On the Seas of Destiny (Tale of the Nedao)

by Ru Emerson

  “Galdan!”

  “You're giving me grey hairs, what were you doing?" Galdan bellowed as he reached her side.

  “Look at this!” She held the medallion before his eyes. Galdan pulled a torch and held it up. A Thullen gazed sullenly back at him. It was plain, rough copper save for the chip stones that made its eyes. They gave back no gleam of light. “What's this? Where'd you get it?” he demanded.

  “I took it from the Mathkkra I just killed, the red-robe. Shaman. This—I don't know, I took it because that thing was acting so oddly. It's Power, Lyiadd's Power.”

  Galdan touched it cautiously, withdrew his finger. “It's that thing you told me about, a while since, it's a focus. Lyiadd's backing these Mathkkra directly, isn't he?”

  “I wish I didn't agree with you, Galdan. But—look at it, it's almost as nasty as a real Thullen. I don't like it.”

  “Feel watched?” he asked. She nodded.

  “He is watching us. But he can't work a focus like this from the Isles! And he can't be back in the mountains!” She slammed her sword hilt into her palm. “He can't be! But that means a master focus set somewhere within a league or so, to control lesser ones like this.”

  The fighting flared around them briefly as Mathkkra broke and ran toward them, veering to avoid the torches; they were cut down before Ylia or Galdan or their guard had to intervene. “You can't take that back to the Tower, lady wife. I doubt it's safe for you to hold.”

  “I can't help that, I can't just drop it,” Ylia said flatly. “I'm not giving it back to the Mathkkra, and I certainly can't leave it here. We'll have to break it. Somehow. Why isn't the night guard here yet?”

  “It hasn't been as long as you think,” Galdan said. “But—Inniva's warp, what is that?"

  Someone screamed and staggered back from the front line. The torches went dim, the air was thick. The wind blew one last hard gust, fell to nothing. Swordsmen and women stood in silent, nervous groups; the few Mathkkra still alive were whimpering, fallen spills of grey and white.

  Ylia fell back into Galdan. His heart was pounding a heavy, wild staccato against her shoulder-blades. The second level of sight was useless beyond the Mathkkra: A black fog seemed to be rising between her folk and the woods. She caught her breath on a frightened sob. There was something out there to fear, something whispering and giggling deep in her thought. The black of tree-shade was moving, humping like a thundercloud, taking shape and questingly, hellishly aware. Death was in that sooty mass, her death, a rending, clawed and fanged death; poison in her veins burning away what life was left to the mangle of crushed bone and torn flesh, a thing tearing at her body, leaving her thought intact to the last...

  Galdan moaned as the full sense of the creature hit him, swayed and fell to his knees; the talisman slipped from Ylia's fingers and lay in the dirt, the red eyes glared at her. It was a focus, she knew beyond doubt now, just as she knew the thing out there sought it. It wants the stone, more than it wants me. But it will kill us all, if it can.

  “No!” She snatched at the cord, backed past Galdan, through the torches; through Ifney's armed. The thing gave an eager, howling cry that echoed through the trees and rang her head like all the bells and horns in Nedao. It leaped.

  Reflex brought the sword up to block what came at her, no thought of her own. “Shelagn!” Her voice cracked like a boy's. But for the first time, the blade did not respond to her cry. She opened her mouth to cry out again, inhaled a gust of pure, bloody horror as the thing enveloped her. She couldn't see, couldn't move. Couldn't even be certain she was still on her feet, for she could no longer sense up or down. She could feel, though; gods, she could! The blackness was greasy against her bare throat, slick across her hair, harsh over the backs of her fists. The thing laughed, chortled, a filthy sound that shredded her skin, smashed her bones. She could not scream at the pain; no air went in, no sound came.

  And then it was gone, the sense of it already faint and distant, growing fainter by the moment. Her fingers were numb and bleeding where it had ripped the focus from her hand. She staggered, fell. Someone beyond her was screaming, someone else wailing in terror. Galdan's arms were around her shoulders, holding her while she was sick. She remembered hearing horses: The guard had arrived. Galdan's hands gathering her close, the rough cloth of his shirt hems being rubbed gently across her chin and lips, trying to blot her tears. She remembered nothing after that.

  The Tower room was dark save for the sullen red of the fire, and that was down to its last coals. An unpleasant odor teased Vess’ nostrils; he fought a sneeze, sniffed hard, surreptitiously rubbed his nose and eyes. He clasped his hands together under the edge of the table, then, to stop them trembling. Tired, he assured himself carefully. I'm not afraid, not of that thing or of what we did. I'm just—tired.

  Neither of the room's other two occupants paid him the least attention: Until he could gain control of his—exhaustion—he was glad. Marrita's attention was fixed on Lyiadd. Lyiadd leaned forward, elbows braced on the table, his forehead in his hands.

  Father. Somehow, even with all he'd seen these past three years, all he'd learned and done himself, it had never come home to him like it did tonight: Power. Black, deadly Power. Magic. He'd felt Ylia's terror and disgust when that thing went for her; he'd nearly vomited himself. Its desire had even clawed at him. Knowing he'd helped create it, that be was protected against it by his father's Power, that hadn't helped.

  He shot another glance down the table. Lyiadd still leaned against his hands, and his shoulders trembled, but as Marrita touched him in concern, he leaned back. He was laughing. Black Fire—the Lammior's Sya'datha—hovered just above his hands in a sullen, velvety haze. He brought his amusement under control with some effort; the Sya'datha faded, taking the odd odor and the uneasy feeling with it. Marrita smiled. The old malicious gleam was back in Lyiadd's smoke-grey eyes; she had never, liked it when it was directed at her, but she had missed it more than she'd known.

  Marrita relaxed. It had taken a terrible effort when she had snatched the focus and they'd called up a Zahg to take it back. And the transfer of Power was only a five-day behind. Already Lyiadd had regained his old strength, was daily adding to it.

  She felt no regret at all for that Power; she retained more than any AEldra would ever know. But she wouldn't have wanted that, except to save Lyiadd, to aid him. Lyiadd alone had the knowledge to use the Lammior's Power, it needed true malice. He must be the Primary, his the great strength.

  Lyiadd patted her hand where it lay pale against the dark red of his tunic; she blinked, smiled at him. “We did it,” he murmured. Satisfaction wreathed him the way the Sya'datha had wreathed his fingers. “We did it. The main focus you set in that valley works. The individual focus worked, and my Mathkkra are not unwilling to carry them. Think how frightened those peasants were tonight, that Mathkkra stood and fought! We wrought a Zahg, such as has not been seen in a thousand years, and it did our bidding!” He laughed again, a boy's crow of triumph. “Did you see? She feared that!"

  “She would have to be stone, not to fear a Zahg,” Marrita replied. She laid her other hand over his briefly, withdrew both and reached for the tray of wine and cups, thick slabs of bread and white crumbly cheese she had prepared before they ordered the attack. To Vess’ surprise, she served him food and drink instead of letting him fend for himself as she usually did. Father has spoken to her. Or perhaps she finally realizes my worth.

  Lyiadd lifted his cup. “You did well, my son. Your aid was invaluable.” The younger man flushed with pleasure.

  “Father. Thank you.”

  “Tonight began it. We must begin to move, now, Soon.”

  “But—” Marrita shifted uneasily. Lyiadd let a hand fall to cover hers and she subsided, but her expression was still worried.

  “I am ready. Vess has his following, he has control of the boy Jon, he has the main body of the Osneran Chosen to support him—”

  “If he is careful, he has the Osnerans,” Marri
ta broke in.

  Vess shook his head. “I know how those men think in their clawings for status and power and I know Tevvro very well. He is not yet high placed enough to be very useful, but the will be. He is ambitious, and he thinks I will be a rung on the ladder to his goal. He does not realize that I have ambitions also.” He smiled. “I can handle Tevvro.” Marrita eyed him with impatience and much of her old dislike. “He is not like my poor shadow Jers; no, not at all like Jers. I understand the difference between them I was raised by these Chosen, remember that.”

  “If we begin too soon,” Marrita said tentatively.

  Lyiadd shook his head. “No. We have our allies, those we have bought, those we have suborned, those who will fight willingly for us. I do not intend that there will be any fighting in Yls; of course. Nar: It doesn't matter. Nedao is my son's business, or largely so.” The Sya'datha was blackly iridescent around his fingers again; he smiled at them, rather fondly. “We must move soon, though, Marrita. Each day we wait means a chance of trouble. There must be no drawn-out conflict in Yslar. Also, the longer we delay, the more chance the main focus in Nedao might be found.”

  “She will never find it!” Marrita snapped. Lyiadd shook his head.

  “We have all agreed not to underestimate the Nedaoan half-blood! Remember that she has a mate who controls blocked wild Power despite his own blood! Remember she was named ally by the Dreyz and by those two renegade Nasath!”

  “Bendesevorian has no power among the Nasath. He is too young and they will not have looked upon him with favor, breaking their self-made exile to speak with a half-AEldra swordswoman and a cat!”

  “I know, beloved. He and his sister must not have say in the councils of the Guardians, else we would not have remained free to do as we wish. They would have come upon us while we were still within the mountains. But Bendesevorian has Power of his own, and he might wear down the Council, eventually. Though I cannot believe that the Guardians, few as they are and more set in their ways than the Sirdar's Council, would interfere once the Peopled Lands are ours. Why? To begin another holy war? They have left the AEldra to go their own ways for over a thousand years. And where would they find another Shelagn?” Silence. “But that is another reason to attack soon, that last, don't you agree? Before Shelagn's heir becomes heir in more than name?” He stood, noting with pleasure how easily he moved these days. A man never paid heed to such things until every movement, every step, was an exhausting effort. “Ylia will never have the opportunity to become Catalyst, we will not leave her the time.”

  He started toward the door, stopped at Vess’ side and dropped a hand to his shoulder. “Send a message tomorrow to the Fury, to Brit Arren. He is to begin the next step in the raids on the Narran ships; all goods taken, the ships burned and sunk. No survivors.” He smiled, an unpleasant expression that Vess unconsciously matched. “The Narrans will be cowed—or vanished from the face of the seas—before we ever leave Yslar's harbor to come against them.”

  Ylia pried one eye open to find Galdan perched on a corner of the bed, leaning over her. He smiled but his eyes remained gravely worried. She stretched out her legs under the thin cover—more than was needed, for the room was warm. Too warm for any early hour. There were a few muted sounds from the lower hall, from the street, and away up the hill behind the Tower she could hear the distant echoing thunk of an axeman felling a tree. She yawned. “What's the hour?”

  “Fifth.” Ylia levered onto her elbows in surprise. Galdan pushed her flat again. “There's food for you, I can bring it, or you can go down and eat it. Council meeting won't be for an hour yet, but you needn't go.”

  “Why not?” She set his arm aside, sat up and swung her feet to the floor. Her hair was damply plastered to her forehead, but one of her women had left cool washing water and fresh cloths. She scrubbed at her face, splashed water across the back of her neck. Galdan handed her one of the light grey linen tunics she favored in warm weather. She shook the last drops from her hands and slipped into the shirt. “You're awfully quiet. I don't like the look of you, just now. What chanced out there?”

  “Ifney's dead,” Galdan said. “Ifney and four of his swordsworn, three of the Elite. That thing got them. We—didn't know, we couldn't tell, until we took a count of those still standing.” Ylia stared at him in shocked, horrified silence. “There wasn't enough left of them to put in a small bag.” Silence. “If you don't want to face the Council, you don't have to; they'll understand.”

  Ylia shuddered. “My fault. I had that focus in my hands, asking for trouble—”

  “If you hadn't moved when that thing came out of the woods, it would have killed more of us. All the guard, me included. And you.”

  “If I'd left that focus alone—”

  Galdan caught her shoulders and gave her a hard shake. “You don't know that! Perhaps the creature had already been summoned! You know not to try to reguess the past!”

  “Gods,” Ylia glanced toward the hall. “Hssst, it's Selverra! Mind your face?”

  “Mind your thought,” he shot back at her swiftly. The Princess Royal was developing mind-touch at a precocious age, and would have no difficulty sensing emotion in any event.

  Ylia cleared her mind carefully as she laced the lightweight tan breeches down to her ankles, slid her feet into soft shoes instead of her boots.

  “Mommy?” A small golden head came around the corner. Ylia smiled—that took no effort at all in her daughter's presence—held out her arms and Selverra scampered into them. Malaeth peered around the door, reassured herself the child hadn't wakened her mother, and moved on with Berdwyn in her arms.

  “Sel. Where have you and Malaeth been today?”

  Selverra's smile marked her as Galdan's beyond question. She climbed onto her mother's lap. “Went to see Aunt ‘Betha. I got to hold her baby,” she added proudly.

  “Very good. Were you careful?”

  Selverra nodded gravely, paused to choose words from a child's vocabulary. “I sat on the bed first, and Aunt ‘Betha let me hold him then.

  “Ah. I see.”

  “And we got a fruit from the market, and I got to put my feet in the water, but Malaeth wouldn't let me get wet.”

  “Well,” Ylia said, matching her daughter's grave tone, mindful of Galdan's warm gaze on them both, “the water moves pretty fast, you know.”

  “But I'm strong!” Selverra protested.

  “I know. Maybe we can go to a place your daddy knows, where you can get wet all over.” Selverra nodded emphatically, long, blonde plaits flying.

  “Tomorrow,” she said firmly.

  “Well—perhaps. Another day might be better, though. All right?”

  Selverra nodded again, jumped down and, with a quick hug for Galdan, started back out of the room. “Malaeth says I have to take a nap, so I better go now.”

  Both the Princess Royal's parents kept reasonably straight faces until she was out of sight and well down the hall. Ylia shook her head. “Gods and Mothers but she's funny sometimes!”

  “Don't let Sel hear you say that, you know how touchy she is about being laughed at:”

  Ylia let Galdan help her to her feet and leaned against his shoulder. “Ifney dead. I can't believe it. Galdan, where will this end?”

  He shook his head. “Don't know. They won't win, though. Don't ever let yourself think it.”

  “No.” But she carried doubts down the main stairs to her food. There was a master focus out there, somewhere. It would have to be found and destroyed, but how? Given the size of the valley and the lands around it, how could they possibly hope to even find it? And if they did, would she dare touch it, would she dare think she could undo it, would she dare chance facing that creature again? If I have to—but she couldn't complete the thought.

  6

  It was a small bay, one mere inlet of so many along this stretch of coast: The water was treacherous with exposed and barely submerged boulders; rocks larger than a ship dotted the swells. A narrow strip of rocky beach li
ned the inner curve of the bay, cut off at either tip of the crescent by sheer cliffs. A steep forested slope nearly touched the water in several places. A few trees dotted the higher ledges; dark granite towered above the waves, impassable save in one or two places where water had carved falls and steps in the stone.

  Little of this was visible at the moment: The bay was still, even the waves subdued under a thick fog. Men at one end of the Fury could barely make those at the other, and the top of the mast was lost in drifts of grey. Black sails hung limp; rowers waited tensely on the mid-boat benches. All eyes were on the powerfully built captain. Mal Brit Arren perched on the bow, bare feet gripping the rails and the jutting mast for the artemon sail. He was staring into the fog as though he could part it with the ferocity of his gaze, out toward open water.

  Tension increased: Where was the Narran ship? Men looked at each other, glanced furtively at their captain, quickly away lest he catch them at it. Not all of them liked this new directive from the Three and they knew Mal Brit Arren was furious. His temper was legendary; he'd killed men when he was angered. That made them more edgy than the waiting.

  Though most of them shared his anger: their own Lord Captain, forced to accept the dictates and whims of an Ylsan! But no one had said anything when Brit Arren had called for objection. No one had dared.

  They could hear it, suddenly: the mournful, deep-toned bell clanging in the distance, drawing ever nearer: Narran fog-bells. It was still muffled by the northern cliff wall of the narrow inlet, but it was drawing nearer. Brit Arren jumped down from the rails as the Fury slid into watery sunlight.

  There was nothing to see but water and the last of the rock-teeth that guarded the inlet, making it impassable to any save a small fisher's coracle or a well-mastered fighting ship. The deep bell echoed, seemed briefly to come from all around them, and then the Merman was before them, its wide hull bearing down through the waves.