The captain returned Shadimar’s greeting with a brisk wave. Colbey analyzed the movement from habit, finding a grace that contrasted starkly with the awkward adolescent image of the figure at the helm. As the boat touched the rock flat and Shadimar moved to help with docking, Colbey measured the jump that Secodon had taken. It looked dangerously far to land on solid rock. Compromising, Colbey caught the first few handholds in a quick sequence, then made a graceful leap to the rocks below. The maneuver scraped skin from his palm, tearing loose a callus, and blood welled in the hole.
Lightning flared beyond the sail. The hull of the Sea Seraph grated against rock. Colbey cringed. The open sea should have dashed the tiny craft to matchsticks; surely it would in the upcoming storm. Already, rolling gray haze limited vision.
The captain sprang to shore with an agility that nearly matched Colbey’s own. Gold tinged his red-brown hair, faded from a life lived in the open sun. He wore the thick locks knotted at the nape of his neck. High, sharp cheekbones and broad, slanted eyes gave him a pleasant, animal look. His eyes glowed amber, a color Colbey had only seen on a cat. His full mouth bent into a friendly grin, and the stiff wrinkles that marred his face seemed to come from excessive smiling. The visage defied Colbey’s attempts to guess his age, even within a decade or two. He noticed that the elf’s arms and legs were proportionately longer. His muscles arose and inserted in locations slightly different from men, built more for quickness and agility than strength. A leather jerkin and silk pantaloons peeked from beneath a frayed wool cloak.
“Greeting, my lords!” The outworlder spoke the Western tongue with a unique accent that seemed closest to general Northern. He threw his slender arms around Shadimar.
“Greetings, Captain.” Shadimar squeezed momentarily.
Pulling away from the Eastern Wizard, the captain embraced Secodon’s shaggy neck. The wolf’s plumed tail flailed excited circles.
Colbey found himself with a thousand questions, including how one came to sail an ocean for centuries, but he knew these would have to wait until he had the Wizard in confidence or knew the elf better.
The captain did not share Colbey’s polite hesitancy. Releasing Secodon, he hugged Colbey in turn, with the exuberance of an old friend. “A Northman, eh? And a young one. I’ve a fondness for Northmen. But you know that, don’t you? Welcome aboard the Seraph, Colbey.” He gestured his charges to the ship.
The captain’s familiarity confused Colbey momentarily. Then he recalled that the Wizards had passed their collective consciousness from successor to successor for millennia, and the elf’s reaction made more sense to him. In a way, he’s been greeting the same four Cardinal Wizards forever.
Shadimar headed for the ship. Colbey hung back. “Shouldn’t we wait out the storm?”
“Nay. Nay.” The captain shook his head, waving for the Renshai to follow Shadimar. “I’ve had a thousand years to learn this sea. We can run before the gale.”
Shadimar clambered to the deck, and the captain followed. Colbey shoved the hull into the water, then leapt aboard with the others. Though his intuition told him that the captain was dead wrong, he dared not argue sea gales with one who had survived for centuries and had not yet gone gray.
The instant the ship left the shore, her sails caught a wind that drew her swiftly northward.
Captain perched with one foot on the dolphin-headed prow. “Blessed be the gods who watch over my lady and my charges. Thank you, Aegir, may your mercy stay with us always! Thank you, Weese, may your winds always blow true. Thank you, Ciacera, she of the eight-legged. Thank you, Morista, may your charges rest easy beneath the sea. And thank you, Mahaj, whose likeness graces the Seraph.” The captain lowered his foot and ran a fond hand over the ornament on the prow. Surely, he had spoken that prayer a million times, yet his sincerity made it sound fresh and new.
Colbey recognized only the names of the Northmen’s sea god, Aegir, and the Westerners’ god of winds. He studied the darkening sky as the first gust rose, wet with the promise of violence. No sailor he knew would chance such a storm.
But the captain remained calm and beaming. His prayers finished, he gestured his charges to the central cabin.
Colbey and Shadimar went.
CHAPTER 2
The High Seas
The clean, white walls of the Sea Seraph’s cabin enclosed an area that seemed impossibly large for the tiny ship. Three cots, a wooden chest, and a decoratively chiseled table with four matching chairs filled it only sparsely. A narwhale horn hung on the wall, mounted above an open case crammed full of books. While Colbey Calistinsson studied the layout, the captain pointed to one of two doors at the opposite end of the room. “We’ll need to bunk together. If Shadimar will prepare his famous herbal stew, I’ll man the tiller.”
Shadimar smiled. “I presume you’ve gathered all the proper ingredients.”
“Of course.”
The Eastern Wizard nodded, then headed for the indicated exit, his wolf trotting across the planks behind him. He opened the panel, slipped through, then closed the door behind Secodon.
The captain winked at Colbey. “I don’t always get them exactly where he asks. Waterroot is waterroot, whatever ocean grows it, and the stew always comes out the same.” The captain laughed at his own wit, then spun on his heel. “Feel free to look around.” He left through the door by which they had entered.
Aside from the Western Wizard’s library, which he had not dared to disturb before he learned of his title, Colbey had only rarely seen texts, usually a single one treasured by its owner. Now, Colbey knelt before the book shelf, scanning titles in a variety of languages. He recognized labels in the trading tongue of the West, in the West’s main language, and in Northern. He found one titled in the stiff, heavy print of the Eastern tongue, though the meaning of the words escaped him. Others held runes as incomprehensible as an infant’s random scrawl. Of the titles he could read, he found most to be nautical texts or collections of seamen’s tales. Most of the others contained detailed monologues on religion and its history. Though, at a quick glance, the words spanned the belief systems of all three divisions of the world, the collection seemed weighted toward the Northern faith.
Pleased, Colbey singled out The Trobok, the book of the faithful. It contained the spiritual wisdom that guided Northmen’s lives, mankind’s gift from the gods. Most believed that daily reading from the work strengthened Odin’s hold on law, keeping chaos at bay from their own day to day existences. Colbey had heard priests read from the great book, but he had never before come so close to an actual copy. Tentatively, he touched the binding, running a finger along it. The well worn leather felt comfortable, but not in a deeply celestial manner. Cautiously, he levered it free and carried it to the table.
Colbey set The Trobok on the surface. The tome thumped gently against the wood, falling open to a weathered page near its end, marked by a string of dried seaweed. Curious about the marker, Colbey read:
“Men shall slay fathers to lie with mothers. Swords shall run with brother’s blood. The wolf, Sköll, shall swallow the sun and Hati the moon. There shall follow three bitter cold winters without a summer to break them. So shall begin the Wolf Age and the great battle which will see the passage of the Gray Lord, Odin. The new age that follows shall be ruled by the survivors of the gods: Vidar and Vali, Baldur and blind Hod from the dead, and the sons of Thor who will together wield their father’s hammer.”
Images of the world’s fated destruction pulsed a shiver through Colbey, though it pleased him that the Renshai’s patron, Modi, as one of Thor’s sons, would survive the carnage. No text he knew of mentioned the fate of the goddesses, so Colbey had always chosen to believe that Sif endured as well. He flipped the book to its first page and began to read.
* * *
The toss of the Sea Seraph and the creak of her mast kept sleep from Colbey. He had lain awake half the night, listening to the clank of sheet clamps and Shadimar’s heavy breaths, yet he had never heard the capt
ain come below from the helm. Surely even elves have to sleep. Remarkably unwearied, Colbey rose from his cot, donning his tunic and sword belt. The pressure of the two swords at his hips felt reassuring. He threaded past the sleeping Wizard and the wolf beneath his master’s cot, padding to the starlit deck.
The captain sat on a bench, manning the rudder and singing a sweet tune of the sea. His mellow alto lilted across the deck, as natural as the slap of waves against the stern. The wind caught his damp hair, tossing it gaily about his sun-baked face. Colbey leaned over the rail, staring at the trails and sparkles of color the moon drew in their minuscule wake. He squinted against the rush of ice-grained wind, the pellets stinging his face and eyes. A cloud enwrapped the moon, all but choking it from vision.
The outworlder finished his song before speaking. “Is the Western Wizard brooding?” He spoke the Northern tongue cleanly, without accent. “Did you leave a little lady behind?”
Colbey kept his gaze on the horizon. The darkness huddled, as if to block the sun from rising. He considered the captain’s question. Longer ago than he cared to remember, he had married, but none of their lovemaking had resulted in children. Himinthrasir had left him for a man who had sired a family with her. Since that time, no woman had wanted more than a brief relationship with him, and none of those encounters had resulted in an heir. Instead, Colbey had lavished his love and time on his swords, and he had known women only as friends and colleagues. Half of the Renshai’s most competent warriors were female, every bit as savage as the tribe’s men. The image made him smile, and he thought of Mitrian, one of two women in the tattered remains of the tribe called Renshai. “The only little lady I left could raze a city.”
The elf chuckled. He groped beneath his bench, opening a compartment that Colbey had not previously noticed. He drew out a pair of matching goblets and a crystal flask half-filled with amber liquid. Pouring some into each glass, he offered one to Colbey. “Hold tight. The wind’s strong.”
Colbey accepted the drink. “Forgive the passenger arguing with the captain, but that storm will catch us.”
“Midday.” The outworlder seemed unperturbed. “About the time we reach the portal. Oddly, I find it more navigable in a squall.” He grinned at Colbey. “You know something of sailing, Wizard?”
Colbey flinched, still not liking the title. “Call me Colbey.” He sipped at the wine. It tasted sweet and held a pleasant salt tang. “And what should I call you?”
“Captain is fine.” The elf took a long pull at his wine.
“But as formal and distant as ‘Wizard.’”
“It is what I’m called.”
“Perhaps because you tell people this when they ask your name.”
“It is what I’m called. Does that not make it my name?”
Colbey laughed at the circle of the captain’s reasoning. “I’m called many things. Wizard, for example. But my name is Colbey Calistinsson.”
The elf downed the remainder of his wine. He topped off Colbey’s goblet, though the Renshai had only taken a single swallow, then filled his own glass. He set the carafe aside. “Why is Colbey your name? What makes it more your name than The Golden Prince of Demons or The Deathseeker or torke or Kyndig?”
Colbey took another sip of wine. He had been called all of those things, the first from a prophecy, the second from his style in warfare, and the third was the Renshai word for teacher or sword master. The last meant “Skilled One,” and he had heard it only once before, from Valr Kirin. “My name is Colbey Calistinsson because it’s how I think of myself. As is my tribe’s way, my mother named me for a hero who died in battle and found Valhalla, my guardian and namesake. The Calistinsson keeps my father’s memory alive. He was a fine warrior as well.”
The elf moved up beside Colbey, propping one bare foot on the railing. “Perhaps, Colbey Calistinsson, I think of myself as Captain.”
Colbey considered, seeing how the elf had trapped him neatly. He watched water vapor condense to a fog on his glass. “Then I guess your name is Captain. I’ll call you that, though I think it’s a slight to your parents. Surely, they picked a name for you that they considered important.”
“Surely,” Captain replied. “But I’ve lived millennia. Do you think I remember it?”
Colbey whipped his head to directly face his companion. “Is this some sort of test? Do you really think I’m feeble enough to believe you’ve forgotten your name?”
Captain ran a finger through the condensation on his glass, tracing a crooked line that barely disrupted the fog. “That’s the great thing about being a Wizard. You have the knowledge and insight to believe what you wish.”
Colbey grunted, taking another drink.
“When you think about the reasons that humans have names, my claim may become more believable.” The captain took another swallow of wine. “Humans have names to preserve an image of immortality, for an individual or a family, and to fit comfortably into an era.” He lowered his foot from the gunwale to meet Colbey’s gaze with his red-flecked eyes. “Take your name, for example. You use Colbey to honor the dead warrior who held the name before you, thereby keeping him alive long after his passing. You use Calistinsson to honor your father. Carrion now, I presume?”
Colbey nodded grudgingly. “We prefer to use a more polite term for it. But, yes, my father died in battle.”
“Those children not named for elders usually get some name that sounds beautiful or special to their parents or that’s common to their generation. Beautiful and special ceases to be either after enough time passes. And an era means little to an immortal.” Captain raised his brows, as if to question whether he had made his point. “Names have significance only to mortals. For us, it’s just a way to distinguish between one and another. A title or description works as well.”
“So you are immortal?”
“As we define it, yes. Our lives far outspan yours. Elves do die, though. When we do, our souls are stripped of body and memory, placed in the body of a newborn, and we start again. Death always precedes a new life.”
“Interesting,” Colbey said, glad for Valhalla. The idea of a life dragging and cycling into infinity did not sound desirable, though he knew many would see it so.
The conversation came to a temporary halt. Wind howled through the silence.
Captain spoke first. “You were going to tell me how you came to know about ships and sea gales.”
“Was I?” Colbey took a longer pull at the wine. Over time, the flavor became more inviting, and he did seem to recall the elf’s question from before he’d sidetracked the conversation. “Decades ago, I visited a tavern in Talmir. A healthy quantity of ale convinced me to join a pirating raid.” Colbey laughed at the memory, long buried. His thoughts of the other Northern tribes had become bitter since they had banded against and all but exterminated the Renshai. “We had three ships, oars and sails, and a crazed band of young men willing to hurl themselves on ax and spear for glory or scant treasure.
“When our lead ship’s captain had his brains dashed out by a stone dropped from a coastal city’s ramparts, they gave me his command. They chose me for swordsmanship and savagery. I’m sure no one knew it was my first time aboard any ship larger than a seal boat, and I certainly wasn’t going to open myself to ridicule by telling them. We fought the winter storms of the Amirannak on the way home. I learned quickly.”
Man and elf fell into another hush, watching darkness enwrap the stars and gradually dim them to memories. The moon struggled behind thickening clouds. The captain refilled his goblet.
Colbey stared at the amber wine, curiosity finally getting the better of him. “What is this anyway?”
Captain’s smile stretched nearly the length of his face. “Good wine. Fermented from kelp.”
“Seaweed wine?” Colbey examined the yellow liquid a trifle less fondly. “Bleh.” Still he did not protest when the captain refilled his glass.
Releasing the tiller, Captain leaned over the gunwale to free the ground t
ackle. He let the anchor fall into the dark, churning waters with a splash. “Without the stars, I can’t guide us.” He turned back to face Colbey. “But I’m still curious. If you’re not brooding over a woman, then over whom?”
Colbey responded with a wry chuckle. “I didn’t think I was brooding, though there is one I worry about more than any other. My students will do fine without me. My horse, Frost Reaver, may not. I left him in a farmer’s care, with more than enough gold to cover his needs and with explicit instructions.” He sipped at the wine again, conveniently forgetting its source. Droplets pelted him, and he wondered whether they came from damp winds or waves, or if the storm had already begun to catch them. “I have this fear that I’ll find him pulling a plow. Or sold.”
They both laughed. Captain replenished the glasses, though they were both over half full. “A horse? Now that has to be a first for the Western Wizard.”
Colbey let the title pass, not wanting to delve into another discussion on names. “What do you mean?”
“I hardly need to explain. We all know it’s the Eastern Wizard who’s lord of furred beasts.”
The captain’s words reminded Colbey of information he did already know, though only indirectly. “That’s right. I’m supposed to have some kind of bird rapport.”
Captain’s canted eyes widened. “Haven’t you ever tried bonding with the birds?”
“No,” Colbey admitted, flushing. Such an attempt would have made him feel foolish. “Actually, I did once try to talk to the red falcon who brought me a message from Shadimar.” Colbey considered the incident briefly. “The bird didn’t answer.”
“I don’t think it’s a matter of answering directly.” Captain shrugged, revealing his ignorance. His long fingers rested on the railing. “Besides, Swiftwing is different. He serves all four Cardinal Wizards.”
Child of Thunder (Renshai Trilogy) Page 4