Awakener

by J. C. Staudt

  Draithon wanted to learn everything he could about sailing. Alynor walked with him on deck sometimes, telling him about the smaller vessels she’d learned to crew as a young girl on the fast-moving waters of the Greenshore. A heavy cog like the Trident’s Grace was similar, she said, only on a larger scale. Draithon found he bore a renewed respect for his mother, and a fondness as well; burdened though she was with her grief over Westhane and his sisters, she was as tender and intentional toward her eldest son as she had ever been.

  By the time the island of Ralthia appeared on the horizon, Draithon had so familiarized himself with the practical details of sailing that he lamented the thought of reaching land. Soon he could make out the coastline, where the warm hues of sunset burned across the hillsides of Ralthia’s capital city, setting clusters of tall half-timbered buildings ablaze with light. He hoped the boat they found to carry them from Ralthia to Dathrond was half so enjoyable to be on as the Grace.

  Even in the dimness of evening, the water was so clear Draithon could see all the way to the bottom. As they neared the wharf at Jadesman’s Cove, a tower bell rang to signal their arrival. The sea floor rose until it was so shallow Draithon expected the Grace’s hull to scrape the sand at any moment. It didn’t, though, and the crew guided the ship to its berth with practiced ease.

  Weary with travel and burdened by the expectation of more to come, Draithon and his companions came ashore as the sun’s final glimmer melted into the ocean. They trudged through the lantern-lit streets of Atolai to a cozy half-timbered hostel called the Full Flagon, where they found a lively patronage in the throes of an old sea shanty. Voices lifted with tankards of ale toward the tune’s culmination, slowing to a turnaround before launching into a final trio of stanzas:

  O-o-o-h, the beaks on the birds in the barley bring

  The wings on the wind of the wildern’ king

  Stiff as a stone in a sheep-herd’s sling

  A storm in the stays come a’ whispering

  We-e-e-ll, to fore and to aft and to stern and stem

  A gust and a gale gush around our gem

  She lists from the lee to the luff and then

  She sinks in the sea ‘neath a hundred men

  A-a-a-nd, the men in the mire of the murky main

  They sank ‘til the stars came to shine again

  A mermaid’s kiss turned ‘em all in swain

  And they lived in the deeps ‘neath the fish-king’s reign

  The song ended in thunderous applause and the clacking of tankards on the wooden tables. Patrons toasted one another and swayed in their seats as if they’d just accomplished some great feat of ingenuity. Kestrel was all smiles, though his sons were both in tears from the noise. Draithon could tell the singer was wishing he’d brought his favorite lute, which had been stolen from his cottage by the Dathiri Warpriests and their accomplices.

  Darion pulled Draithon and Alynor aside. “Stay close. I’m known by both face and name in Atolai, so it may prove harder to pass unnoticed.”

  Alynor put an arm around Draithon. Together they followed Darion to the counter, where he rented a room for the night and ordered three meals delivered there. No one recognized him on the way through the crowded common room, and they retreated upstairs while Triolyn and Kestrel arranged their own accommodations.

  To think, Jeebo might be with us now, Draithon reflected. He’d thought often of Westhane in recent days, but not as much of the falconer whose teachings had started him on his way toward a new understanding of the world around him. His journal with the worn edges and the purple floral pattern on the cover had lain untouched at the bottom of his pack since Cliffside Harbor. I’ll return to it as soon as time allows, he promised himself.

  When this was all behind them, Draithon wondered if his parents would make him go back to the hamlet. He hadn’t forgotten Father’s mention of an apprenticeship. In the proper setting, with a capable teacher, I would allow it. Those had been his exact words.

  Draithon craved a chance to go beyond his current insight and incorporate the things Jeebo had been teaching him in secret. Failing that, though, he’d settle for the opportunity to wander the world alone. To travel from place to place like Father had done in his youth, with nothing but a bag on his back and a tune on his lips. Perhaps a walking stick to help him across the long leagues, and a few furs to keep him warm whenever he spent his nights on the road. Yes, he would relish such a season. He’d look a proper vagabond, he was certain.

  When they were locked safely in their bedchamber, Darion sat Alynor and Draithon down. “The mage-song is thinner here. Have you felt it?”

  Alynor nodded. “This morning when I woke.”

  “I think so,” said Draithon. He’d felt something, though he couldn’t say for certain what it was.

  “It must be the influence of the sphere in Deepsail,” said Darion.

  “All the way out here?”

  “It’s a larger ripple than I thought. We might spend all day tomorrow searching the docks and never find a ship’s captain willing to take us to the shores of Dathrond. I doubt that’s our best course anyway. Even if we did find an available vessel, we haven’t the gold to convince any sane skipper to take the risk.”

  “Why is everyone so afraid to go near the Dathiri coast?”

  “Because without the Council of Mages to hold Olyvard King in check, every sea merchant and fisherman is in danger of being commandeered and pressed into service for Dathrond. Most won’t be, but a few will, and fear spreads quickly when there’s war in the realms.”

  “What other option do we have?” asked Alynor. “We must make it to Dathrond.”

  “Aye. Which is why I propose we seek an audience with Halbrid.”

  “The Corsair King?”

  “More corsair than king.”

  “How can you be certain he won’t betray you to Dathrond?”

  “Long has Ralthia maintained its independence from Dathrond despite the latter’s desire to claim this island as its sovereign territory. It takes a strong leader to stand up to the wealthiest kingdom in the world, especially when they live next door. Halbrid is unruly, but he is no friend to Olyvard.”

  “You know him?” Draithon asked.

  “I first met him when I was a boy. Sir Jalleth brought me here to start my training. Though I’ve returned scarce few times since, I presume Halbrid still remembers me.”

  “What’s he like?”

  “They call him the Corsair King, as your mother said, because he captained one of the most fearsome ships to ever pillage the southern coast of the realms. His raiders were formidable in their day; that was nearly a hundred years ago now.”

  “He’s lived for a hundred years?”

  “More, they say. When the realms began commissioning fleets to protect their coastlines, piracy became a losing proposition. Halbrid has since established his dominion here, presiding over a kingdom he claims is free from the shackles of oppression. His rule is loose but firm. He keeps but few laws. Those few, he enforces without exception. One of them is the forbiddance of restrictions on the use and practice of magic of any kind. This stands in stark contrast to Olyvard’s decrees, and it’s why some of the most powerful mages in the world live here on Ralthia. I’ve learned much from the reclusive magi who haunt the hillside caverns above this very city. They are the world’s foremost experts on éadras.”

  “The song of the soul.”

  “Indeed. That most cryptic of qualities which all living things possess. The worldsongs resonate with the éadras inside us. Should one lose theirs—or should it be taken from them—they would be deprived of the ability to awaken magic.”

  “How would someone lose their éadras?”

  “I know of only three ways. The bestowal of a curse, the casting of a forbidden spell, or by giving it away freely. Do you remember how I told you it would be dangerous to alter the ingredients of magic?”

  Draithon nodded.

  “This is one of the dangers. One might bring
about any number of ill effects while attempting to create a new spell. Anything from death to unmaking to losing one’s éadras and becoming incapable of casting spells altogether. Some say there are fates more ruinous than death. I hesitate to think of one worse than this.”

  “You’re frightening him, Darion.”

  “Is not,” said Draithon. “I’m not afraid. I must know these things if I am to—” He cut himself off.

  “If you are to what?”

  “Nothing. I simply wish to understand.”

  “Then I’ll help you,” said Darion. “Not as well as the Ralthian magi might, perhaps, but I’ll explain as best I can. Why do you look so surprised?”

  “You’ve never taught me about spellcrafting before. So far all you’ve done is try to dissuade me from it.”

  “Only because it’s dangerous. Because I care for you, son.”

  “Not like you cared for Westhane.”

  Darion’s face flushed with anger. He paused to take a breath before responding. “Not this again. Your mother and I love each of you differently. That doesn’t mean any of you is lesser in our eyes than any other. Had they taken you instead of your sisters, we’d be here just the same, coming after you. Had you died instead of your brother—”

  There was a knock at the door.

  “Who is it?”

  “Meal service,” came a woman’s voice from the other side.

  Father approached the door with one hand on his sword hilt. He opened up, checked the hallway, and stood aside to let the serving maid enter. She was pretty, Draithon decided. He watched her set a tray and pitcher on the end table. When she looked up and caught him staring, she averted her eyes. “Will there be anything else?”

  “No,” said Darion.

  “Thank you,” Alynor added.

  The serving girl gave them a curtsy and took her leave.

  Darion locked the door behind her. “I’ll hear no more of this, son. We must remain stouthearted, and that means leaving our grievances behind and coming together. For Ryssa and Vyleigh; and for Westhane. They need better from us.”

  Even now it’s about Westhane, Draithon thought. And why shouldn’t it be? It’s always been about Westhane. “As you say, Father.”

  “Good. Now eat. Tomorrow we’ll speak to the king about securing passage to Dathrond.”

  Alynor was concerned. “Be careful with this, Darion. Halbrid may not betray you, but there are others on this island who might.”

  “I’ve no doubt there are others. Many, in fact. But I’m done cowering in fear of Dathrond’s agents. If we don’t stand against him despite the dangers, we’ll find ourselves at the mercy of a man who possesses none.”

  Alynor said nothing.

  They ate without further conversation and went to bed with the weight of the following day’s task hanging in the silence.

  In the morning Darion rounded up the companions and told them of his plan.

  Triolyn was skeptical. “What makes you believe this pirate king will be inclined to help us?”

  “His hatred of Dathrond, for one. His respect for Sir Jalleth, another.”

  “Personally, I’m willing to give the fellow a chance,” said Kestrel. “I refuse to believe all kings are possessed of the same wickedness as Olyvard.”

  “They ain’t,” said Axli. “There’s good kings, though I’ve never known one what was easy to like. Kings is like wine in that way.”

  “Better with age?”

  She shook her head. “The more you’ve had, the less you mind the taste.”

  Darion gave her a grim smirk. “Halbrid is an acquired taste indeed. He’ll help us for his own gains, not ours. If our thwarting Dathrond is a stepping stone in his path to maintaining his independence, he’ll do what he can to afford us the means.”

  “Sounds worth a try,” said Kestrel. “Lead on.”

  Darion took them up the forested hill to a massive stone palace wrapped in an arched colonnade. Bright orange flags bearing the black sharkfin of Ralthia snapped in a stiff offshore wind. Darion stopped at the front steps, where a pair of soldiers in matching orange overcoats and cabasset helms sat flanking the doorway on wooden stools. One stood and removed his helm to wipe his brow. “Right. Who goes there?”

  “I am Darion Ulther, a friend of Halbrid King. I come with my wife, son, and companions to seek an audience with him.”

  “Be our guest,” said the soldier, stepping aside with an elegant bow.

  Polished stone floors reflected the light from the oil lamps burning in the recesses of the wide echoing hall within.

  “Seems to me we ought to have been greeted by a castellan or steward of some sort,” said Kestrel.

  Darion grunted a laugh. “Halbrid has no steward. He’s far too suspicious a man not to manage his own coffers and look his every visitor in the eye.”

  “Does he not wish to ensure his visitors are of good intention?”

  “Rest assured, anyone who enters here with intent to do him harm won’t make it out again.”

  Through the heavy doors at hallway’s end lay a vast circular chamber surrounded by the arches of a covered balcony. A pleasant island breeze accompanied stunning views of the ocean below. Halbrid’s throne was exactly what Draithon would’ve expected from an old seafarer; armrests of gnarled driftwood and a high backrest wrought of a ship’s stern carving. The legs were wrapped in thick hempen rigging lines, and the rest of the room was bedecked in nautical devices from carved wooden fish to ship’s wheels.

  Halbrid himself was as weathered as old sailcloth, a relic of a man possessed of a shiny bald pate and a long white beard clinging to its last few grays. He sat proud in his seat, draped in loose-fitting linen with his hands propped on the macaw-headed cane standing between his legs. “Darion?” he asked in a thin voice.

  Father stopped a few fathoms from the king and bent to one knee. “Your majesty. It has been some years since I’ve had occasion to come calling.”

  “So it has. And what say you of those years? Have they been kind, Darion of Linderton?”

  Darion stood. “Not so kind as I’d hoped, my lord. That’s why I’m here.”

  “You come bearing me a bleak request. Elsewise, methinks these yeomen of yours might’ve been better left at home.”

  “We ain’t his servants,” said Axli.

  “Servants or retainers. Makes no matter to me.”

  “Family,” said Darion. “This is my wife, Alynor Mirrowell, and my son, Draithon.” He introduced the others in turn.

  “Well met, all,” said the king. “Now what is it you’re after?”

  “Transport,” said Darion.

  “So you’ve found your way to my island, and now you can’t get off it again. Is that the thrust of it?”

  “Aye.”

  The old king gave a dry, husky laugh. “Well then. Let me be the first to welcome you to paradise.”

  “Shame we haven’t time to enjoy it. Three Warpriests of Dathrond, together with a party of hirelings, attacked our village while I was away. They terrorized my family, killed my son and a dear friend of ours, and have absconded with my daughters. Atolai was the closest anyone would bring us to the Dathiri coast. That was where I’d hoped you could assist us.”

  “Am I now the king who puts to rights all the problems of the world? Mine own subjects do their share of bellyaching without visitors from faraway places seeking my benevolent hand, as if in times of war I’ve a bounty to spare.”

  “We don’t require a bounty. Only one small ship to bear us hence.”

  “Be that as it may, I haven’t such a ship. Not one I can stand to lose, leastwise. Dathrond moves in the name of empire. The jötun fleet is bound for my shores even now, and make no mistake. They’ll overrun us, same as Deepsail. The magi are powerless to stop them.”

  “Aye, I felt the mage-song weakening when we arrived.”

  “What do you know of it?”

  “I know the source of Dathrond’s power. Three anti-magic orbs, one of whic
h I believe to be in Deepsail.”

  “We’re lost, then. There’s no victory over a thing like that.”

  “Send me to the mainland. I’ll see the mage-song returned to your shores before the fleet gets here.”

  “Isn’t a man in my kingdom who’d sail you any closer to the mainland, save one with an eye toward his own death or ruination.”

  “I don’t need a captain. Just a ship. Is there nothing you can do?”

  “Nothing I can do? Nay. Nothing I will do.”

  “So you’ll remain here, holed up in your fortress while kingdoms fall around you.”

  “Aye. And so will you, by the look of it. I’ll hold fast, as I ever have. And when the Dathiri come, we’ll be waiting for them. You’d serve me better staying here to fight by my side.”

  “If I stay, Olyvard wins.”

  Halbrid stamped his cane on the polished stone dais. “That avaricious dog Dathrond calls king, whose name I refuse to utter on this throne or any other, will see his fleet decimated upon my coast. His armies may have the advantage of numbers on land, but my corsairs will give them a mean time at sea before they go down.”

  “Will he not offer you a pact of peace before he engages you in warfare?”

  “If he does, I’ll turn it away as I’ve done every time before.”

  “No doubt you would be wise to do so. I heard you refused Olyvard’s call for aid during the Korengadi invasion.”

  “Aye, that I did.”

  “I answered it, and I’ve since lived to suffer my regrets.”

  “So say the rumors. If the dog expects my allegiance after years of veiled attempts to overthrow my rule, he’s of a greater delusion than I believed. He would have us believe he’s acting on our behalf. Freedom through totality, he claims. I’ll die on a Dathiri blade before I’ll submit to the rule of a foreign empire.”

  “Staying here is not an option for us, I’m afraid,” said Darion. “Thereby, I offer you fair warning. We’ll get to the mainland by any means necessary, even if we have to steal a ship to do it.”