Oathen
By Jasmine Giacomo
Smashwords Edition
Copyright © 2011 Jasmine Giacomo
Discover other Smashwords titles by the Author:
The Wicked Heroine (prequel to Oathen)
Against a Sea of Troubles
Let the World Slip
The Whirligig of Time
Smashwords Edition, License Notes
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Table of Contents
Maps
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-one
Chapter Twenty-two
Chapter Twenty-three
Chapter Twenty-four
Chapter Twenty-five
Chapter Twenty-six
Chapter Twenty-seven
Chapter Twenty-eight
Chapter Twenty-nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-one
Chapter Thirty-two
Chapter Thirty-three
Chapter Thirty-four
Chapter Thirty-five
Chapter Thirty-six
Chapter Thirty-seven
Chapter Thirty-eight
Chapter Thirty-nine
Chapter Forty
Chapter Forty-one
Chapter Forty-two
Chapter Forty-three
Chapter Forty-four
Epilogue
About the Author
Dedication
To the generations who have gone before: without your footprints, we would not have paths among which to choose.
Acknowledgements
To M. L. Strickland, Amy Grimwood-Habjan, Nicole Moscou and Camille Ramsey, I give heartfelt thanks.
My continual thanks go to my family, for letting me live my passion.
Maps
Prologue
Mep and his son Tran spotted the sea monster only after they had pushed their sturdy outrigger halfway into the gentle surf. Matching the color of the dark water around it, it resembled a plateau of stone against the lightening horizon beyond, blocking the small harbor’s mouth.
Tran swore by the sea queen’s eyes, pointing at its massive, unmoving form. “What do we do, Ba?” the teenager asked.
The older fisherman squinted out at the dark monstrosity. In the pre-dawn greyness that layered sea and shore alike, it seemed to fade in and out of existence. “Can’t fish much in the harbor.” He clicked his tongue, then wiggled a loose tooth. His son waited silently. Finally Mep said, “Best go see it.”
Tran looked out at the massive creature, hesitant.
Mep put his hands back on the canoe, a hint of a smile lifting one seamed cheek. “Would you let sea birds pick at your eyeball? It can’t harm us now.”
Tran glanced back out. In the distance, he could indeed see a cluster of boisterous white sea harpies perched on the curve of the sea monster’s smooth hide. Still, the idea of approaching a dead sea monster made him shiver. The Deep Ones were the guardians of the sea gods’ lairs.
But his father showed no hesitation, so Tran didn’t either. Together, the pair slid the outrigger into the warm sea and pushed off from the white sand. They paddled with the retreating tide toward the enormous grey-blue bulk and into its long, dim predawn shadow. A faint odor, similar to that of a whale, exuded from its body. Its midsection bent around the coral jetty the villagers had constructed on one side of the harbor, and its tail dangled out of sight in the sea currents. Had its body been less sleek, it wouldn’t have fit in the harbor at high tide.
Mep gave its skin a long, gentle prod with his oar. “Seems unspoiled. Lots of good use in this beast.”
They paddled back to shore, hopping out among other fishermen who milled around their own outriggers, waiting to hear Mep’s verdict on the situation.
“The sea gods have blessed us this day,” Mep said, loudly enough for all to hear. “They gift us with one of their own guardians. Let’s not waste.”
As the sun rose over the eastern sea, every able-bodied villager streamed out along the sand and coral reefs toward the dead hulk. They bore knives, ropes, coals, platters and bowls. Excitement and wonder spread across the crowd as they drew close to the creature. A few eager volunteers clambered up onto the carcass and looped ropes around its fins. The crowd pulled in unison to draw its bulk to the edge of the coral jetty before the low tide stranded it in the sandy harbor bottom. Once they’d secured it, the carving began.
“What could kill a Deep One and not leave a mark?” Mep’s wife, Gara, asked as she hefted a section of blubber the size of her own leg onto a wide woven platter lined with tantan leaves. Behind her, numerous fires were already burning, rendering tubs of fat into usable tallow.
Perched above her on the creature’s side, Mep looked across the creature’s curved bulk to the four scallop-edged tusks that protruded from its upper jaw. Its mouth was ragged with serrated teeth. The flies and sea harpies hadn’t abandoned their eyeball meal; the birds squawked angrily if anyone came too close. He began a cut with his whale knife and replied, “Whatever it was, it has my thanks. We’ll eat for weeks. Could even build a palace for the Sea Queen with the—”
His blade clinked against something hard in the middle of the soft tissue, and he paused, frowning. As he slid the knife back, feeling around, it slipped and stabbed deeply into the Deep One’s body, piercing an organ and releasing a burst of fetid gas that blew his hair straight up.
Gara, unsympathetic, chuckled. “You wash before you kiss me next, Mep.”
He grinned. “Maybe you should wash me. Make sure I get it right.” He peered down into the dark cavity below. It smelled of dead stomach. Something glinted in the angled sunlight, and as he peeled back a thick layer of flesh to see it better, his knife skittered against the blade of a short sword jammed up from below.
He froze for a moment, stunned. Then, despite the futility of rescue, Mep began carving his way down into the Deep One as fast as he could, shouting for others to assist him. To their surprise, the searchers discovered that the sword’s handle was still gripped by a hand—not a skeletal hand, nor even a half-digested hand. The limb was perfectly complete, if pasty-white and hairless.
Wide-eyed, the men began to free the body. Into the summer morning they pulled a trim, fit and hairless nude woman, gooey with stomach slime and bits of partially digested meat. They handed her down to others on the coral jetty, who laid her down on the ground with superstitious care. Several of them approached, bowing, and mimed pouring handfuls of blessings from her onto their own heads.
“Is she really a sea goddess?” Tran breathed, seeing their obeisance. Her skin had begun to take on a more normal hue, though she was still paler than anyone in his village.
His mother slapped his shoulder. “Quit staring. Your girl Seesa will get jealous.” She snatched up a relatively clean length of unbleached cloth and carried it
over to the body.
Tran huffed a laugh. His mother had never been intimidated by anything; why should meeting a sea goddess be any different?
“Maybe she killed the Deep One herself,” Mep said, tapping his lower lip in speculation.
“No,” the woman murmured, opening her eyes and turning her head toward him. “Couldn’t reach its heart from its stomach.”
The villagers gasped and backed away as she spoke, many of them hiding their downcast eyes behind splayed fingers. She sat up and took the cloth from Gara’s slack grasp, wrapping it loosely around herself.
“Where am I?”
“Our village is South Point, on Agmana. In the Scattersea Isles,” Gara answered.
“Ah,” the woman said, nodding. “Does anyone have any food? I’d not say no to some of this garrim; turnabout’s always fair. Feels like I haven’t eaten in—” Fear shadowed her face, and she looked up at Gara, suddenly intent. “What year is it?”
Chapter One
Anjoya Meseer glided through the busy afternoon crowds that thronged the Market Quarter of Greater Salience, trying not to spill the tears that edged her dark eyes. They might streak the kohl she’d lined them with, and no hostess, not even one forced to live and work in Lesser Salience, would let herself appear as anything less than poised and calm at all times.
Her feet still remembered the path from her half-sister’s residence to the elevator shaft nearest Anjoya’s home. She let the sights and smells of the city that had introduced her to Kemsil soothe her anger.
But that didn’t last long. Kemsil, too, was being unreasonable. He’d proclaimed that he owed his life to the four easterners who had saved him from slavers, and from Clan Swordfish, in the aftermath of a massive quake ripple—the same one that demolished the subterranean harbor a thousand feet below Greater Salience. He made no secret of his plans to accompany them in search of their lost companion, Meena, should the diminutive Archivist Sanych ever locate her again.
He’d accompany them back onto the sea, where there prowled not only the vicious slaver pirates of Clan Swordfish, but his own Jualan people, who would likely kill him on sight for not showing up at his arranged marriage—which he had missed because he had been kidnapped by slaver pirates!
Anjoya found her fingernails digging into her long silk sleeves and forced herself to relax before she damaged the fabric. He was safe in the city, at least, under his pseudonym, Gryme. And she knew that he truly cared about her. Her sister Ethari had nothing but hidden agendas and a decades-old pipe full of the dark, bitter ashes of jealousy.
Please do me the honor of attending my luncheon in two days’ time, Ethari’s note had read. My guests will benefit from your presence, and I will be happy to share half of the hostess fee with you.
Despite her misgivings, Anjoya had gone up to Ethari’s home, dressed in her best silks, having spent hours braiding her long, dark hair and tucking it through an open-topped turban in order to blend in with the Citizenry. It never hurt to advertise oneself in her line of work, and her sister knew it, since she was a hostess as well. What she didn’t know was that Anjoya was hurting for money, having turned away several well-paying clients in order to clear time to instruct Kemsil’s eastern friends—Prince Geret Branbrey Valan of Vint and his bodyguard, Lord Salvor Thelios—in the Hyndi tongue.
Only after she arrived had she discovered that her sister was hosting six Byarran friars who had come to make use of the Great Library of Hynd. They had taken one look at her bare midriff and the books of poetry she carried, and quickly lowered their eyes.
Anjoya had not missed Ethari’s smug expression before the Greater Salience hostess smoothed it away. The shorter, lighter-haired woman had chosen simple, conservative attire that made Anjoya look like a ruby mynah, ready to squawk forth horrible, progressive ideas that would lead to the downfall of civilization everywhere. Or so the Byarrans surely thought.
Most of the luncheon had been full of awkward pauses and shifting glances. Anjoya knew that the small coastal realm of Byar did not favor its women with respect to formal education, so all her favorite topics like philosophy, politics and poetry were off the table. She did manage to engage the friars in conversation regarding gardening and cloth-dying, and counted it a major victory against Ethari’s scheme to embarrass her.
But Ethari managed to have the last word, as usual.
“Thank you for your stimulating entertainment,” Ethari had said to her in the cool stone entryway, as the friars were putting their worn sandals back on. As the men looked over, she tossed a money pouch to Anjoya, who caught it against her chest. “You may go.”
Anjoya’s eyes slid to the shocked friars, then pinned Ethari with a hot glare. “I am not a common whore,” she hissed, “to be paid before the eyes of guests!”
“Then give it back.” Ethari held out a smooth hand.
There it was: the trap. Perhaps Ethari knew more about her finances than Anjoya realized. Nostrils flaring, Anjoya took her sister’s hand and slapped the little red pouch into it. Turning to leave, she wove her way through the friars, who drew back from her skirt, not wanting her clothing to touch them.
As she descended Ethari’s pale, broad steps and passed between twin urns overflowing with flowering vines, she heard, “My apologies, gentlemen. Her mother was a thief with lax morals, and despite my decades of trying to show her a better path, as you see, my half-sister has done little better.”
There went any chance of having a Byarran client, ever again. The gathering of hostesses in Greater Salience—not quite a guild, but more powerful than some—had already barred her from hosting in the upper city, and now Ethari was trying to drive her out of the business completely.
It had worked, too. Anjoya had made plans to sail home with the Vintens if they could not find their missing friend.
Her eyes were dry by the time Anjoya reached the large, gilded elevator. She entered with several others who wished to descend to Lesser Salience, the underground section of the city, which buffered the Citizenry above from the raucous harbor below. As the light faded in the narrow shaft, she felt tension leave her shoulders. She was glad she’d be leaving Salience. Perhaps she could even manage a tan once she reached Vint. Sanych had warned her that it was often cloudy there due to surrounding mountains, and Anjoya trusted the Archivist’s perfect recall, but in Anjoya’s estimation, clouds overhead were still far better than rock.
She crossed the streets of Lesser Salience, lit from above by the ever-present glowing fungus that provided public light, and entered her stone-carved home, greeting her women as they went about their daily tasks. Two of them helped her unbraid her hair once more, and within the hour, she was dressed in a loose flowing gown, curly hair down to her waist, entertaining the assistants to an emissary from Kauna’kana, whose employer was visiting the caliph.
Just as the cross-cultural joking was in full swing, a pounding at the door forced her to excuse herself from her illustrious company. The First Assistant waved his heavy goblet and smiled in good humor, his dark braid of office gleaming across his forehead. It was times like these that made the Hyndi hostess regret that part of her job involved answering her own door.
She set her expression into interested politeness and pulled open the thick wooden door, hoping Ethari had not followed her, nor the friars either, trying to convince her to stop reading books. The man on the other side was panting, carrying a pack over his shoulder, and grinning like a fool.
“Geret?” she queried of the tall, dark-eyed Vinten prince. “What has happened?”
“I don’t have long, Anjoya,” he puffed, catching his breath. “Please tell Count Runcan that Sanych, Salvor, Gryme and I will be parting ways with him here. He’s to return to Vint and report to my uncle the Magister on the progress our expedition has made. You’re still accompanying him on the next available ship?”
“I am…but I thought we were all going.” She eyed his pack. “What progress is he to report? Has Sanych located your miss
ing friend?”
“Not yet,” Geret said, chuckling.
Anjoya frowned in confusion. “I’m not following, Geret,” she said.
Geret met her eyes with a grin and explained his plan to her.
“What? You can’t take Gryme west! The Jualans will kill him!” the hostess argued, cutting a fearful, angry arm toward Kemsil’s homeland.
“That’s the problem, Anjoya,” Geret said, sobering. “I’ve begged him to reconsider, but he won’t. He says he owes us his life, and he won’t let us leave without him.” He looked over his shoulder. “I need to hurry before they leave without me.”
Anjoya made an exasperated noise. “What ship would dare take you to Shanal? These waters are Sea Clan territory! And how can you go on, when you don’t know the way?”
Geret stepped back a couple of paces, beginning to leave. “Because we have a guide again. Thank you for all the Hyndi lessons, Anjoya. Runcan’s a good man; he’ll get you safely to Vint.” He gave her a deep nod of respect, then started jogging down the street, calling, “I’ll see you in a year or two!”
~~~
Sanych elTiera stared at the wall map she’d constructed over the weeks she’d had her own room in the massive Salience library. She had been granted the use of it by the mystical Silver Hand women from the Navel of the World compound next door. Every detail— Eirant to the south, the Archipelago of Juala to the west, and the Scattersea Isles to the north; sea current lines; little grey pins marking Deep One sightings—was already burned into her brain, but it comforted her to look at it. She felt like Wisdom herself, high over the earth, looking down on the real Middle Sea.
“I’ll find you,” she murmured, fingering a pin on the side of the map, which she had marked with a streamer of paper that read Shanallar. She only lacked a spot to pin it. “But first, lunch, or Cheriya says she will unbind my braids and traipse me through the streets, calling me a harlot. I know you’ll understand.”
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