by L. M. Roth
It had been a mistake, Fanchon said, one of those foolish infatuations that sometimes spring up in a moment and die just as quickly, no? Or so she reasoned.
Dag, however, viewed the matter in a different light. The angry mob and sentence of death pronounced on him in Trekur Lende combined with the return to her home had proved too much for Fanchon to bear. She was like a butterfly, he said, and butterflies are not made for hard times. It was for the best to find that out now, and let her go to live her life in her own way.
But that way was not the way of Alexandros, Felix remarked to Marcus. In his eyes Fanchon had fallen away from the truth and returned to her old habits. She could not resist temptation. Marcus agreed, but felt that sooner or later Dag and Fanchon would have encountered stormy seas. They were far too different to have found lasting happiness unless each was willing to change for the other. And that had not happened. Fanchon could not endure the rugged isolation of Trekur Lende, and Dag would not become a pampered son-in-law who did not earn his keep. Nor would he renounce Dominio so Fanchon could live without fear and have the freedom to indulge in her folly. It was for the best, Marcus thought.
A complication had arisen with the defection of Fanchon from their little troop. Kyrene insisted she could not continue with the others because as a lone woman in a group of men her reputation would be tarnished. Marcus and Felix considered the truth of this and tried to think of a solution to their dilemma. For not only did they genuinely wish to retain Kyrene’s companionship, they still needed her guidance and mentoring.
Surprisingly, a solution to their problem was provided by Fanchon. She had discussed it at length with her parents, she said, and they agreed to give Elena to Kyrene as a lady’s maid. It would be a gift to them for taking such good care of Fanchon on the journey.
Kyrene was appalled at being given another human being as casually as if she were presented with a doll. Not wishing to offend, she agreed to take Elena with her only on condition that it agreed with Elena, and if she could pay her wages as a freewoman, and not a slave.
Pascal and Gaelle were taken aback, but after consultation with Elena they agreed to Kyrene’s terms. They granted the slave girl a certificate of manumission, proclaiming her freedom, and bade her goodbye.
Elena could scarcely believe her good fortune, and was eager to begin the journey. For the friends had been kind to her, always thanking her for services rendered, and calling her by her name. Marcus was relieved that Kyrene would now continue with them, for Xenon had sent her with them to be a spiritual guide.
Now they were at the pier of the city preparing to embark in their small boat. They had said their farewells to Fanchon’s parents at the villa, but Fanchon insisted on seeing them off at the river. Marcus wished she would have stayed at home.
One by one she bade them adieux, hugging Kyrene, tousling Cort’s curls, shaking hands with Marcus and Felix, coolly inclining her head to her former slave Elena. When she came to Dag, she drew a shaky breath, but made no move to touch him. Her blue eyes suddenly filled and she clapped a hand to her mouth; then steadied herself with visible difficulty.
“Goodbye, Dag,” she whispered softly.
Dag said nothing. He stood tall and straight before her, and gave her a long, unblinking look, as if memorizing her features and every strand of her golden hair. He nodded briefly, and turned from her to the boat.
“Goodbye, goodbye!” Fanchon cried to them all. Then with a burst of tears she picked up the hem of her robe and ran from their sight.
She was gone.
They cast the rope from the pier and let the River take them. Dag continued to gaze at the empty shore, but said nothing. Marcus longed to say a word that would ease the great man’s pain. He opened his mouth, but Dag stopped him with a lift of his heavy hand.
“It is done,” he said. “We will speak of her no more, if you please.”
Chapter XXIV
A Perilous Crossing
Beyond the Pillars of Petruchios where the sea broadens to the full scope of True Ocean, lay a region so fair and yet perilous that sailors spoke of it in whispered awe. It was, so they said, of such depth it could not be measured by even the longest of their ropes. The waters were of the clear, clean blue of the sapphire stone, dark and dazzling. Yet they held hidden dangers; whales that might suddenly sound from the deep and burst upon an unsuspecting vessel. And the Cherak, though rarely sighted at the surface, occasionally surprised the unwary sailor who couldn’t resist the temptation of a brief swim while the ship lay at anchor. An encounter with such a creature usually resulted in death or dismemberment. If his shrieks of pain and terror were heard by his fellow sailors, they were frequently answered with paralyzed immobility as they abandoned the man to his fate.
For what, they reasoned among themselves, could they do to defend a man against such a fearsome creature? Five times the size of a man, with an impenetrable hide, that their spears seemed ineffective against, and a mouth that could swallow a man whole, with teeth as long as a man’s finger, that could crush and grind a man to death. The only help they could offer was to throw their spears from the shelter of the boat, and offer the unfortunate victim a rope to climb back aboard; provided he had an arm left after the attack.
But the peril that all sailors feared most of all was that of a narrow stretch of water that lay in the Belt of Dracomache in the Argyros Pontos, or the Silver Sea. Like quicksilver it could change from a glassy surface smooth with serenity to waves rippled by squally storms that blew up without warning. The ancients who first traversed this stretch of water dubbed it thus, because they claimed that the mighty Dragon who lived at the bottom of the world lay in wait for the unsuspecting ships that entered its lair, that it might devour all those on board.
Here, it made war on those who trespassed on its domain. It rose up with a mighty heave, flinging towering waves to crash over the decks of a ship. Its breaths of fire were unleashed as bolts of lightning that seared those hapless enough to be in its path. Its cries of outrage hurled booming thunder over the water in a deafening roar. The lashing of its tail threw water cascading upward, only to fall back on the sea in a torrent of blinding rain.
No captain willingly entered this fabled stretch of sea. The prudent avoided it; the heedless or uninitiated paid for it with the loss of ships and human lives.
It was to this stormy belt of water that the little band of companions now headed.
Soon after their departure from Gaudereaux, it became painfully clear that their small boat would be no match for the ocean they must cross to reach Valerium. A council was held among them: Dag, Cort, and Elena argued to board a larger vessel, taking their small craft along to be used when they left the true ocean.
Marcus, Felix, and Kyrene questioned whether in doing so they would be disobeying the instruction of Xenon, who advised them to let the River Zoe take them where it would. Felix was gradually won over by the reasoning of Dag and Cort, who spoke of ocean currents and waves that their little boat could not withstand. Marcus and Kyrene, realizing that they were in the minority, gave way to the others, albeit with foreboding in their hearts.
“Know this,” Marcus announced. “If we disobey the instructions given us by Xenon, we place ourselves outside the protection of Dominio. For to go our own way is to test Him, and my heart misgives me in this action.”
Kyrene nodded her head in agreement, but to no avail. The others were adamant on boarding a larger vessel, so they booked passage on a ship that was headed for Valerium. It was this craft that now found itself heading into the Silver Sea.
Marcus paced the deck, a feeling of restlessness heavy on his spirit. The heat was intense, the air dense with moisture, and a haze lay on the horizon. Whether it was due to the sultry air or the defection of Fanchon from their ranks, he could not say, yet all were somewhat fractious of temper, and sharp words had passed between the usually placid Dag and cheerful Felix.
Marcus reflected on the events of the past few weeks. It wa
s more than a fortnight since they left Fanchon in Gaudereaux. Her decision to stay in her native land and return to her old life was not a choice that truly surprised Marcus. From the day in Trekur Lende when he saw the dismay on her face at the first sight of her future home he had both expected yet dreaded the break with Dag. For how could such a frivolous creature so enamored of merriment possibly adapt to the harsh environs of the northern forest?
Yet how could one even as strong as Dag bear the defection of his love twice in one lifetime? Dag, so it seemed, had a deadly desire for lighthearted damsels who led him a dance. If Fanchon was like a fragile butterfly, in some respects Dag was like the moth that could not resist the flame of her gaiety. And like the moth, his wings had been singed. Would he, Marcus wondered, ever find the courage to love a third time?
Marcus confessed himself curious regarding the friction between Dag and Felix. Had Fanchon been the cause? She had always irritated both Marcus and Felix, of that there was no doubt. Her aimless prattle and endless running commentary on every new experience of their journey only served to make Marcus long for Tullia, with her quiet dignity and pleasant conversation.
And what now, of Tullia? If Urbanus was to be truly believed, she was all but betrothed to Decimus Hadrianus. Marcus pondered; he knew nothing of Decimus, a stranger to him. When he last visited Lycenium with his parents three summers ago, a different man had been Governor. What of this Decimus? Was he a good man? Would he truly love and care for Tullia, as he, Marcus did? As for himself Marcus realized he would always love Tullia, to the day he drew his last breath he would love her. He would give himself to no other woman. Whether Tullia would have him or not, his heart belonged to her.
The sound of approaching steps roused him from his musings. Felix rounded the corner of the deck and waved a greeting as he came into view. He joined Marcus at the rail and together they gazed at the expanse of water in companionable silence.
Marcus noted the beads of sweat on the brow of his friend. His own robe seemed plastered to his body, as though he had jumped fully clothed into a fountain and emerged saturated. In truth, the oppressive air drained him of all vitality, so that even conversation was an effort.
Not even in the Desert of Dubar had he experienced such heat. For there the air was burning yet dry, as if one had stepped into a kiln. But this hot humidity brought to his mind the steam chambers at the baths; wet, heavy, and suffocating. How Marcus longed for a breeze to cool his body down! But the air did not stir, and the ship had lain idle for two days.
“The Captain tells me we are near the Belt of Dracomache, and there we will have stormy seas, if we are so unlucky as to enter those waters,” Felix remarked.
“What is the Belt of Dracomache?” Marcus inquired, grateful that Felix did not first comment on the heat. He abhorred unnecessary remarks on the obvious, and appreciated anew the intelligence of his friend.
“The Belt of Dracomache,” Felix solemnly intoned with a wicked sparkle in his eye, “belongs to the dreaded, feared, loathsome Dragon who lives at the bottom of the world. She wages war on all who enter her domain, and wreaks her revenge by sending their ships to the ocean’s floor. She floods the decks, as she rises; she singes the sails with her breath of fiery lightning. She is fierce, mighty, and feasts on the bones of her foes!” Felix shuddered in mock horror. “Or so I have been informed,” he chuckled as he shrugged one shoulder.
“What is the logical cause for such storms?” Marcus asked, as he raised one brow in his skepticism.
“I know not,” Felix admitted. “Currents? Hot air masses? I would venture that this heat is key to the nature of such a tempest, and is the fault of no dragon.”
“Watch your words, young Master!” the Captain warned as he came up behind them.
So quiet was his approach, and so entertained was Marcus by Felix’s droll commentary that neither had heard his step.
“I have heard too many tales of the Dragon’s vengeance to mock her, nor scorn her power,” the Captain continued. “Why just two summers ago a ship sailed by one of my oldest boon companions was lost in these very waters we are so perilously near. More than one hundred souls there were on board that vessel, and all of them lost, sent to the depths of the sea by the terrible beast.”
He closed his eyes and shuddered as he let out a sigh.
“I would not willingly enter the Dragon’s domain for all the treasure of all the kingdoms of the world. Yet if this drifting takes us into the current we will be powerless to save ourselves.”
“Current, you say?” Felix snatched at the word. “Then there is a logical explanation for the ferocity of these tempests you told me of.”
“No, young Master,” the Captain vehemently denied. “It is the wrath of the Dragon and no mistake. You see, many, many years ago, before there was a Valeriun Empire, a great tragedy befell the Dragon. She had a child, a baby who loved to play and be amused. How he relished flying over the sea, watching the whales and the dolphins sporting in the waves.
“Then, one fateful day, it spied a ship, a sight it had never beheld til now, and it joyfully flew over the mast to explore this new creature.
“The lookout, however, raised the alarm at the sight of the dragon, young though it was. The captain and the crew rushed onto the deck, and with one well-aimed arrow brought the creature down.
“Great was the relief on the ship, but greater still was the grief of the baby’s mother. With a cry of outrage she rose from her bed on the ocean floor and took her vengeance. Towering waves announced her coming as she ascended to the surface. The lashing of her enormous tail sent the water spiraling to the heavens, and returned as torrents of rain that blinded the eyes, leaving the ship without a guide to steer her.
“But most dreaded of all was her voice. She roared in a spate of fury and it thundered across the sea, striking terror into the hearts of those who heard it. She breathed her vapor on the mast, setting it afire with the scorching as of a bolt of lightning. And then, she waited; waited for the ship to break up and sink to the bottom. And there, she lay in wait, to feast on the flesh of those who had taken the life of her child, her vengeance complete.”
The Captain lowered his voice on those last words and closed his eyes.
“When the air is heavy and day is hot,
To enter the Dragon’s Belt you dare not.
For she wreaks her vengeance upon her foes,
From her rage and grasp so ruthless none goes.
She rises in fury out of the waves,
Sending the sailors to watery graves.
All the unlucky are seized in her hold,
Ending the days of the valiant bold.”
“So you see, young Masters,” he continued as he opened his eyes once more, “it would not be wise to cross the Dragon.”
Chapter XXV
In the Dragon’s Belt
It was the evening of the second day since they had lain idle. Marcus and Felix took a stroll on the deck, where they were at least in the open air and not suffocating below. They were joined by Dag and Cort, who had much the same notion. Exhausted by the heat, none of them wasted their diminished strength in conversation; instead they saved it to struggle for breath in the oppressive atmosphere.
By this time, Marcus found that even thinking required an effort. He felt drained and numb by the heat. All he desired to do was lay down and rest his weary body until the heat broke.
He glanced at his companions. They all wore the same look of dazed inertia that he too surely must have borne. The soggy, humid air made one as limp as a linen tunic that was washed and wrung out to dry. Until it dried and regained its freshness and shape, it flapped listlessly from the line where it was hung.
And then suddenly, Marcus felt it. Something soft grazed his cheek and ruffled his hair. Again the touch came, more intensely this time. A breeze! The air was stirring, cooling his brow and lifting his spirits.
Felix let out a whoop and spun around in an impromptu dance. Dag’s face broke into
a broad smile as he wiped beads of sweat from his forehead. Cort raced around the deck as excitedly as a puppy turned loose to play. They all burst into laughter at the sight and reveled in the refreshing breath of wind.
A commotion was heard on deck as the Captain and several hands raced to the mast. The sail flapped in the breeze, and filled out as the breeze changed to a steady wind. A cheer went up and there was much clapping of hands on shoulders as they rejoiced in the return of the wind. The ship lunged forward and continued her voyage that had been stalled by the lack of a headwind.
Joy soon turned to anxiety when the wind increased with a sudden intensity. Marcus looked backward to the group of men hovering around the sail, and saw the smile fade from the face of Dag as he furrowed his brow. Dag caught the eye of Marcus and nodded in the direction of the rail.
“What are those clouds?” he muttered.
Marcus turned and gasped at the sight that met his eyes. Only a few minutes ago the sky had been hazy but free of clouds. But now a mass of ominous dark clouds had piled up on the horizon as the ship got caught in the current and sailed on.
Indeed, it seemed that the ship was at the mercy of the current and the wind. For the Captain attempted to steer her rudder back on course, only to be thwarted. The boat seemed bent on a path that was set for it by some unseen hand, as if another directed its sail.
Before them the clouds continued to amass like a battalion of ships preparing for war. The wind whipped the waves to a frothy foam as of a rabid dog readying to lunge and take the boat in the bite of its jaws. The sky turned a sickly green, against which the clouds turned orange in the setting sun.
Like some nightmare vision of Hades it looked to Marcus as he stared from the deck. His heart started to pound as a queer anxiety rose up within him. No less anxious was the Captain as he strode the deck, barking orders to the crew, tension visibly creasing his face.