"Your husband believed."
Lovisa's smile was crossed with pain. "I've always thought that if anything happened to him I would know, that somehow I would feel it in my heart. But it's not true."
Out on the waters of the bay, two fishermen hauled in their nets. They had caught nothing.
"Kestrin didn't know," Lovisa said. "She came over to see if I needed anything and her father died while I talked with her. She didn't feel it. She didn't know. And I'll never know unless he returns."
Syliva slid back behind Lovisa and began rubbing her neck and shoulders. "Do you remember what you've always told me when I felt troubled?"
Lovisa nodded. Wistfully, she said, "All will be well."
The children bounced with anticipation while Syliva paused dramatically, as if they had not heard the story a dozen times.
"The winter traveller awoke to find that he had not frozen to death in the snowstorm after all. Someone had found him and saved him. He lay in a warm bed of soft, dry furs, but it was not in his rescuer's house. He was in a cave — a cave like no other, for it was furnished with a huge table and chair roughly carved from granite blocks. And his lost reindeer and sled were there too. From the back of the cave came heat and light and a sound like massive bellows pumping furiously. Then a deep voice rumbled with laughter."
"The fire giant!" squealed Ceryn, her youngest granddaughter.
"Yes," Syliva said. "But it's getting late, and that is another story."
The sun had slipped low, barely skimming the mountains to the north, but that was as far as it would go the entire night. It was the one day of the year when the sun did not set.
"No! Tell it!" the children shouted.
Syliva looked at the faces surrounding her in the open yard behind her house. Women with babies in their arms leaned their heads on the shoulders of their husbands. Aksel sat close to Celvake, and Jonn lounged on the ground with his two nieces. It had not been the usual Midsummer's festival, with its day-long feast and boisterous dances. It had been quiet and good, though.
Kestrin thrust her head out the window of the guest house. "Syliva. I think it's time."
Since her father's passing, Kestrin had buried herself in work, carrying water for anyone who felt weak, cooking, trying to help all who suffered even the slightest ill, and hardly ever sleeping.
Syliva stood and addressed the circle of villagers. "Well friends, it seems that I must help with the new life that is coming into the valley — "
"It's about time," Celvake said, "she's been in there since before noon."
" — so I will say goodnight now." She recalled the words that had been spoken at the end of this festival since the Cycle of Ice.
"By the winds of the west and the light of the sun, Midsummer has come and now it is gone. The days grow shorter, and we shall meet again soon. To sing and to dance with the old harvest moon."
As everyone turned to go home, Syliva rushed to the old house. Ulrika Monjor, who had been there all day tending Lovisa with Kestrin, met her at the door.
"The baby is coming too fast."
As she stepped inside, she saw Lovisa fall back to lie limp in wet sheets, her eyes unfocused.
Syliva went to her and knelt. "She's already in the temper?"
Kestrin nodded. "She just now went into it."
They sat with Lovisa for a time, Kestrin holding her hand, Ulrika mopping her forehead with a damp cloth, the labor getting heavier and heavier as the midnight hour dragged by. The oddly hushed world outside made every sound in the little house loud and jarring.
Syliva spoke gently to her. "We're almost there, honey girl. I think I can see something."
Lovisa's eyes widened as pain seized her, and with a sharp cry she almost sat up.
"Come on," Syliva coaxed, "let it happen now. No, wait, he's coming out backward. Don't push."
"I can't help it," Lovisa said with alarm.
"No, no, you must not. I have to turn him around."
"Syliva! It hurts!"
"Hold on. He's being stubborn."
Ulrika leaned in close to Lovisa. "Do you want something to bite on?" Lovisa shook her head.
I can't turn him," Syliva said. "Try not to push."
She turned to Kestrin. "Reach in my bag and get the razor I keep there. You know the one."
"What are you going to do?" Lovisa cried.
"I'm going to take the baby. And you will both be well."
She turned to Kestrin. “Hurry,” she whispered, "before it's too late."
CHAPTER 17: Night Storm
Reyin stood in the shadow of a deserted cooperage, waiting for his breath to calm and studying the ships along the old wooden dock. The weird that he followed had led him past the great stonework quays lined with magnificent galleons, and now told him that what he sought lay close, very close.
He had dismissed the two-masted felucca as soon as he had seen it, thinking that his quarry would be on a passenger ship, but his focus kept drifting back to it. The crew had put a jolly-boat over the side near the bow of the ship and were now lowering the anchor into it with a cable. It took four men to lower the massive iron spade and four men to receive it in the boat. They lowered it straight over the side, allowing it to swing freely, and it bumped the hull of the ship, sending hollow echoes across the water.
A man came out of a little deck-house at the stern and called for quiet. The ship's lantern hung from the forestay, where the crew now worked, and Reyin couldn't see his face clearly. But he knew the voice. He had heard it earlier at the Libac estate.
The crewmen settled the anchor into the bottom of the small boat, and two of the men at the rail passed oars to those in the jolly-boat while one climbed down to seat himself at the tiller. The oars were fitted to the locks, the sailors pulled, and slowly they glided across the calm waters of the harbor, two men at the rail of the felucca paying out the long heavy cable.
Reyin had travelled by sea many times and knew exactly what they were doing. They were preparing to warp the ship away from the dock. The men in the jolly-boat would row a hundred yards out, drop the anchor, then come back to the ship and haul away on the cable. They would pull the ship all the way out to where they had anchored, and if there was any wind at all they could then raise sail and be gone within minutes.
With the crew of the felucca absorbed in warping, Reyin crept forward, crossing the harbor road, all too aware of the brightness of the full moon. From behind a heavy wooden pile at the foot of the dock he saw that the gangplank had been raised, but the gap remained narrow enough for him to easily leap across and haul himself aboard. He looked carefully for a guard or watchman, very much expecting to see one. Nobody was there; all were occupied with getting underway.
As if to prompt him, a thick cloud passed across the face of the moon, the entire harbor falling under its shadow. He crouched low and stole from pile to pile, keeping the hull of the ship between himself and the men working at the opposite rail. The middle of the ship looked like the best boarding place — less water to jump and the freeboard was lower there. He heard the men in bow talking now. Without hesitation he made the leap, slipped over the rail, and listened. They were still talking. Good. Their own voices would muffle any slight sound he made.
Walking on the balls of his feet, his heart racing, Reyin went aft to the deck cabin. The tiny window on the starboard side looked rusted shut, the filthy glass letting only blurred images pass through. He heard a low droning from the back side and tiptoed to the corner. Slowly, he leaned his head out and discovered two small aft-facing windows open to the warm night air.
The intonations of a ritual chant sounded from the windows, and Reyin decided to take a quick look, confident that the magician inside would be completely focused on his spell. The man Libac had called Orez, now wearing an embroidered scholar's robe, was on his hands and knees inside a circle inscribed with charcoal. The cardinal points of the black circle were marked by a glass orb, a burning brazier, a bowl of water, and a jag
ged crystal, and in the center lay a steel dagger.
A canvass duffle peeked out from underneath a narrow bed.
Reyin knew the invocation. It would summon a storm. Even with a precise ritual, storm-bringing often proved chancy — a dangerous way to cover an escape. Along the circumference of the circle the magician wrote the names of the winds to be invoked, maintaining the peculiar rhythm of the chant.
Reyin waited. It was in the canvass bag. He could feel it from where he stood. Would the supplicant be so entranced by his summoning that he would not sense the relic being taken away? He glanced out to where the jolly-boat had stopped. They were shipping oars and changing positions in an effort to get rid of the anchor without upsetting the boat. He returned to watching through the window.
The sorcerer now took up the knife and nicked the palm of his left hand just enough to let the blood run, his voice taking on an ululant quality, the chant getting louder and wilder. He lay face down in the circle, placing his bleeding palm over a point between north and east on the eldritch compass-rose, and the chant became a wail, the howling of a typhoon. If the men at the bow heard that terrible sound, they chose not to acknowledge it.
This was the apex of the spell, what Reyin had been waiting for. He quickly went around to the door of the cabin. As he reached for the handle, he felt a knot of fear tighten in his stomach, nearly paralyzing him. There was nothing for it now. Gingerly, he eased the door open a little way and slipped through.
He stood less than three feet from the supplicant's leg, only two steps away from the canvass bag. He didn't dare breathe, didn't dare think, but the spell was at its loudest now and would be over in a few seconds. He took the two steps, slid the sack holding the artifact out from under the bed, tucked it under his arm, spun on his toe, and was out the door before he knew what he did.
Then he froze. The outline of a huge sailor with something long in his hands now stood at the docked side of the ship, cutting off his escape. The man turned slightly and Reyin saw that he faced away, toward the harbor road. It occurred to him that he could run and jump past the man onto the dock, and then it would be a foot race that the bulky sailor was sure to lose. He braced himself, then noticed the flared end of the object in the crewman's hand. It was a blunderbuss, probably loaded with a handful of pistol balls. No, he would have to go over the far side, into the open water, and if anyone spotted him he would just have to swim for it.
He went quietly to the portside rail. The crew of the jolly-boat were still out there, but the two men attending the cable were gone. Then the moon tore free from the cloud that had imprisoned it, flooding the ship with bright moonlight. And they were there, standing only ten feet away from him, one holding a long dirk, the other pointing a horse pistol directly at Reyin's chest.
"If you move, even a finger," the mate said, sighting along the barrel of the enormous handgun, "or if you just say a word, I'll kill you."
But as he said that, a black figure slid silently down a loose rope, grabbing the hair of the two seamen from behind with each hand. Powerful arms drove the two heads together, the impact of their skulls making the sound of a keg being tapped. They sank to the deck like boneless sacks of flesh.
The horse pistol slipped from the mate's limp hand, the wheel lock releasing the instant it struck the deck. Sparks flew from the mechanism, and the weapon fired with an ear-splitting report. At once the big sailor turned and fired from the hip in his panic. Lead balls whizzed past Reyin's ear.
"Boarders!" the sailor bellowed, throwing down his spent firearm and reaching for the cutlass at his hip.
Farlo rushed to Reyin's side. "Is that it?" he asked, pointing to the bundle under Reyin's arm.
Reyin blinked. "Yes. It is." His voice seemed loud in the ringing silence and sudden light.
At the doorway of the cabin stood the sorcerer holding an antique lamp that spit out a foot-long tongue of flame. His eyes shined blackly. He raised his left hand, as if to touch the flame or draw it to him, and now Reyin saw the large ruby ring on his middle finger, and saw the jewel glow more brightly as the lamp flame diminished and went out, its fire pulsing hotly within the gem.
"Run," Reyin said to Farlo, backing toward the bow of the ship.
The supplicant cast his hand toward them, and Reyin, as he turned, felt sharp heat plough a burning furrow up the side of his leg. A stream of fire ran from his knee to his hip, now continuing up the side of his doublet, branching across his chest and spreading into a wave. Stunned by pain and shock, Reyin could do nothing.
Then he felt himself lifted, a broad shoulder in his gut driving him up and back. Falling, upside down. Enveloped in water. Holding it close with both arms. Farlo dragging him deeper.
Farlo towed him by what remained of his doublet, and Reyin hugged the device containing E'alaisenne tight against his body. Reyin felt himself lifted by it. It was buoyant, and Farlo struggled furiously to take them deeper. They were passing underneath a great black shape — the hull of the felucca. He was taking them under the ship. Farlo quickly tired of fighting to swim deeper, changing to a level stroke, and Reyin had no choice but to be hauled along, the encrusted hull and sharp keel jabbing and scraping and cutting him.
They surfaced gasping for air in a shadowed place, a bizarre ceiling close to their heads. Farlo had brought them up under the dock.
They rested there, clinging to the piles, only long enough to take a few deep breaths. Farlo waved for him to follow and Reyin nodded. As they worked their way toward shore along the underside of the dock, Reyin heard muffled voices from the felucca.
" . . . seen them come up."
"Break out some pistols . . . lantern."
Then a shout, "Get back to the ship! Row quickly, boys!"
They were more than halfway to shore when they heard, "Malor, they're under the pier. Get the plank down. Ahoy boat! Make straight for the dock!"
"They've figured it out," Farlo hissed.
"Worse than that. He knows. Let's get out of here."
Farlo swam like a madman, reaching the last timbers within seconds. He scrambled up the shoring before he noticed that his friend lagged far behind.
Reyin stayed for a moment. Reaching up and gently brushing the planks and timbers with the tips of his fingers, he whispered, "Nikte Mok Helardre, Ishdeveulen Alazz."
He found Farlo crouching in a moon shadow below the edge of the pier.
"Take a look," Farlo said.
Reyin lifted his head a little. The huge sailor, a pistol in each hand, walked alongside the sorcerer, who had rekindled his ancient lamp. The sailor scanned the water on both sides of the dock. The other man seemed to see nothing, as if he were sleepwalking.
"What do you think?" Farlo said urgently. "I say we make a dash for it."
The jolly-boat swung into sight around the stern of the ship, heading for the far end of the pier. After a few final pulls, they upped oars and made ready to dock.
"Wait," Reyin whispered.
The other magician suddenly stiffened and pointed straight at their hiding place. "Malor, they are over there."
At the same time, the jolly-boat scrapped against the wharf and the crew poured over the side.
"Hurry boys! This way," Malor yelled. The sorcerer tapped him on the arm, and they started down the pier, not waiting for the other men.
Gripped by the fear of magic, Farlo tugged at Reyin's sleeve. Even after all that Reyin had told him, he had not been prepared for a man who could throw fire.
"They'll be on us in moments — let's run while we still can."
"Wait. Just a few more steps."
Malor was half a stride ahead of his master when the planks under his feet gave way. The break rippled across their path like rifled cards, leaving a ten-foot gap beneath them. They clawed the air as they plunged into the dark water, Malor losing his pistols, the lamp hissing out.
"Now," Reyin said, scrambling up the embankment and onto the harbor road. He crossed the street at a dead run, Farlo at his
elbow, heading for the deep darkness that lay in an alley between two warehouses.
From behind he heard someone shout, "There they go!"
They ran down the alley, slipping on garbage and stumbling over debris. Soon the way branched left and right in the face of another warehouse, and they stopped and stood panting. The moon looked down along the cross-alley, lighting it well. They could see, to the left, that it ran into a wide street where one-horse buggies and pedestrians passed.
"Shall we?" Farlo said between breaths, holding out his arm to usher Reyin toward the street.
"You go ahead," Reyin said, looking back at the way they had come. "But let me borrow your knife first."
"What are you going to do?"
"Leave them something to look at. Wait for me halfway down, and whatever you do, don't look back. Not even a glance."
A minute later Reyin joined him. "They're coming up the alley."
They ran once again, but when they turned the corner Reyin stopped and threw his back against the wall, hugging the canvass sack to his chest.
"Farlo," he said, his eyes tight against the pain that now claimed its full due. "I'm exhausted. My mind has gone numb and my leg feels like it's still on fire. We need a place to hide-out and rest for a few hours."
"The Barrel — The Topmast Inn. Remember the night watch? They had never even heard of the place. No one will ever find us there."
Reyin eyes half opened. "Oh, he'll find us alright. Or it is this, rather," he patted the device within the canvass sack, "that he will certainly find, given enough time. But The Barrel isn't far from here, and I'm too tired to do anything else. Let's go."
When Ephemeris, still wet, and icy with anger, reached the end of the alley, he was not looking for an arcane symbol carved into the warehouse wall facing the way he came, and he and his men reached the narrow intersection before he saw it. He threw up his arms.
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