he was just a country rube.

  The imp climbed down the building and raised its wings in greeting. Dane could see a ridge of stone ran down the edifice and lined the street. Each building had this raised ridge, and creatures moved along it. Most were whimsical imps like the one meant for Dane, but some were not. Dane stopped to watch as a half eagle met a rather terrifying lion-bat. They melded together when they met, passing through each other before continuing in separate directions.

  Some just descended, melting into buildings.

  They must have been going inside. They were a bit like Pezzik. He knew he was gawking, but only in the Sundered Cities were Speakers so numerous and active.

  All of the cities in Canard were like this once. Now the Speakers were only here.

  We lost so much.

  Dane’s guide spoke when he got close. “Danethor Thomas, you have need of direction?” Its tone was dignified and formal.

  “I need to find a place to stay the night, not too costly, but clean and comfortable,” said Dane.

  Wordlessly, the monster gestured for him to follow. He glided down the ridge alongside the cobblestone street. A few carts were passing through, but most folk were on foot.

  “What’s your name?”

  The wizened face looked at him, his expression unchanging. “We do not have names, sir. We are simply Speakers.”

  Dane harrumphed. “All right then, mind if I call you Hodges?” He was an ignorant, obnoxious peasant arriving in the big city, and he intended to play the part with abandon. The gargoyle hesitated but bared his teeth in what approximated a smile. He inclined his large head.

  “As you wish.”

  “So, do you help with directions all day, Hodges? Or do you do other things?”

  “I guard,” the monster said. “We’re bound to the stone but keep peace in the city. We carry messages and protect the innocent from rogues.” He gestured toward the shanty town, south of the lowest walls. “For the most part, the crime within city walls is limited.”

  “Aren’t you stuck on that?” Dane pointed to the ridge.

  “We can travel on any stone for short periods of time, but it is unpleasant. Eventually movement becomes more difficul
t. We remain on this lodestone way as we can. However, if you were attacked, I could leave it to defend you.”

  Dane was fascinated. “And you’re made by chymaera? How old are you?”

  “I am young, sir. I’m only one hundred years old. There are others much older here in the city. I was made in the Wyn Aerie, sir, the Gryphon.” Hodges pointed to other shapes. “Most gryphon work is in my form, but there are other sigils.” He pointed to a lion-bat. “Made by the Draig, in the Fells.”

  Dane inquired, pointing to a spindly little troll-man with an impish expression. “And that one?”

  “The March, you might know them as Equis,” replied Hodges. “They tend to be pranksters.” His tone showed disapproval.

  The creature turned a corner and continued gliding down the cobbled street while Dane followed, lengthening his stride to keep up. The buildings here were ornately carved. Arches, rosettes, flowers, and leaves gave the street the look of a carved garden. Dane marveled at the craftsmanship.

  Eventually, they stopped in front of a three-story building with a sign that read “The Flaming Guardian.”

  “Thank you, Hodges.”

  “My pleasure, sir.” It bowed and turned back toward the docks. Dane shook his head, still marveling, as it glided away.

  Dane wandered down the stairs and into the common room. Dinner was included with his lodging. As much as he longed to explore the rest of the city, he dared not risk it. However, the common room would have novel sights. Perhaps Dane could glean information, if he were careful.

  He took a seat in a dark corner and sipped a tankard. The ale was refreshing. He relaxed, enjoying the hum of conversation while surveying the other diners. An elderly man and his wife sat together, quietly eating. Several families chatted and laughed across tables.

  A very tall, very thin person with close-cropped silver hair stood up from the bar; Dane’s breath caught. It was a chymaera. His gaze traveled quickly from the odd silken garb to its eyes, searching for their distinctive tilt and a gold or silver color. Its eyes were amethyst blue. The creature blinked and stared back at him. Dane saw a shadow cross its eyes vertically just before its bottom eyelids rose to meet the top. Dane looked away quickly.

  Dane hoped it couldn’t read his mind. He fought himself not to make the Storm King’s sign. Feeling the weight of that eagle gaze, he understood why folk feared them. Dane tried to make himself smaller, cursing inwardly for attracting the creature’s notice.

  He focused instead on sailors in their distinctive blacks and oiled leathers. He heard several odd accents and languages. Dane tried to guess where each person hailed from. Veiled Fenn Folk sat close to the fire, their heads together. There were even a few Northmen, obviously from Pelegor, with white-blond hair in long braids.

  Dane blinked as a dwarf stood from the Northmen’s table and approached the bar. He’d only seen a few dwarves before. Taller and sturdier than every gnome Dane knew, dwarves could be mistaken for them, nonetheless.

  But dwarves don’t wear caps. Gnomes do. Dane chuckled at the thought of the dwarf in a gnome hat. His surprise magnified when the dwarf hesitated and approached his table, leaning over and slamming a mug down with a thump.

  “Bellin,” he said, by way of introduction, glaring over the top of the mug.

  “Danethor,” answered Dane. “Pleased to make your acquaintance.”

  The dwarf raised an eyebrow and harrumphed. “My companions and I need a fourth. Stones.” He nodded toward his table. “Do you play?”

  “Passably well.”

  He rose and followed the dwarf, trying not to spill the two tankards. He glanced over his shoulder. The chymaera was gone.

  “You have your fourth, Birgir. His name is Danethor,” the dwarf said to the largest man as he settled into his chair and gestured to the empty seat. “Now your boasting will reap its just reward.” Bellin’s eyes gleamed. He tossed two coppers in as an opening bid and said something in the Northern tongue.

  Dane stiffened, sure he was the topic of the exchange, but placed his ante next to Bellin’s and scooped up his allotment of square stones. He placed the first on the board, wordlessly. The opening move for the game was prescribed, and he took it. He was wary but determined to know the real reason the dwarf had been so friendly.

  The huge Northman called Birgir raised a mug, his deep voice booming. “Well met, Danethor. My thanks for joining us in battle, ser. My brother Harald”—he nodded to the other bearded Northman, who was studying the board—“and this wretched son of a mountain have challenged my honor. I can best both with any partner. That would be you, in this case. And this”—he gestured to the stones board—“this is the proving ground.”

  Harald snorted, not raising his eyes. He took a sip from his mug and carefully placed a rounded stone. Satisfied, he leaned back in his chair, nodding to himself slowly. His eyes remained steadfastly locked on the stones.

  Birgir quirked an eyebrow at his brother and placed his square stone diagonal to Dane’s.

  At this Harald glared at Birgir, astonished, and shook his head, muttering. He went back to his furious study of the board.

  Bellin placed his rounded stone to support Harald’s.

  Dane placed his stone to flank Bellin’s. Best to attack first.

  “Is it your first time in the City?” Dane asked, looking from the dwarf to his companions.

  Harald appeared to not notice the inquiry, so fierce was his concentration.

  Birgir replied, “No, we represent the Forge and travel where they send us. More times than not they send us here.” He pulled a pendant in the shape of a dagger from beneath his jerkin, the token of the Forge.

  “I am a woodcrafter, cabinets and tables, mostly,” Dane said.

  “Aye and a deemling too, unless I miss my mark,” said Bellin. “’Twas what led me to your table. Rare to see, even here, but it means you know your game.” He winked and nodded at the stones board.

  Dane’s mouth opened, aghast. He would not deny what the dwarf obviously knew, but was horrified to be so distinct when he wanted nothing more than to blend in. As a country craftsman come to the big city, he was forgettable. As a deemling, he could be remembered. Did the chymaera see as well? He set his jaw and fixed the dwarf with a questioning stare.

  Harald placed his stone to flank Dane’s, a riposte. He answered the boy’s unspoken question. “The dwarf says you’re marked.” He raised his eyes, meeting Dane’s gaze. “I canna see it, nor can my brother. But he said,” Harald jerked a thumb at Bellin, “and we have learned over the years to listen.”

  Dane matched Birgir’s nonchalance, covering his initial horror with self-mockery. “We don’t have horns like the old stories say, but stars, what’d she do to me?” He ran his hands through his hair, searching.

  Birgir’s eyes flicked from the dwarf to Dane, amused. he placed his piece, flanking Harald, and captured two round stones. With a flourish, he placed them in his waiting purse and collected the bid coppers from the other players. They all replaced their bids automatically.

  “Lad, never underestimate the cunning of a gnome, especially a female.” Bellin shut his eyes and grimaced, obviously speaking from experience. He pointed to Dane’s left boot. Its buckle peeked from under his trousers, gleaming in the lamplight.

  Pezzik had crafted his boots, as she had for his whole family. The buckle, normally round, had eight sides and a rune inscribed on it, the mark of her Burrow. “Your deema marked you for any who know Burrow crafting. Those who do not, would not take notice. Those who do will take heed.” He tapped his nose. “We are duty bound to make you welcome. ’Tis a simple enough message, but subtle.” Bellin placed his stone.

  Dane sighed, shaking his head. He shifted his feet deeper into the shadows pooling under the table. This mark was easily hidden, for now, but he would have to find new buckles in the morning. “She worries,” he said. “’Tis my first trip alone since my father passed.” Dane studied the board in front of him. He placed his stone in a safe
position.

  “You get to know a man’s mettle,” Harald announced, “two ways. Swords and stones.” He nodded to the board. “You’re a thinker, you are. And cautious, but smart. How you play a game is how you live. You’ll do well enough on your own.” He placed his own marker and took a swig of ale.

  Dane decided to trust any dwarf who knew Burrow lore was indeed an ally, or at least a person who respected the wrath of gnomes. They talked idly of rising prices, the joys of haggling, and the perils of sailing in the last month’s almost continuous storms.

  Dane watched as Birgir controlled every round, masterfully escaping traps set, laying his own snares, and scooping up his winnings. As the eighth captured set and the end of the game approached, Dane was thankful to be part of the larger man’s team and not his opponent. He made safe choices and followed the Northman’s lead.

  While the ale flowed, the game wound down. Bellin fixed Dane with a hard stare. “Have you seen the World Tree lad?”

  “We passed through it as we came downriver, of course. It...I…” He fought to find words to describe the experience.

  The dwarf silenced him with a wave. “Aye, lad. I know the sorrow.” He lowered his voice. “Few dare to approach it on foot, but we plan to make the pilgrimage in the morn. You could join us.”

  Dane took a swig of his ale, considering. He had to get new buckles for his boots. He couldn’t hope that only friendly folk would see Pezzik’s mark. A deemling was possibly as rare as a chymaera to anyone outside the Heyegrove. But after, the day promised to drag, long and empty. He’d be confined to the inn from caution.

  The safe thing was to stay in his room—even the Common Room had proven itself a risk. Yet he’d always longed to touch the Tree. To actually approach it on foot, study it closely? That would be wondrous. And it would be madness.

  “Going on a picnic?” he asked, placing his stone.

  Harald barked a laugh and patted the knife hanging at his belt. “More like a hunt,” he said, baring his teeth. “The Tree and the Song.”