He entered his private office suite, closing the door behind him. The white-and-gilt walls usually soothed him, reminding him of his favorite library, but not this time. Imorlar, Runcan, and a curly-haired woman dressed as a Kirthan courtesan rose from their chairs near a crackling fireplace and turned to face him.
“Sire,” began Runcan, “may I present Anjoya Meseer, lately of Lesser Salience, in Hynd. Among her many talents are stage acting, storytelling, formal entertaining, games of chance and feast organization. Anjoya, Beret Branbrey, His Wisdom the Lord High Magister of Vint.”
The woman dropped an exquisite curtsey—no small feat considering her gown’s skirt was form-fitting and slashed more than halfway up one leg.
“It is a true honor to finally meet the great Magister of Vint,” she murmured. Beret found her voice rich and pleasing. “Prince Geret has told me much about you and his beloved homeland.”
“As I recall, he couldn’t wait to get away,” Beret said.
Anjoya smiled. “I believe it was the food he was pining for most, Magister.”
Beret’s face relaxed into a smile. “That’s more like the Geret I know.”
Anjoya looked at his hand. “You have a young son?” she asked.
Beret looked down as well; in his hand he clutched a bright yellow wagon. A long moment passed, and he wrestled his sadness and anger back under control. “No, not young anymore. I was…just reminiscing with him. He’s not well.”
She seemed to realize she’d trod into forbidden territory. “I’m sorry, Magister. I hope his health is restored soon.”
The deepest hope of my heart, encompassed in the gentle words of a stranger. “Thank you, as do I.” He turned his eye on Runcan. “So, where is my nephew?”
Runcan launched into detailing the fate of Geret’s expedition. Beret bade everyone sit, then listened with only the occasional interruption for further detail. He had already learned about the two pirates and the Dock District riots from those disgruntled Vintens whom Geret had turned away from the expedition outside the walls of Yaren Fel. Now he learned much more: the “unscheduled” stop at Ha’Hril to get the key to the Dire Tome’s prison; the sea monster attack, the deaths of Beret’s traitorous Counts, and the temporary loss of the Shanallar; the quake ripples that destroyed the remainder of the Vinten expedition; meeting Kemsil Urondarei; hiding Geret in the Salience Harbor reconstruction project while Runcan brokered trade deals with the caliph; and the reappearance of the Shanallar, aboard a pirate fleet bound for Shanal. He also heard Runcan’s summary of his and Anjoya’s voyage back to Cyrmant, complete with crowds of refugees, a shattered island, and a speedy voyage with pirates who dropped them off in Yaren Fel during a night raid.
When Runcan finally finished speaking, Beret sat back, exhausted merely from listening to the harrowing adventures his nephew had endured. “Wisdom’s head,” he murmured. “So many lives lost. I’ll need to get their names from the expedition manifest, contact their families.”
“I’ll see to it, Sire,” Imorlar said.
“Geret took their loss hard,” Runcan said. “His determination got us to Salience in one piece, but he suffered plenty of guilt over their deaths.”
Beret harrumphed. “I’m the one who sent them, not Geret. The guilt is ultimately mine.”
“I think it may have driven him onward to Shanal,” Runcan continued, “knowing that he had only himself to worry for anymore. Sanych was under the direct protection of the Shanallar, and Kemsil and Salvor were accompanying him out of unswerving loyalty. He’d managed to foster a relationship with the heir to Clan Agonbloom of the Southern Sea Clans as well, and telling her ‘no thanks’ meant waiting far longer for transport to Shanal.”
Beret leaned forward, gripping the carved wooden arms of his chair. “Can they still succeed?”
Runcan nodded. “The Shanallar brought Salvor back from the far edge of death, Sire. I believe it’s very possible that she can protect such a small party from the cult’s wrath.”
“And what of her conflicting goal? She demanded that the book be destroyed. Geret’s going there to bring it back intact. Is this an unsolvable dilemma?” Thoughts of Addan’s fate if the book were never retrieved threatened to invade his mind, throwing off his emotional equilibrium. He took a deep breath and put them out of his mind.
Runcan looked uncomfortable. “I’m afraid that, with one side being immortal, the issue is unlikely to be resolved in Geret’s favor, Sire. Sanych did have some theories on how the two disparate plans might be woven into one, but without knowing the true nature of the book in question, it’s impossible to say whether she had any viable options.”
Imorlar spoke up. “I’ve nothing but glowing reports on Sanych’s capabilities from Master Godric at the Temple. If anyone can manage to solve the unsolvable, it’s her. After all, she did find a woman whose existence was supposed to be impossible.”
Beret knotted his fingers together, holding in his frustration and anxiety, willing them away. “All right, then. At best, we are at least two seasons away from hearing word of Geret’s success or failure. At worst, we’ll never hear anything.”
Anjoya quickly looked down, hiding her expression. Beret made the connection. “You know Kemsil well, don’t you?”
“I do, Magister.”
“I get the impression you left Hynd in a rather permanent fashion; has Runcan arranged housing for you here in Vint yet?”
“Ah, no, Sire,” Runcan said. “We were more focused on arriving here in one piece.”
“Then let me atone for my Count’s lack of manners; you shall be my own guest here in the palace.”
“Magister…” Anjoya didn’t seem to know how to protest.
“No, I insist. After all, you have more in common with me than anyone else in Vint. Not many can claim that distinction.”
She gave him a lovely, grateful smile, and Beret was reassured that he’d made a sound offer. Or perhaps he was just mooning over her. He hadn’t had much opportunity for the company of a politically unaffiliated woman since his dear wife had passed, many years ago.
“Er. This may seem like an odd question,” he began.
“I am at your complete disposal, my lord,” she assured him.
He held up the painted toy. “Do you, perhaps, know any good bedtime stories?”
~~~
Geret woke blearily and scrubbed at his face with his hands. When he finally blinked his eyes open wide enough to focus, a face was gazing down at him.
“Morning, sweet dreamer.”
Geret frowned. “What do you want, Salvor?”
“Just inquiring if my prince enjoyed his evening, and whether he awoke refreshed and rested for our journey ashore to defeat a monstrous, evil cult today.”
Geret paused as he was about to utter a snide retort, eyes widening as recent memories began to filter in. Glimmering eyes, warm flesh, low laughter… His words emerged in a desperate whisper. “Oh, Folly.”
“Well put. I thought I’d warned you against drinking too much with her.”
“You…came and got me?” Geret winced at the thought of his indiscretion being witnessed.
“Someone had to.”
Geret covered his eyes with his palms, pressing until the world went black. “Shouldn’t have had so much of that weird green drink. What was I thinking?”
Salvor looked annoyed. “You really make insulting you too easy.”
Geret ignored him. “Sanych…does she know?”
“Geret, the whole ship knows. Rhona’s in with Siela and the fleet captains, and Meena and Sanych are up in the aft castle with Kemsil, working on the last details of our infiltration of Cish tonight. I was there too, until I decided to see if you were conscious yet.”
“I should get up there,” he said, sitting up.
His bodyguard handed him a clean shirt. “You woke up suicidal today, I see.” As Geret pulled it over his head, Salvor asked diffidently, “You want me to pave the way for you before you go up?”
Salvor, offering to help my relationship with Sanych? A sinking feeling twisted his intestines into a knot. I must have bedded Rhona, after all.
“No; we’ve got to focus on the next step in the quest. Getting distracted now is just going to make things worse. If that’s even possible.”
Salvor tipped his head in acknowledgment and left the cabin.
Geret closed his eyes and dropped his head into his hands. His uncle might have understood the necessity of staying in Rhona’s cabin for the good of the expedition, but he would be furious at Geret’s lack of discretion, drinking a mysterious elixir with a grasping pirate who wanted to bear his child for the good of her political career. More immediately, Geret was horrified at what Sanych must be feeling.
I can’t actually remember bedding Rhona, he thought desperately. But I don’t remember Salvor coming in, either… He hasn’t said what he saw, and I’m pretty sure I never want to hear that description coming out of Salvor’s mouth. What in Folly’s dirty dishwater was in that green drink?
~~~
As Geret emerged on deck, he saw sailors packing a longboat with supplies as it dangled against the hull next to the port rail. The morning air was crisp, carrying a hint of pine among the more maritime scents of beached kelp, tar and brine.
Geret made his way up the aft castle stairs, keeping a steadying hand on the rail. Salvor trailed behind him. Kemsil noticed him first, looking over with a smile.
“I’ve got no details for you, Kemsil,” Geret said preemptively, holding up a stalling hand. “Don’t even ask.” He looked at Sanych, hoping she took his words in the most innocent way, but she jerked her gaze from his and looked at Meena instead.
The Shanallar turned to face Geret. “Decided to complete your quest after all, did you? Anything you want the cult to steal from you, haul it up on deck for the crew to pack into the longboat. Otherwise, we’re just waiting for the tide. Ruel says it won’t be long.”
Kemsil glanced at the Circuit and let out a slow breath. “Soon we’ll know whether the magic that made this can stand up to the cult’s spells. If it’s going to fail, I hope we make shore first.”
“Sanych, I…may I speak with you over here for a moment?” Geret began, stepping away from the others. She didn’t move. Her heated stare nearly raised smoke from his shirt. He gritted his teeth and stepped close to her shoulder. “Sanych, please believe me. I can’t explain what happened last night—”
“I can.” She spoke through her teeth. “I didn’t mysteriously go deaf during the night. After Salvor’s deception, which at least had some sort of purpose behind it, you’d think I’d learn, but no. Folly’s caught me twice with the same hook. Well, she can have the pair of you for chopping into bait for all I care. And what would your uncle say if he knew? I’ll tell you what he’d say: that I’m the last true Vinten on this Folly-ridden ship! I can’t wait until he reads my account of this part of the quest. Preferably aloud. To the entire court. You must be Folly’s favorite child. And her scullery maids don’t get more cainor than Rhona.”
Salvor and Geret exchanged a wide-eyed glance. Kemsil covered his mouth, looking agog, but Geret couldn’t tell if he was concealing a grin or a gasp. When he looked back to Sanych, he saw her hand draw back as if to strike him. As he raised his hands in a placating gesture, Meena approached her and gently put a hand on her arm.
“Don’t injure him much. We need him to row.”
Geret gave her a disapproving glance, but she shrugged it off and drew him over to the fore rail of the castle, away from Sanych.
“This might be a good time for you to review the four different levels of Shanallese apology. I’ll let you decide which you might need in this situation, depending on the amount of offense you have given—which seems obvious—and whether the offense was an accident, or premeditated.” Her eyes slid to meet his, and in them he read disappointment. Not anger, nor even reproach, but from a woman he’d nearly idolized for months, her judgment was worse than a sword thrust.
He lowered his head, eyes on the planks underfoot. “Meena, how am I supposed to apologize to her when I can’t even remember what—”
“Tide’s calling our names!” Rhona hollered, her voice carrying across the deck. Behind her, Siela and the fleet captains emerged from below deck. Rhona clattered up the stairs to the castle, bellowing orders, and her crew scattered across the deck and up into the rigging. The anchor clanked up from the shallow sea bed beneath the keel, and the sails billowed taut with wind.
Meena moved away to talk to Rhona, leaving Geret alone in a small circle of empty deck space. Just focus on getting the longboat to Cish, he told himself.
It wasn’t long until the Princeling swanned past the end of the rocky arm, putting Geret in view of Cish’s maritime traffic. Numerous ships of various sizes plied Shelter Bay’s broad surface.
Rhona’s caravel slowed, while the other four ships sailed onward across the bay’s mouth. Kemsil, Rhona, Ruel, Meena, Sanych, Geret and Salvor clambered into the longboat, and the crew lowered it to the sea.
“Gods above protect you,” Siela called as the longboat began to pull away under oar power.
“Fair seas and fine winds,” Rhona replied, standing in the stern. “We’ll meet you at the rendezvous. And Siela, if you damage my Princeling, I’ll personally hang your locks from my mainmast!”
The second mate merely returned a jaunty salute. As Rhona sat down, a chorus of Clan-whistles rose from the Princeling’s deck. Siela ordered the sails set once more, and the triple-masted caravel sailed westward after the rest of the fleet, leaving the longboat alone at the mouth of the ancient Shanallese caldera.
~~~
Sanych pulled on her oar, tasting the dryness of her own mouth and the sweat that trickled down her upper lip. They had nearly twenty miles of bay to cross, and only a simple sail and tiller, plus six oars, to get them there. Rhona controlled the tiller, which put her facing everyone else. Sanych was eternally grateful that she wasn’t making sugar-eyes at Geret the whole time. In fact, she seemed entirely focused on her task, as if she hadn’t romped with the prince at all last night.
Maybe it’s not that important to her. It would be to me, Sanych thought.
Kemsil’s Circuit continued to keep them invisible to passing vessels. As time passed, and no Dzur i'Oth attacks sank them into the harbor, everyone relaxed a little. After the sun crossed its zenith, Rhona passed around water skins and food. Despite the apparent invulnerability of the Circuit’s magic, the immediacy of their situation seemed to weigh heavily on them all. No one spoke, no one smiled, as they took a short break to eat and drink. Dozens of weeks had passed since Sanych had set out from Highnave with Geret, Salvor and Meena. Even longer since she had sought Meena in the first place. The seasons had rolled past—some more than once, due to crossing the equator—and her birthday had come and gone unremarked during the recent weeks of storm-tossed travel. And though they’d been striving to reach Shanal, mythic home of the Dire Tome, for a very long time, its appearance at the horizon seemed sudden after so many weeks of blue horizons.
Sanych gripped her oar and focused on paddling. She knew what Meena expected of her, and though it terrified her, she was determined not to let the Shanallar down. She knew she should take it as a comfort that she wouldn’t be alone as she completed the task Meena had set for her, but she couldn’t.
In mere hours, she expected to be in the unkind hands of the enemy. Meena’s words to her during their last planning session haunted her.
“Don’t worry; they won’t kill you. They’ll need you alive, so they can torture you for information about my whereabouts.”
Chapter Eighteen
Frik lounged against the wall of a bakery, next to a rusty downspout dragon. In another hour, he knew, the baker would arise and come downstairs. The aroma of fresh-baked bread would draw in customers soon after that, and he’d need to find a new spot to lurk. But the docks of Cish were full of excellent places for lurking. That wasn�
�t the problem. The problem was finding one that was unoccupied.
For all the plague that was striking out in the remote country villages, the city itself was still filled to bursting. Especially with his type. He shifted from one foot to the other, careful not to grind the pale yellow gravel of the alleyway underfoot and give away his presence. No one knew as well as a lurker that their profession was cannibalistic.
Favorite targets were lurkers like him who were giving up their night job to watch for “stealthy infiltrators”. Sure, it paid well and came with no risk of getting beat up by a merchant’s bodyguard, but with the amount of coin he received every week to do nothing but watch, Frik knew something serious was afoot besides his own game.
His eyes played over the docks that lined the river’s wide banks, even as he kept his ears peeled. The faint scent of sulfur reached his nose; a series of hot springs bubbled up just upriver from the city; they were used mostly for health excursions by the nobility or rich merchants, but sulfur was mined nearby as well. The runoff hit the Emerald north outside the city limits, turning the water a chartreuse hue for a distance before it reverted to its deep, sparkling green again. The smell, though—that persisted all the way to the sea. It amused Frik to imagine that it came from underwater dragons, farting in the river.
Cish, like every other city, town, or rude little village in Shanal, sported dragons as its motif of choice. Downspouts, arches, towers, city walls, battlements, even the lintels of simple dwellings, all had carved or painted dragons. Wagon wheels, sword handles and tavern flagons also sported the mythic beasts.
The oldest myths of Shanal told of a time when dragons soared above the forests and perched unharmed on volcanoes. But Frik didn’t see the point of idolizing a creature that had burned down everyone’s straw huts and eaten them alive.
Not practical at all, he thought, eating everyone up like that. They probably went extinct because they destroyed the human population and starved. I’d have gathered us into pens and raised us like cattle. But then, he told himself, I’d be lunch, instead of getting paid well to stand watch.
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