by Simon Brown
“What do you mean?” Lynan asked, confused. “Why go through all this discussion otherwise?”
“What I mean, your Highness, is that Kumul, Jenrosa, and I cannot make the final decision. You must.”
“Why me? We’re all in this together—”
“Start thinking like a true prince, lad,” Kumul said. “In the end, you have to make all the decisions… all the vital ones, anyway. This is your cause. Eventually, you will have to stand alone, especially if you’re to lead a…” He glanced quickly at Jenrosa. “… rebellion. We can advise, even cajole, but we can’t make policy, we can’t decide what path the rebellion must take, we can’t denounce your enemies for you. All of these things must be done by the leader—by you.”
Lynan was silent. He did not want this responsibility. Not yet, anyway. Why were they forcing the decision on him now, when he knew no more than they about the situation?
For a while they sailed on, the water gently lapping against the side of the boat, the sun warming their faces.
“Lynan?” Jenrosa urged quietly.
“I’m thinking,” he replied curtly, angry at his companions and conscious of them staring at him. At last he said, “I don’t want to make this decision.”
Ager sighed. “It’s not a decision any of us want to make. Still, it has to be made.”
Lynan muttered something.
“What was that?” Jenrosa politely enquired.
“I said we might as well go by the shortest possible route.”
“Why?”
“What do you mean ‘why’? Because you want me to make the decision, and that’s the decision I’ve made, that’s why.”
“That’s hardly an answer,” Ager reproved. “As your followers—in fact, at this point, as your only followers—we deserve more respect and courtesy. Otherwise, your rebellion might be very short-lived.”
“I don’t understand any of this. You insisted I make the decision. I didn’t want to—”
“Will you listen to yourself?” Jenrosa snapped. “You’re starting to sound like a spoiled brat. We’re not bees, Lynan, we’re people. If we don’t know on what grounds you’ve made the decision, how can we advise you and how can we respect your decision?”
“You mean every time I make a decision I have to explain it to everyone?”
“Not every time,” Ager assured him good-humoredly. “Just most of the time. Once you’ve shown you can make good and wise decisions on your own, no one will question you.”
Lynan breathed out resignedly. “I think we should take the shortest possible route because, as Kumul pointed out, time is of the essence, and because we don’t know yet whether or not Areava has blocked the way. If she hasn’t, we’ll get through to achieve our goals all the quicker. If she has, it won’t be too late to choose another, longer, route.”
“Well, that’s pretty comprehensive,” Jenrosa acknowledged.
“Yes, very sound,” Ager agreed expansively.
“Excellent choice, your Highness,” Kumul said. “That wasn’t so hard, was it?”
“Thank you so much,” Lynan said. “And I assume the most direct way is by boat?”
“Aye,” Ager agreed. “We follow the coastline until we come to the mouth of the Gelt River, and then sail up the Gelt until we are within one or two days’ march of its source in the Ufero Mountains, on the other side of which we will find the Oceans of Grass.”
“How long do we stay with the boat?”
“About ten days, depending on the wind.”
Wonderful, Lynan thought. Another ten days over water. And it was my decision.
As they sailed on, the coastline gradually changed in appearance. Close to Kendra, soft yellow beaches gave way to gently rolling farmland, but as they approached the Ebrius Ridge—the basalt uplifts that separated the Horn of Lear from Chandra to the north—the topography became increasingly steep until eventually high cliffs marked the boundary between sea and land. Lynan felt small and insignificant under the towering black wall, and vulnerable and frail against the white-capped waves that crashed into the cliffs, sending great sheets of spray into the air. Circling above them like thin strips of shadow was a cloud of kestrels, springing from their aeries in the face of the rock wall and searching for fish and other birds.
“They make me uneasy,” Kumul muttered, staring at their flying escort with suspicion. “The kestrel is no longer a bird of good omen.”
“I think they’re beautiful,” Jenrosa declared in their defense. “They mean us no harm.” Her gaze lifted to a group of kestrels that broke away from their fellows and flew further out to sea.
“Let us talk about something else,” Ager said. “Whether or not the birds bring us bad luck, there is nothing we can do about it.”
“Let’s talk about ships, then,” Jenrosa said, still watching the kestrels.
“What type of ships?” Lynan asked.
“Whatever type is coming our way,” she said calmly. The others looked up at her sharply, and then followed her gaze.
“I can’t see anything,” Ager said.
“Nor I,” Kumul added.
“You won’t for a while,” Jenrosa said. “But I’ve been talking to sailors and navigators now for three years, and I know that kestrels have learned to follow our ships because of the refuse we throw overboard.” She pointed to the birds that had left the cliffs. “And they are hovering above a ship.”
“Damn,” Ager swore under his breath. “She’s right. I’m an idiot for forgetting. Lynan, help Jenrosa with the tiller. Kumul, help me pull down the sail. We must row.”
“Row!” Kumul declared. “The waves will send us against those cliffs!”
“Lynan and Jenrosa will steer us very carefully, won’t you? But with the sail up, we’re too easy to spot.”
Ager and Kumul quickly furled the sail and stowed the mast. They took the oars and sculled strongly and evenly toward the looming cliffs, Kumul pacing his stroke to match Ager’s.
“When we’re two hundred paces out, Jenrosa, steer us parallel to the shore,” Ager said. “We daren’t go any closer than that.”
Jenrosa nodded. Lynan, constantly looking over his shoulder, was the first to see the approaching sail. “There she is!” he cried.
The other three peered toward the horizon. They caught a glimpse of a red sail, and soon after a long, sleek hull. The sail was emblazoned with a golden spear crossed by two swords. A warship.
“Do you think it’s searching for us?” Lynan asked.
Ager shook his head. “Possibly, or it’s carrying messages from Areava to King Marin of Aman. Either way, if it sees us, we could be in trouble.”
They were very close to the cliffs now, and the waves were getting harder to resist, even with both Lynan and Jenrosa pushing against the tiller. They could see huge, jagged boulders at the base of the cliffs, and a curtain of spray hung permanently in the air, drifting over the sea and drenching them. The rudder seemed to have a mind of its own, twisting and flexing beneath the hull.
“We have to move away!” Jenrosa shouted, trying to be heard over the roar of crashing waves. Lynan glanced fearfully at the rocks, now less than two hundred paces from them.
“Keep your course!” Ager ordered. “The warship is closing. It must have seen us!”
“Its navigator was watching the kestrels, too,” Jenrosa said, and ignored Kumul’s sour expression.
The constable grunted. “If they’ve seen us, then at least we can use the sail again.” He let go of his oar and started to stand.
“No!” Ager roared, but it was too late. As soon as Kumul moved, the boat’s prow lurched violently toward the rocks. He sat down and reached for the oar, but it slipped out of his grasp as the blade bit into the sea. The boat spun ninety degrees, sending the oar into Kumul’s side with terrific force and unseating him with a loud thwack.
Ager grabbed the oar and tried desperately to work it as well as his own, but his reach was not wide enough. Lynan and Jenrosa pushed on
the tiller in a frantic attempt to keep the prow pointed away from the cliffs, but a wave picked them up and lifted the stern out of the water, rendering the rudder useless.
Ager pulled in the oars and moved astern to take the tiller, pushing the two young people forward and down to the bottom of the boat. The wave seemed to tire of them and dropped them behind its cap. Ager was ready, and he heaved on the tiller with all his strength. Kumul had recovered his breath by this time, and he lurched back to help. Together, the two men were able to move the prow to port, and the boat slid sideways for a second before compromising and moving forward at an angle, driven by current and momentum, still headed toward destruction on the rocks.
“Look out!” gasped Kumul, pointing to where the waves were breaking early directly in their path. But there was nothing either of the men could do. Almost as soon as Kumul cried out his warning, the boat was picked up by another wave. There was a tormented scraping sound as the hull was hauled over a barely submerged rock and the boat was shot forward again. It hit the sea with a crash and Lynan felt himself picked up and hurled through the air. When he hit the water, the shock of the cold made him open his mouth in a gagging scream, and the whole ocean seemed to rush in. He kicked frantically and broached the surface, only to slip under again right away. His clothes felt as if they were loaded down with lead weights, and he tore at them frantically.
Suddenly, a strong hand grabbed hold of his hair and jerked him to the surface. He heard Kumul mutter something about twice having to save him by his hair in two days, and then he was being dragged through the water like a river barge. Seawater still flowed into his mouth and up his nose with distressing ease, but he had the good sense not to struggle against Kumul’s grip as he was pulled through the sea. He tried not to panic as the shadows of the cliffs fell across his face and made him almost rigid with fear. The pair suddenly rose in the air as a wave lifted them high. Lynan had a sensation of moving along very quickly and was aware of Kumul using his one free arm desperately in an attempt to at least steer some passage for them. They were surrounded by swirling white water. Lynan’s thigh slammed hard against a rock. He heard Kumul gasp in pain. More white water, the sea surging over their heads.
I’m going to die, Lynan thought, and was surprised by the sense of calm that overtook him, like the moment just before sleep.
And then weight returned. It was as if having become part of the sea he was now being forcefully separated from it. His calves and ankles slapped against slippery rock. Kumul was lifting him out of the water, pulling him back with his last reserves of strength.
Even though Lynan had expended little effort in his own rescue, he was exhausted. When Kumul finally released him, he could barely lift his head. He saw that he was lying on a long, flat basalt platform wet with spray, protected from the sea by a boulder balanced on the edge of the platform like a bird of prey on a perch. Ten paces away was Ager, bending over Jenrosa, trying to kiss her, and for the moment there seemed nothing odd about his behavior. Lynan tried to thank Kumul for saving his life a second time in as many days, but only managed a weak croak.
“Save your breath, your Highness,” Kumul said gently. “You’ll need it if we’re to get out of this mess. We’ve lost our boat and with it our supplies and our swords—leaving us with nothing but knives to protect ourselves. We’re at the bottom of a cliff. There is a warship looking for us on the other side of that boulder.” He shook his head violently, as if to clear it. He faced the crookback. “Ager, how’s the magicker?”
For the first time it occurred to Lynan that Jenrosa might be in danger, that indeed Ager had not been kissing her but trying to revive her. He tried to sit up, but it only started him retching. Brine burned up from his stomach and lungs, spilling out of his mouth as whispery spittle. The sound of him throwing up was matched by Jenrosa heaving and coughing.
“She’ll be all right,” Ager answered, and helped Jenrosa sit up. “What are our navy friends doing?”
Kumul half squatted behind the boulder and peeked over its edge. “They’re about four hundred paces away. They’re trying to retrieve the boat with hooks, but it’s pretty smashed up. I can see archers behind the gunwales.” He dropped down out of sight. “You’re heavier than you look,” he told Lynan wearily.
The young prince grinned stupidly and managed to join Kumul, his back against the boulder. He saw how the platform they were on jutted out of a crumbling cliff face that looked as if it was ready to finish slipping into the sea at any moment. It was a long way to the top, but the slope was nowhere near as sheer as Lynan had first thought.
Jenrosa moaned. Ager still held her, but after a moment she waved him away.
“I’m all right,” she pronounced huskily, and slowly looked around. “We’ve got to climb that?” she asked, staring up at the cliff.
“Unless you feel like risking a five-league swim around the rocks,” Ager said.
“Not today,” she admitted.
“Well, we can’t stay here either. Eventually a big wave will wash over us, and I don’t give much for our chances of making it to safety a second time. Besides, the longer we wait, the stiffer our muscles will become.”
Lynan carefully peeped over the boulder. “The warship is leaving,” he told the others, and then saw the shattered remains of their boat swirling among the rocks below. “And they’re leaving their prize behind,” he added dully, and for an instant imagined that his own body was down there, broken and drowned. He recalled Kumul saying their swords had gone down with the boat. In his heart he felt a terrible pang—his sword had been the only thing left to him from his father. Suddenly he wanted to climb to the top of the cliff more than he had ever wanted to do anything in his life. He wanted to get away from the water, from the smell of the spray, from the call of the seabirds and the sound of waves smashing against the rocks.
“Let’s go,” he said, the plea almost sounding like an order, and stood uncertainly to his feet. Kumul’s hand roughly pulled him down to the rock.
“Don’t be an idiot, lad. Those on the warship would see us as easily as flies crawling up a white sheet.”
They waited for nearly an hour, cold and regularly washed by spray coming over the platform. They huddled together for warmth and security, afraid that at any moment a big wave would throw them back into the crashing sea and finish them off. Eventually, Kumul could no longer see the warship’s sail even when he stood up, and he led the way to the base of the cliff.
There were plenty of holds in the rock, but the basalt was sharp and cut into their palms. The first third of the slope was wet from the spray and they all slipped and gashed their faces and bodies. Their clothes tightened as they dried, stretching limbs like tight nooses. The worst part was the numbing exhaustion they all felt, exhaustion that turned muscles into string and bone into sapling, exhaustion so severe it became a physical pain starting in their joints and traveling throughout their arms and legs in excruciating spasms.
As they got higher, their rests became more frequent, and at times it seemed their ordeal would never end. Then, perhaps thirty paces from the summit, the wind hit them, a whistling, keening gale that whipped across the face of the cliff trying to hurl them back into the sea. Lynan knew he could go no farther. His mind started to wander and his senses were telling him that he was on level ground and that he could lie down now, that all he need do was release his grip and everything would be fine—he would wake in his bed in the palace in Kendra and the last two days would be revealed as nothing more than a nightmare.
Someone was talking to him. He tried to ignore the voice because it was spoiling the nice warm feeling that was creeping over him, but the voice would not go away and in the end he had to listen. Lynan, it was saying, climb. One more step. Move up one more step. So he moved one more step, and the pain was so bad it was like someone driving a nail into his knee. One more step, the voice repeated, and he recognized it as Jenrosa’s. Move, Lynan, you’re so close to finishing. One more step, and th
en another, and another…
And at last there came a time when he reached overhead with a hand and the slope was gone and there was soft vegetation underneath his fingers. For a moment his mind cleared enough for him to pull himself up the final two paces to the very top of the cliff. He collapsed into a bed of long, sweet-smelling grass, and darkness came and took him.
Speaking with Primate Northam had calmed Areava and helped focus her mind, which until then had been filled with a multitude of confusing facts and fears. The horror of her brother’s murder, and the realization that Lynan must have been behind the crime, had almost overwhelmed her reason. The discussion with the priest had also made her realize that her first duty was to ensure a peaceful transition in rule from Berayma to herself. The kingdom must be her priority, not the pursuit of her brother’s killers; Orkid and Dejanus between them were more than capable of hunting down Lynan and his coconspirators.
However, when Dejanus intercepted Areava and Olio on the way back from the west wing to tell them that Lynan had been sighted boarding a merchant ship, her fury at her half-brother came on again like an irresistible tide and she had to struggle against it.
“Then see he is captured.”
“I have already alerted the navy,” Dejanus confirmed. “They will send out ships to intercept the merchant and bring your brother back for justice.”
“And see to it he is b-b-brought b-b-back alive,” Olio said firmly. “His dead b-b-body will leave too m-m-many questions unanswered.”
Dejanus looked at Olio with an expression the prince couldn’t read. “But if they offer resistance—”
“Alive, Dejanus,” Areava insisted. “How else will we discover the extent of the conspiracy behind our brother’s death?”
Dejanus nodded curtly. “I will see to it the ship captains understand your order.” He left without further word.
For a moment Areava simply stood there, fighting the urge to close her eyes. “I am exhausted,” she said weakly.
Olio put a hand on her shoulder. “Do you w-w-wish to see Trion? I can send for him and he will give you a draft to help you sleep.”