Wavebreaker

by A. J. Norfield

  “I am certain I just need a little practice,” she mentioned to Trista as lightly as possible, obviously trying to hide her embarrassment.

  The drums slowly dropped away, as did the choir. Only the woman’s voice remained, supported by the soft tones of the horn. Then even that stopped.

  “Please step forward, my child,” Duvessa invited Trista.

  She offered Trista a wooden bowl. It contained sap from the Pillar of Life’s roots.

  Trista slowly took a sip from the sweet, cool liquid and handed it back. Aslara stepped forward and used a special mixture of red clay, water and herbs to draw a pattern on Trista’s face. Behind them, Duvessa spoke words in the language of the song.

  Finishing the final markings on Trista’s face and neck, Aslara gently placed her hands under Trista’s ears, along her jaw. Trista stared into the leading mother’s eyes. Her face flushed as Aslara leaned in close. Was she going to kiss her? The thought made her heart race.

  Trista closed her eyes in expectation, but instead felt the leading mother’s lips press softly against her forehead. Trista opened her eyes, unsure whether she felt relieved or disappointed. She looked up at Aslara’s smiling face. The leading mother took a step back and turned around.

  “Today, we gather here in our ancestral hall—surrounded by the written word of our foremothers—to welcome new members to our tribe once more. From this day on, this woman will not merely be a guest; she will be one of us. No longer will she be ‘Trista of the Waterclans’, but Trista, huntress of the Minai! She brings with her a brother, Decan, and her sha’cara, Dalkeira; a winged ancient that has not been seen in generations. On this day, under her guidance, they join us as well,” said Aslara loudly. “Welcome them, embrace them. Teach them our ways, so we may keep strong and pursue the balance of the flows together.”

  Together, the women in the tribe—except for Shiri—sent out a high, vibrating shout of official welcome. The men joined in with low whooping and stomping their feet on the ground, followed by any animal able to call out in its own way.

  As the cheering carried on, Trista felt Dalkeira’s curiosity and excitement rise.

  “You deserve a bit more, I would think,” said the dragon’s voice inside Trista’s mind.

  Dalkeira waded into the underground lake and spread her wings. A fountain of water spouted upward, creating a thin mist that drifted toward the rays of sunlight falling through the hole. As the thin drops reached the sunlight, colors filled the air. The tribe’s greeting intensified under the display of a beautiful rainbow.

  In the back, Shiri silently observed the spectacle, seeing for the first time how Dalkeira performed her watertouch.

  The tribe’s enthusiastic greeting made Trista break out in a grateful smile. Close to her, Decan showed an equally wide grin. She wondered if they had reached a place where they could belong again. A place where nobody would chase them anymore; where they were safe.

  Aslara turned back toward her and brought their heads together. For the briefest moment, their foreheads touched, a gesture Trista found more intimate than the kiss of a few moments ago.

  “Welcome, Trista of the Minai,” said the leading mother softly. “I expect great things of you.”

  After Aslara came Duvessa, who gave a similar greeting. One by one, every woman of the tribe approached her and put their forehead against hers. They spoke kind words of welcome or expressed their happiness to her. Most in the Terran language, some with native words. In those instances, Trista simply smiled and nodded.

  Several of the women politely greeted Decan, but Trista noticed the gesture of acceptance of touching foreheads was only offered to her.

  Is it because he is a child still? Or a boy?

  The tribesmen and children trailed off, while most of the animals lingered, waiting for their Minai counterpart to exit the cave.

  In the end, only Shiri remained with Razza and Shuka. Trista waited, wondering what the first huntress would do. The leading mother invited her partner forward, but Shiri scoffed and walked off, the two hyen’sta following her. Aslara let out a sigh.

  “Oh dear, oh my, try not to worry, my child. She’ll come around,” said Duvessa to the leading mother. The raven repeated her words. “And now that we’ve gotten this out of the way, let’s prepare for the ba’roshia,” said the blind woman, grabbing Trista’s arm. “Mind leading an old woman back to her home?”

  Near the tunnel entrance, the young initiate and old life listener looked back at Dalkeira. The dragon was still playing around with waves. Setting them up, running them across one another to form a more complex pattern and then splitting them in two different fronts again.

  “Are you coming, Wavebreaker?” called the blind woman. “You can continue practicing after the ritual.”

  The two different waves bent toward the center and crashed into each other, producing a large, foaming splash. Dalkeira trumpeted in triumph. She turned her neck around.

  “I prefer ‘ocean beauty’ over that one,” Dalkeira said in all earnest before she launched into the air and disappeared through the dome’s hole.

  “One thing is for certain, my child,” said Duvessa as they made their way out through the tunnel. “She’ll always be one for flattery.”

  Dalkeira was waiting at Duvessa’s place. The old woman sent Trista to get two bowls from the large hut. Next to the hut stood a smaller version of Duvessa’s dwelling, solely built from large, dry leaves. It was just big enough to hold four people, or in this case, a woman and a growing dragon.

  “I still do not understand why we have to do another ritual,” said Dalkeira.

  “Because you need it, my child. And Trista needs it as well. The ba’roshia will help strengthen that which has been lost—or are you saying you don’t feel something missing?”

  “I do,” said Dalkeira reluctantly, wondering if it was for the best.

  “A sha’cara without its bond is fated to lose its way without proper guidance, as is the human tied to it. You need each other for the things to come; the flows have shown it,” said Duvessa. “And don’t give me some excuse about it being better this way, because trust me, it’s not.”

  Dalkeira looked at the old woman, wondering if she could have heard her thoughts, when Trista came back around the corner.

  “Is this what you were looking for, Duvessa? More root juice?”

  Trista handed the life listener two bowls filled with Taori sap.

  “And a little bit extra,” said Duvessa with a mysterious smile. “Now, in you go.”

  They were met with a blanket of warmth as Trista opened the flap to enter the hut.

  “It’s boiling hot in there.”

  Trista looked back at Duvessa, who simply smiled. Tired of waiting, Dalkeira crawled through the opening, keeping her wings carefully folded as tight as possible.

  “I do not mind in the slightest,” she said.

  In the center was a small fire, or rather the remains of one. A pile of stones had been put around it which had clearly absorbed the heat. Duvessa expertly rekindled the flames as she gestured Trista and Dalkeira to take their place.

  A bucket of water stood near the entrance. In it floated several herbs. The water had a heavy, moldy, flowery scent to it.

  “Now, pay attention. You will be on your own in here. None can enter while you visit the lifedream. First, drink the lifesap. All of it.”

  Duvessa watched as Trista emptied her bowl and offered the other to Dalkeira. When both bowls were finished, she continued.

  “Well done, my children. Now pour the water on the stones. Be careful not to put out the fire.”

  With a hiss, the hut filled with steam. Dalkeira shook her head as the strong smell of herbs penetrated her nose.

  “Good, good. Now keep doing that every five breaths. Slow breaths. I’ll be outside.”

  And with that, the life listener left them to their fate.

  “Wait, what are we supposed to do?” said Trista.

  “You’ll
see,” came Duvessa’s voice from beyond the thin, leaf-covered walls. “Just relax and keep doing what you’re doing, my child.”

  Soft singing started outside the hut, accompanied by the soft sound of a drum. Trista did not know if it was the old woman herself who sang, but she heard at least two different voices.

  “Well, I guess it’s just you and me,” said Trista, pouring another spoonful of water on the hot stones.

  Dalkeira remained silent and put her head on her legs, trying to get as comfortable as possible. With every spoonful the air heated up further. The smoke from the fire blended together with the steam, forming a powerful-smelling mixture. It became difficult to see as Trista’s eyes teared up from the stinging air.

  “Are you alright?” asked Trista, hearing Dalkeira snort.

  “I’m fine,” said Dalkeira distantly. “The heat is actually quite pleasant. Very different from the dry heat outside.”

  Trista started to feel light in the head. The room was lightly spinning. The flames made shadows dance on the wall as Trista’s vision blurred in and out of the light.

  Dalkeira, who had been making water globes from the tiny drops floating in the air, let out a large yawn. Her sharp teeth sparkled in the light of the fire.

  “Is that singing getting louder?” asked the dragon sleepily.

  The sound did indeed seem to intensify, guided by a clear tok of wood hitting wood. Or perhaps it was their senses that were imagining things—at this point, Trista did not know anymore. She had trouble keeping her head up, like she was suddenly overcome with exhaustion again. With effort, she poured another spoonful. The fire sizzled like angry snakes. The shadows slithered across the wall. Big, black snakes with triple tails. She felt fear creep up inside her. She tried to move, but her limbs were like stone. Supporting herself as best she could, she lay down and ended up on Dalkeira’s side. The familiar feel of the dragon’s skin countered the fear and sparked a warm, blissful feeling inside Trista’s mind. She wished she felt the dragon’s warmth, but the hot air circling made it difficult to discern from her surroundings.

  “I miss you. Where’d you go?” said Trista suddenly, as if she had only just noticed how far they had actually grown apart these last few weeks.

  She felt water on her cheek and realized it was a tear that ran from her eye. Dalkeira used her watertouch to softly brush it away.

  “I am here. Still here. It was you who went—” was all the dragon said before they both drifted off into the lifedream.

  The Behemoth’s anchor line swayed heavily with the movement of the waves. It was an impressive ship, and a design Bronson had never before seen in his life. Nearly four hundred feet in length, it featured not one but two massive hulls connected in the middle. Its deck could hold a small castle’s courtyard, easily reaching a hundred and fifty feet in width. He was not surprised the ship was all the way out here. There was no way the harbor was deep enough for such a colossal boat.

  Bronson grabbed the anchor line, taking a moment to rest. He stared back at the coast, where the high general’s boat slowly made its way back to the harbor. He had acted as rower for High General Setra’s late night meeting and slid off the boat on their way back. For once, the high general manned the oars himself to get back to shore.

  Above Bronson, the moon hung low, hidden behind a blanket of clouds. The night was warm, but the water cool. He shivered. The darkness brought him comfort and much needed cover, but the water would eventually cool him too much if he stayed there too long.

  The broken prince grabbed the chain firmly and locked his legs around it. His most recent cuts burned in the salty water, but at least his strength had returned thanks to the high general granting him rest. He quickly moved up the iron chain till he reached the ship’s anchor hole. There, he flattened himself against the handrail and listened to the sounds of the massive ship. The footsteps of a guard, the creaking of wood, the closing of a door as the crew moved around. It would be a while before things quieted down. He installed himself in a corner and waited.

  Bronson startled awake as the snap of an improperly tied sail roused him from his doze. He looked up; the moon was high, which meant it was time to move. He listened for any sounds nearby. Only a handful of guards were on deck; the rest of the ship and its crew slumbered. He looked back at Tal’Kabur once more as he readjusted the mask across his mouth. The city’s chimneys smoked uninterrupted. A new batch of worked Talkarian steel would be loaded onto the boats again in the morning, but for now the harbor and streets lay silent, awaiting daybreak.

  Bronson rubbed his legs and took three short breaths to get the blood flowing again. He closed his eyes and hit the back of his head against the ship’s wood. The pain helped him focus. Then he jumped over the rail onto the massive deck.

  On board, Bronson found the deck loaded with supplies. He moved stealthily between the crates and tuns, passing a few of the guards unnoticed. He peered into a dark manhole, saw the coast was clear, and quickly went below decks. Circumnavigating the crew’s quarters, he swiftly sneaked through the ship. He halted before a corner and carefully peeked around it. Two Darkened stood at the door. These disciplined soldiers would not dare sleep while on duty. Bronson inched back and counted the doors in his part of the corridor. The layout of his master’s drawings had been spot on up till now. That meant the third door should be a small storage room, filled with trivial things.

  He slipped into the room and wasted no time with his surroundings. He climbed out the viewing port and clung to the side. This was the tricky part. There was not much to hold on to as he traversed the ship’s hull. He stretched his neck to look around a bulky overhang—and there it was. High General Setra had been right; the windows were always open on warm nights.

  Opportunity.

  Bronson stretched his leg, ducked under the overhang and crawled through the opening with less noise than a ship’s rat. His bare feet landed on animal skin.

  Even better, he thought as he pulled out both his knives. He preferred swords, but with the distance he had swum they had not been an option. The smaller blades would just have to do. He waited for his eyes to adjust; even with the clouded moon, the entire room lay shrouded in darkness. His fists clenched firmly around his weapons, ready to stab anything that jumped at him from the dark.

  But nothing moved. The royal quarters were quiet—apart from a deep, serene breathing to his right. He looked around as the moon partly broke through the clouds. On the far wall were two sets of doors, probably leading back to the hallway. A heavy desk stood in the center, its wood skillfully decorated. Maps and writing materials lay spread out across its surface, accompanied by a small, stone oil lamp which had been turned off for the night. Bronson recognized Tal'Kabur and a large part of the mid-continent on the most detailed map that lay open. A large cross was drawn just south of Shid’el, the capital of their trade partner Aeterra—right in the center of the Crescent Moon Massif.

  Leaving the desk, Bronson sneaked closer to the source of the breathing, alert for any unexpected sounds. He stared at the bed. His heart pounded in his throat. There he was—the object of his hatred. The reason his city suffered and his father was slain. Peacefully asleep under a blanket of the finest fabric; white hairs on the pillow.

  Bronson gritted his teeth and twisted the knives in his hands.

  Just a few more steps.

  He moved with the sway of the Behemoth, but apparently the ship had no intention of letting its ruler be slaughtered. As Bronson put down his foot, the plank underneath creaked loudly. The broken prince stared at his foot, calling forth the names of the damned. When he looked up, the Stone King sat straight up in his bed.

  “Who’s there?”

  Bronson launched forward, hacking down with both knives. The Stone King screamed as the blades dug into his chest. Like a madman, Bronson pulled back the blades and stabbed again and again. Hands clawed at his face, but he welcomed the pain. Pain meant obedience.

  Holes appeared in the blank
et and the bed darkened with blood. Bronson felt his victim weaken. He had done it. He killed the tyrant that slew his father. He saved his mother and sister. Thoughts of triumph filled his head as the life fled from the Stone King’s eyes.

  But his triumph was short-lived. Bronson stared in horror at the man’s arms. Arms—plural, not singular. His master had warned him of the stone arm and its inhuman power. This was not the tyrant.

  Behind him, a door slammed open so hard it nearly flew off its hinges.

  “Assassin,” roared Lord Rictor.

  The entire ship suddenly swayed as if in response to the Stone King’s call. A low rumble traveled through the ship. Lord Rictor stormed toward the broken prince, who just stood there, aghast at his failure.

  Your heart beats for three.

  His master’s words echoed in his mind. They were his wake-up call.

  Lord Rictor’s hands nearly wrapped around Bronson’s throat as his body twisted away from the incoming attack. They tumbled over the bed, flew off the other side and slammed into the wall. Bronson was the first on his feet, jumping back as Lord Rictor swiped his arm across the floor.

  The other door crashed open as the two Darkened from the hall rushed into the room. An axe hurled through the air. Bronson ducked and sprang back up to meet one of the Darkened swords. His hands blurred through the air as he circled both men. He grimaced as he stared into the skeleton face of the Darkened, but years of dual-wielding practice surfaced and he drove his knife up through the man’s chin. Blood spewed from between the warrior’s sewn-shut lips as he dropped to the floor in a puddle of blood.

  Bronson rolled across the wooden desk to avoid the Stone King’s next attack. He dropped to the ground as a sword slammed into the desk’s edge. He kicked out and rammed his elbow into the Darkened’s jaw, dislocating it. The skeleton-faced man twisted around, exposing his back. Bronson drove his blade low into the soldier’s back, severing the spinal cord. Abandoning his knife, which was lodged between two of the Darkened’s vertebra, the broken prince grasped the tiny oil lamp and threw it at Lord Rictor, who made his way around the desk for another attack. The tyrant brought up his stone arm as a shield. The lamp shattered, soaking the inhuman arm in oil. It did nothing to slow the man down. Bronson brought up his arms to shield his head from the incoming punch.