by Lynn Egan
Slowly the animal noises began again. There was a rustle in the bushes there, a flap and twitter elsewhere. All the gentle living going on around him calmed him further.
GRAAWW!
The sound above his head startled him and he jerked away from the tree, looking up. An enormous black raven perched on a branch not far away, tilting its head and fixing a single bright black eye on the boy below. The two gazed at each other for some time before the raven, sensing the boy neither had nor was food, dropped from the branch and flapped away between the trees.
The sudden movement snapped Michael from an almost hypnosis and he leapt to his feet as the bird began to move, raising his arms with a croaking cry. He turned his head and felt a queer tingling come over him, the black ink staining his skin with a spreading change.
He would never remember how he made it to his mother's tower that day. He didn't know how to tell her that this gold-eyed raven who perched on her balcony at dusk was her son. All he could do was mutter to himself with an unfamiliar beak and hope.
~
She had solved the riddle of his change, and guided him through those first days. Now the young man had full command over his bird form and a sure knowledge that it was better if no one knew about it. But he could use his abilities in service to the caravan master, as a lookout at night when no one might notice it was a bird at his post instead of a man.
~
So uneventful was the journey that Michael felt almost guilty as he took his pay from the caravan master when they got to Ameer City. It wasn't a great deal of money, and might only be enough to pay a porter to get his luggage to a ship, but he felt he hadn't earned it. A week of sleeping during the day beside a load of cloth and perching alone at night atop the tallest wagon didn't seem like work. He understood that the caravan master valued the service, and argued with himself until the guilt left him.
A silver coin and a note to one of the guards made sure his luggage would stay safe, so he headed down towards the dockyards of Ameer. Palaces ringed the cliffs above the expansive bay, and the chatter of folks of many races filled his ears. The scents of life, both the delightful and the disgusting, filled his nostrils as he walked. His first order of business was to find out which ship was the next one to the Island, and he headed straight for the Portmaster's office.
His station in life assured him a very brief wait before a clerk ushered him into that esteemed man's presence.
"Ah, me young Master Ishald, be welcome in me place here, sit down, sit down. What'll ye have, wine? Ale?" The man puffed out like a sail in a good wind, projecting an air of authority that demanded respect. Michael objected to the title, stating a future Island dukedom couldn't mean much here on the continent. The older man stated that he gave respect where he felt it was due and no more than that.
"Thank you, Portmaster Merrick, a sip of whatever you have on hand would be fine, I'm sure." Michael accepted a glass from the clerk in attendance, and the two men smiled and began that ancient ritual known as bargaining.
"Yer folk be well, Master Michael, I be sure?"
"As well as any, Master Merrick. What news that comes over the water is as expected."
"Ah 'tis good. And yer schoolin' bein' done, yer duties lie t' the Islandward? Ye just missed a ship, I'm sorry to say."
"I'm sorry to hear that, too. Yes, I graduated well, but it's time to go back. I'm very anxious to return, when is the next ship?"
Merrick huffed a bit at this abrupt question. It bothered Michael that staying for the Senior Jubilee had prevented him from catching that ship, and he had allowed his impatience to show. The smile he gave the other man was full of dismay.
"I apologize, that was rude. If I had news of the Island, I would gladly share it, but letters from my mother have been scarce recently. I haven't set foot on my home soil for more than four years, so your information may be better than mine. Tell me, what have you heard, and perhaps I can fill in the blanks from her writings."
The tension broke and the Portmaster handed him a plate of sweet cakes. The two men spoke agreeably for an hour or so about the doings of the wider world. In between pleasantries they agreed upon a price for the next leg of his journey, which Michael assured Merrick would be sent from his next stop, his financier.
~
Much later, in one of the classier inns, Michael's thoughts took him away from the dinner he was eating. Much of what Merrick had told him about the Island was troubling. Fewer ships sailed to and fro, and when they came back they were less profitable than in past years, and held more folks seeking new lives on the mainland. A blight had struck the fragrant saava trees which were the Island's main export, and less of their oil was available to the market on the mainland.
Knowing that much of his family's fortune rested on the trade of saava, he worried his way over to the offices that handled Ishald's finances. The news there was not as grim as he'd expected.
"Master Michael, good day to you. Yes, I had heard you were in town and with Merrick, and thought you'd be by shortly. That man knows every doing in the world, I swear, and means that everyone else shall hear of it, on the down low of course." The birdlike man in his banker's robes and gold rimmed spectacles waved Michael to a plain chair in front of a spartan desk and sat himself on the stool behind it. A ledger book came out of a drawer with some spare paper and he began to scribble while talking, mumbling figures all the while.
"You've no doubt heard that the saava is up, well supply being down of course. Carry the one there… Now your family had a stake in that naturally but not so much as some others. That's forty-five but tax makes it… The forests of course are lumber and that's always been a factor to your credit… ninety-seven less the percentage… It doesn't do to put all your eggs in one basket, Ellia knew that well…" Michael looked sharply at the little man who totted up figures while so casually mentioning his mother by name. The banker turned an amused eye to the younger man, noticing his attention.
"Young man, we are your mother's family bank first. Always remember that, Michael Feysguir, son of Ishald. Sparro and Sons are hers, first." At these words, he handed a slip of paper across the bare desk and left it in front of the young man, who picked it up and studied it carefully.
"This is… not insignificant, Master Sparro."
"No, my dear Michael, it is not. You may choose to withdraw any amount from any of our agents at any time. The sum remaining will stay invested as Ellia has instructed until she gives you authority to redistribute it. But she has been wise in her stewardship of the Ishald estates and the lands dowered by Feysguir. You would be wise to leave it alone."
Michael cleared his throat and named a sum, and a small one at that. Sparro smiled approvingly and called an assistant to fetch it, then wrote a second note to send with the Portmaster's pay.
"You know our offices in Seasguir on the Island, naturally. Good journey to you, young man."
Chapter Three
Michael's cabin wasn't meant for royalty, but that was how he wanted it. Nimium University treated all students as equals, regardless of race or class, so the lack of amenities felt familiar. His plans didn't include staying in his berth, anyway; he had packed several books and planned to read in the fresh air on deck. There were places among the barrels and crates lashed to the bulwarks where he could recline out of the way of the sailors.
His mother sent him books, for she was an avid reader. She'd told him once that there was no greater comfort and escape than the written word, and the manor’s library had grown varied over the years. She studied languages and cultures, and often had odd histories hanging around which were difficult to find elsewhere. Michael had grown up surrounded by what seemed like the entire world, condensed onto paper.
Michael had chosen a few books from his trunks at random, and one specific volume. This last one his mother had claimed in a recent letter as an old favorite, and unique in the entire world. It was a bound collection of letters between various noble ladies around the time of the
Loss of Trust War, when several of the mainland city-states turned to backstabbing each other instead of honest trade. He flipped through it the first day out, but hadn't been in the mood for centuries-old gossip, and set it aside for later.
By the second day his sides ached from reading a jolly comedy and his head was full of gears and stone slabs after part of a castle-defenses instruction manual. A change in weather from fine sunshine to heavy rain drove him to his cabin, where he felt confined and restless. There were one or two other passengers aboard, who he'd greeted in passing, and he had decided to go visiting when there was a tap at his door.
"Yes?"
"I'm sorry; I'm not disturbing you, am I? It's Fardle, from next cabin."
"Not at all, come in." Michael couldn't remember which one Fardle was, but he was interested to see who he was traveling with. The door opened and a man of the Pahat race stepped in. They were not as tall as the Aelden or as short as the earth-dwelling Daelvar. They had five fingers and round ears and came in all the colors people come in, from alabaster pale to ebony black. Most of the other races found them plain and ignorant. Michael found them fascinating.
Pahat was in his blood, and it was the likely reason he couldn't create fire or light as other Aelden mixes could. He thought Pahat were brilliant; they had to solve problems without magic! That took thought and imagination and the ability to make disparate ideas connect into a greater whole. He had great respect for the race, and wondered why other races disparaged them. Magic was easy; inventing was hard.
There were two low fixed benches at either side of a table in the center of the room, and Michael waved his guest to one of them as he sat on the other. He fished a wheel of cheese and a half loaf of bread from a bin by the door and offered to pour a mug of ale but Fardle waved it away with a sick look on his face. Michael tried not to smile.
"I take it you're not used to the sea?"
Fardle gulped, "No, milord, not much, no."
Michael raised an eyebrow at the honorific, which the other man noticed.
"Oh, I did read the passenger list, sir, I wanted to know who else was aboard. I can call you something else if you like, is it Excellency? Or Your Honor? I'm not very knowl…" The younger man's raised hand cut the poor man off. He was a little tired of a title that wasn't his yet.
"Michael will do fine, thanks. I'm my father's son but that's all. Who else is travelling with us? I didn't look at the list."
Fardle took a scented handkerchief out of his pocket and dabbed his lips with it. Michael caught the whiff of mint and again had to suppress his mirth. The poor man had to be miserable.
"Oh, no one of note I guess. The man the other side of me seems a merchant by his looks but an awful temper. I knocked at his door first but he barked at me dreadfully to go away. I don't think there's anyone else, or no one who paid passage at least. There's not too many go to the Island anymore. Lots more come to the mainland as ever go." Here he patted his lip again and rubbed a cheek. "I'm to see if there's anything to be done about the trees, sir, you know."
"Oh? I'd heard the saava weren't doing well but not much else. Do you know the reason?"
"No, sir, I mean Michael, but I want to try finding out." The man looked bashful, "You see I'm in agriculture."
The word was familiar to Michael, but it wasn't one that was heard in general conversation. Farmers farmed, and knew their business. Generations of fathers and forefathers had passed down the lore of how to till and fertilize the soil, what the weather meant and when to plant. If things got desperate and the family could afford it, or even better if one of them knew some charm or spell, magic could help things along.
But agriculture was a new concept, and only a Pahat would have tried it. It was the study of land and soil, of how plants interacted with each other. Change came slowly to most of the Seven Great Races, especially the Aeld whose long lives gave them the patience to wait out bad times. Add to that the fact that farmers tended to be stubborn and traditional, preferring to blame curses or boggles for a bad harvest. Words like 'acid soil' and 'nitrogeen fixing' caused even open-minded men to scoff. Pahat used the word 'science' to describe their ideas, but the other races translated it to 'hokum'. "Agriculture? What do you expect to be able to do?"
Fardle seemed to brighten immediately. "Oh, I have no idea, but I'm sure I'll be able to figure something out. I knew when I saw your hands that you'd be interested. I mean..." Here he had the decency to blush, "I'm sorry I didn't mean to mention it's just…”
Michael couldn't suppress a sigh. It was the taboo of generations; mentioning how many fingers one happened to have. It was an indicator, sometimes, of a person's predominant bloodline, but had little to do with nobility or strength of character. The Aeld had only three fingers and a thumb, and of course felt that their race was superior. The bestial Rochat and the un-magical Pahat were the only races with the extra finger, the least finger. Aeld looked down on those two races more than any other, and since their long lives caused them to rise to the top of society, their opinion mattered. The fact had always bothered him.
Though born to a position of privilege, the knowledge of his mixed blood caused him not to push the subject. Others of his rank had looked down on him for having the fifth digit, but he saw it as a blessing. People often assumed much less of him than he was capable of.
He waved away the other man's apologies. "It's fine, really. I am interested, yes. We live in times where we shouldn't judge a man's worth by how few fingers he owns." He lifted his mug to his lips for a toast with his pinky extended, and Fardle grinned in genuine amusement before filling Michael in on the intricacies of his profession.
Chapter Four
The weather cleared near the end of the third day and Michael took the time to revel in the fresh air above decks. The trip home this time of year could be tedious, as the winds were nearly all in the wrong direction. It was one of the reasons he hadn't been home in so long. He'd been content to explore the vast mainland, visit his mother's family, and even wander the Rochat-controlled city of Hakh'los at the edge of the vast deserts they inhabited. He sighed at the endless horizon behind them; as the heir of a Duke of the Island, it would be harder to justify traveling back and forth. The freedom that Qilian claimed he had seemed very far away right now.
He had worked boats before, but declined to sign on as crew when negotiating with the Portmaster. This made him feel a little awkward asking the captain if he could take a turn at the crow's nest, since it was not a sought-after job. He wanted to be up in the air after so much time cooped up below. This far out he wouldn't need to watch out for rocks, the seas were peaceful enough, and most sea creatures would avoid them. In these waters, and without a cargo of saava to steal, pirates weren't a danger. The captain conducted a brief interview to make sure he wasn't a spoiled nobleman playing at being sailor, and then ordered him up the mainmast.
He grinned at the boy who swarmed down the rigging as he climbed up himself. In the middle of the sea being a lookout was a boring and often sickening job, and he was sure there were more engaging things for the youth to do on deck. As the boy's toes passed his face, a glimpse of delicate webbing between them surprised him. Was he part Kist, the mysterious water race that never showed themselves? There was a story there, for certain.
Standing in the tiny cup at the farthest point from the ship, and hugging the mast until he got used to the swaying, Michael felt finally a little alone. He'd forgotten the feeling of being at the mercy of Fate. There was fear as his mind focused on the slenderness of the mast he clung to, images of it snapping in half, sending him tumbling into the infinite ocean. Thoughts of his hands or feet slipping and sending him to the same fate, or to the hard deck of the ship, also caused him a moment of panic.
He gave in to them.
Fear is a choice, he'd heard in some class or training or from a wise sage somewhere. Fear is a choice, and you can choose fear or you can choose freedom from fear. He closed his eyes and allowed the myriad dis
astrous possibilities of this moment to flood his every sense. He felt the mast snap, heard the whistle of the wind past his fast-falling body, the smack of the waves, the crunch of his bones on the deck, and breathed the icy cold water as it flooded his nose and chest with its heavy suffocating weight. All these things he let in for the briefest of instants, accepted them as paths he might have to take, and opened his eyes to the thrill of the freedom from fear.
In accepting that the worst could happen, he freed himself from the anxiety that any of it would happen. He accepted whatever Fate had in store for him in this moment and chose to exist aside from Fear. Smiling, heart pounding, black hair whipping in the crosswinds, he turned his sparkling golden eyes to the far horizons, one hand on the mast, and one shading his gaze from the brightness of sea and sky.
~
After a couple of hours, with the sun streaming from behind him, and with the rush of that first mental exercise exhausted, he did have to admit it wasn't the most pleasant of positions on a ship. His distance from the deck amplified every tiny movement of the ship, and he was sure he'd traveled more sideways than forward. He hadn't spotted anything except for schools of fish and the occasional mid-sized predator. He turned his eyes to the skies, which were becoming pale with the sun descending in the West. The clouds were few, and he saw no storms on any horizon. To the southeast he saw Ir - one of the Lesser Moons - shining high. He knew he wouldn't be able to see the two other Lesser Moons from here. Only in the Daelvari Highlands, the soaring mountain peaks that were the spine of the mainland, were those pale dots visible. As he gazed at the shining globe, he thought he saw a flash of something far up above him, higher than even the hardiest birds could fly. He focused on it, wondering what it could be. It was bird-shaped, but he couldn't figure out how fast it was going or what size it was. The calm sea gave him no perspective on the creature, since there was nothing to judge distance with. Even the clouds seemed close enough to touch, so it almost didn't mean anything to him when he saw it pass behind one.