by Jack Massa
“Now the hunt begins. We summon the klarn-soul, into our bodies and into our hearts. We pledge to share food and water and warmth, to tend our mates’ wounds before our own, to live for each other and, if need be, die for each other. So we all swear.”
He took a sip, then passed the cup to Glyssa. She repeated the oath and the libation, and passed the cup to Draven.
Eben had just received the cup when a voice called out at his back. He whirled to spy two Iruks in fur capes, struggling through the deep snow on the upper slope, carrying packs and weapons on their shoulders.
“Wait!” Karrol cried. “We are coming with you!”
Part Two
To Randoon
of the Onyx Gates
Nine
“It is regrettable your force failed to acquire the Cloak.”
The Duke’s words seemed all the more threatening coming through the subdued voice of the young woman thrall. Seated at the table in the incense-scented cabin, surrounded by Arkasha and her party, Admiral Shay-Ni Pheng pulled back the corners of this mouth, struggled to hold back his temper. He would offer no defense of his command, no assertions about the overwhelming force unleashed by this accursed Cloak. Such assertions, however true, would sound like excuses and doubtless be greeted by his uncle with disdain. Instead, the Admiral kept his tone carefully neutral as he reported on the current situation.
“We were able to free our ships within a day and have resumed the chase. Now we are following the trail, north of the Iruk Isles. Assuming our quarry is still sailing an Iruk boat, their progress over ice will be very swift. Until they lay in for supplies, it is doubtful we’ll be able to overtake them.”
“That is irrelevant now,” the Duke answered. “Our latest report has this renegade witch—Amlina by name—sailing for Larthang, supposedly to deliver the Cloak to the Archimage. The Inner Circle accepts this report as true. For the time being, so do I, since the trail of the Cloak’s emanations aligns with a course for Larthang. Your orders now are to continue to follow the Cloak, but not try to intercept it. I do not wish another embarrassing debacle in which our warships are scattered by a single witch in a primitive boat. Is that clear, nephew?”
The Admiral swallowed. “Yes, my lord uncle, perfectly clear.”
“Excellent. We will reassess these orders only if the route of the Cloak alters. Meanwhile, a flotilla under the command of Squadron Leader Tong has been dispatched from Gon Fu. When you reach the waters off the coast of Xinner, they will take over the task of following the Cloak. Your flotilla will then sail for Hanjapore. On landing, you personally will take a launch upriver to join me as soon as possible in Minhang.”
“If that is your order, my lord.”
“It is.”
So, Shay-Ni was being called back to the capital to answer for his failure. No matter how unjust, the Admiral had no choice but to face this false dishonor. How heavily would the blame fall upon his head? His uncle’s next words made the answer painfully clear.
“It is unfortunate you chose to attack the drell witch.”
The Admiral’s stoical mien broke. He burst out in a mixture of fear and fury. “You ordered me to use force if necessary. She was obstructing our objective.”
“Yes. It is even more unfortunate that you failed to kill her. She returned to Minhang to report your assault. The Archimage has filed a formal complaint with the Tuan.”
With an effort, Shay-Ni regained his composure. “I see. And of course, I will bear the blame.”
Around the table, Arkasha and the younger witches stared at him aghast, plainly fearful they might share some part of his guilt.
“Most regrettable,” the Duke said. “But I would not be overly concerned, nephew. I will testify that you acted under orders to obtain the Cloak. We will insist your actions were justified, albeit rash. Still, you must come to Minhang as soon as possible to answer these charges in person.”
Eight days out from Ilga, the ice changed to soft water. No meltwind blew. Instead, the frozen surface on which the dojuk sailed broke apart as it merged with warm seasonal currents flowing from the north. The conditions were hazardous, as giant slabs of ice floated and bobbed around the dojuk. All hands were needed on duty as the boat frequently had to change tacks, and the mates used iron-hooked poles to shove aside glimmering, frozen blocks that drifted too near the hull.
“Why doesn’t the witch just call a freezewind and keep us sailing on ice?” Karrol grumbled as they worked.
“She has her reasons,” Glyssa replied.
Eben knew that to be true. He had heard the witch say more than once that she would invoke the magic of the Cloak only when she had no other option. Amlina had emerged from the tent that morning and observed the thinning ice. After drinking hot tea, she had crawled back among the sleeping furs and had not come out again. Indeed, it had become her habit to spend little time in the open and to eat and drink almost nothing. To Eben, she appeared ever more emaciated and frail. He had begun to wonder how she would even survive the voyage.
“Well, I can’t say I understand what her reasons might be.” Karrol grunted as she shoved hard on a mound of ice floating near the prow.
Eben nearly laughed. He was happy to have Karrol and Brinda along, and not just because their strong bodies were needed for crewing the boat. No, he admitted to himself, just like Glyssa he was gratified to have the klarn whole again.
Karrol wouldn’t say what had changed her mind back on Ilga. But from a private conversation with Brinda, Eben had gathered that the sisters were walking back across the village when they encountered their mother. Karrol had gotten into some minor argument with Oalasha, and both of them grew angry. Suddenly a startled look came over Karrol’s face. Turning, she bid her mother goodbye and rushed back to the guest house to collect her gear. Brinda had to run hard to keep up with her.
After a few hours, the ice flows disappeared and so did Karrol’s grumbling. The dojuk tacked into a brisk north wind, the air warm and smelling of salt. Except for two mates to handle the sheets and Lonn at the tiller, the Iruks were able to stand down. Draven and Karrol crawled into the sleeping tent to nap.
Eben, restless and sore, leaned on the bow for a time, staring at the sea. He wished he had some mead to drink, but the little he had brought on board was long gone. Instead, he fetched his sword and a spear. Bracing his feet wide on the swaying deck, he stretched his arms and shoulders. Then he began a series of training exercises, ducking, pivoting, cutting, parrying imagined attacks and stabbing the air in response. As Karrol had said back in that bathhouse in Fleevanport, if he meant to be good klarnmate, he would need to regain some muscle, to shape himself into a warrior again.
In the middle of the night, Amlina crawled from the tent. The dojuk rode on gentle waves, the sea luminous with witchlight. The sky was cloudy and Grizna, the peach-colored moon, drifted nearly full high above—a beacon shining in a fog. Most of the mates were asleep. Only Brinda stood watch at the tiller. At dusk, the anchor stone had been lowered overboard to prevent the boat from drifting far off-course.
Amlina crept forward to where her wicker basket was stowed. She untied the canvas covering and opened the lid. Sorting through her belongings, she found the neatly folded magic Cloak. Her fingers brushed over the smooth fabric, caressing its power. Standing up, she slipped the Cloak on over her shoulders.
A figure moved toward her on the deck. Recognizing Draven, Amlina smiled and embraced him.
“Are you well?” he asked.
She clung to him. “Not well, my dear. But improving, I think.”
It was true. The hideous fear that Beryl’s voice had engendered—that the insane hunger would grow out of control, make her turn on her friends—had not come true, not so far at least. Pain and rage still possessed her at times, still ate at her heart like the scarlet worms of her vision. But with meditation and visioning exercises, Amlina was keeping her mind under control.
“Why d
o you wear the magic Cloak?” Draven asked, holding her now at arm’s length.
Amlina smiled, allowed her hand to caress the silvery sleeve. “I’m not sure. It comforts me somehow. In my dreams, I see myself wearing it. Back on the island, I had a vision in which I spoke with Glyssa and your shaman, Belach. He told me there was an emptiness in my heart—a nothing. That is the evil hunger, the taint of the blood magic I have spoken of. I have been seeking guidance on how to fill the nothingness. I think the Cloak might be part of the answer.”
“You can cure yourself by its magic, you mean?”
Amlina gazed off at the shimmering sea. “No. Not exactly. By tradition in Larthang, the great magical treasures are held in keeping by a single accomplished witch. Once the Cloak has been returned, a new Keeper of the Cloak will have to be appointed. It’s mad to think they might appoint me—I have not even attained the rank of adept. And yet, aspiring to become the Keeper of the Cloak seems to what the Deepmind is guiding me toward.” She laughed at how absurd the words sounded spoken aloud. And yet— “Do you think I’m mad? Or might such a thing be possible.”
Draven grunted. “As long as I’ve known you, Amlina, I’ve known you able to accomplish anything you set your mind to—no matter how impossible you thought it might be.”
She laughed again, and hugged him. “Yes, I supposed I have accomplished much, with the help of you and your mates.”
“And so you will again. But only if you care for yourself. My arms tell me you’ve grown woefully skinny.”
“I know. I will start eating more. I promise.”
“Ha,” Draven said. “You can start now. I will get you something.”
Amlina did not resist as he led her aft by the hand. Kneeling, he opened the food locker and handed her a piece of dried fish wrapped in a kiia leaf. Amlina stared at it, then hesitantly took a bite. At first, her stomach recoiled, but under his stern glance, she continued chewing.
Draven poured oil into the fire bowl and lit it from a lantern’s wick. He filled the kettle with water. By the time the tea was ready, Amlina had eaten a second portion of rations.
Lady with wings
Lady with wings
Does she still live
The bright lady?
The chant passed repeatedly though Eben’s mind as he leaned and stretched, preparing for his weapons practice. Twice in the past few days, he thought he might have glimpsed the drell flying high in the wake of the dojuk. Then last night he had dreamed of her. She conversed with him in her endearingly hesitant Low-Tathian, then started teaching him phrases of her own language.
He was being silly, he knew. What he had seen in the sky were no doubt terns or gulls. Seabirds were becoming more frequent now that the dojuk had passed the Shoals of Sarn and was tracking along the southwest coast of Xinner. They had also encountered fleets of fishing boats, but so far no patrolling warships—neither Larthangan nor Tathian. In another day or two they planned to put in at a town along the coast to restock their supplies—before striking west across the sea to Larthang.
Kizier the scholar approached the prow, walking unsteadily on the tilting deck.
“Still trying to find your sea legs, Kizier?” Eben teased him.
“Yes, I fear so.” The scholar smiled wryly and gripped the rail. “I confess, this voyage has been tiresome. I think we’ll all be happy to go ashore for a bit.”
“That’s certain,” Eben said. “We Iruks are accustomed to dojuks, of course. But we seldom sail so many days without landfall. I believe we’re all looking forward to a bath and a few tankards of mead.”
“A bath in particular sounds wonderful.” Kizier stared dreamily at the low, rocky coast. “I remember when I was a windbringer, warm salt water washing over my roots was most pleasant.”
When the klarn first met him, Kizier had a been a bostull, transformed to that fern-like creature by the evil magic of the Archimage of the East. When Beryl was slain and her designs overthrown, he had reverted to his human form. Surprisingly, he had found the return to human shape a difficult adjustment. During the voyage from Tallyba to Fleevan, he had spent much time seated near the windbringers, seeking to regain the harmony he had lost.
“Do you still miss being a windbringer?” Eben asked.
The scholar sighed. “Not so much as I did at first. But yes, if I am honest. The mentality of the windbringers offers a certain peace, an easy attunement to the Deepmind. Of course I enjoy my present life too. I am fascinated with all I am learning from you Iruks and from Amlina. But, when this voyage is over, and I have finished writing my memoirs of our adventures, I think I may retire to a hermitage or monastery in Larthang and devote myself to peaceful meditation.”
Eben pondered the idea, thinking how his heart longed for excitement and new knowledge. The last thing in the world he could imagine himself doing was retiring to a monastery. He thought again of the winged lady and his dream of conversing with her.
“How well do you speak Larthangan?” he asked.
“Oh, well enough to get by, I hope. It has been some years, so my knowledge is a bit stale. Why do you ask?”
“Because my mates and I know almost none at all. I’d like to learn as much as I can before we arrive there. Can you teach me?”
“Well, I can certainly drill you in the basics. You might also want to consult Buroof. His fluency is superior to mine, if somewhat archaic.”
Eben liked that idea and asked if they might consult the talking book at once. They stepped aft to where Kizier’s satchels were stored under a waterproof cover. Unwrapping the book, the scholar carried it to the stern. He and Eben sat down near the windbringers’ pails.
“Why do you summon me?” Buroof’s voice was more irritable than usual. “Where are we? I sense a confusing sway in the environment.”
“We are on a dojuk, an Iruk hunting boat.” Kizier told him.
“I know what a dojuk is! They have been recorded for over 14oo years you know. Similar boats are used by the Skeddlanders and the islanders off the south coast of Zindu.”
“Never mind,” Eben said. “The reason we’ve summoned you is, I need you to teach me the Larthangan tongue. Can you do it?”
“Well, of course I can do it. I am probably the world’s foremost authority on the ancient dialects.”
“We are more concerned with the modern, spoken language,” Kizier said.
“Naturally—Wait, we are on an Iruk boat and this Iruk wishes to be schooled in the Larthangan tongue? Does that mean we are sailing for Larthang?”
“Indeed, it does,” Kizier said.
“Well, that is a relief. Does Amlina intend to present me as a gift to the House of the Deepmind, as I requested?”
“That will be for Amlina to decide,” the scholar said. “For now, the question is can you provide language lessons to Eben, and perhaps the other Iruks?”
“Didn’t I just say that I can? For a supposed scholar, Kizier, you are sometimes rather a blockhead.”
“Fine,” Eben said. “Let’s begin at once. But first, tell me everything you know about the drells.”
Ten
Departing from the coast of Xinner, they struck off across open sea. These waters were new to the Iruks, but Buroof the talking book displayed a chart that allowed them to plot a course west by northwest. They steered by the sun and the moons.
The weather was fair, except for occasional rain squalls that danced over the sky like gray curtains, fluttering away as suddenly as they appeared. With steadily warming weather, the seas remained melted. The Iruks packed away their fur garments and wore deerskin shirts and trousers. At night they slept atop the bed furs.
After six days, the wind slackened. At first, the two windbringers were able to summon enough breeze to keep the boat on course. But bostulls’ powers were known to be weakest in periods of calm. On the afternoon of the seventh day, the air grew still and the soft-water sail hung flat against the mast. The sky was a clear, deep blue, and the mates
worried they might drift becalmed for days. They were all surprised when Amlina emerged from the tent and put on the magic Cloak. Standing with her right arm raised, she summoned a staunch, warm wind that lasted into the night. From then on she repeated this magic whenever the winds died, so their progress across the sea remained steady.
Their destination was Randoon of the Onyx Gates, one of three major ports on the Larthangan coast, each built at the mouth of a river. Kizier described the city one evening, as he and Eben sat in the stern beside the windbringers. It had become their custom to spend an hour or two there each day reviewing and practicing Eben’s language lessons.
In ancient times, the scholar said, the three rivers had flowed free and wild from their sources in the west and north. But during the first centuries of the current era, when the Dynasty of the Tuans was established and the great witches of Larthang practiced their arts, the rivers had been tamed. Now levees and dams controlled the floods and maintained irrigation of the farmlands. Inland, a grand canal linked the three rivers at Minhang, the Celestial Capital.
“But why is it called Randoon of the Onyx Gates?” Eben inquired.
“This you will see when we arrive,” Kizier answered. “On each side of the river stands a mighty tower fashioned of smooth, precious stone. These towers control a magical force that can be raised from the riverbed like gates of onyx to prevent ships from passing in or out of the channel. This witchery guards Larthang from invasion by sea.”
“So? Do the other ports also have such defenses?” Eben asked.
“Indeed,” Kizier said. “Hanjapore of the Jade Gates to the south, and Haji-Chan of the Moonstone Gates in the north.”
“The history is all very interesting,” Lonn grumbled, speaking Low-Tathian. Standing at the helm, he had listened to their talks in Larthangan for days now and was understanding much of what they said. “But I am more concerned with the greeting we’re likely to get when we land.”
“Yes, and with good reason.” Kizier shifted to Low-Tathian himself.