Chapter 20
20
D AAL WADED OUT of the Ameryl Sea and planted the butt of his fishing spear into the red-sand shore. He leaned heavily upon it, drawing deep breaths after his long dive. His wet skin steamed on the cold beach.
He stared across the expanse of the sea, its waves oiled in every shade of green and deeper ameryl, a shimmering mirror that vanished into the distance. The waters spread under an ice cavern that stretched hundreds of leagues wide and twice as deep. Its roof spanned half a league above, and its bottom delved to unknown depths, to forever-dark regions guarded over by the Dreamers.
A few rocky islands dotted those waters, but most of the land was an endless beach that spread along the sea’s edge, framed on the other side by a towering ice wall that climbed into the mists. Directly overhead, the world of ice broke into a sky so distant and cold that few dared venture there.
Only death lay above.
Down here, the Crèche protected life, a cradle that nurtured all.
Daal swiped the dampness from his brow.
Across the sea and above, a warm fog hovered high, rising from regions of boiling waters. The steamy mists swirled across the high glacial roof. The ice’s steam-smoothed surfaces and spearlike sickles glowed through the fog, bright with shining lichen and draped with phosphorescent frills of fungi.
Exhausted, Daal let the net slip from his shoulder and drop to the beach. A few black ablyin shells rolled free.
“I’ll get ’em,” Henna called from behind him. His sister trampled through the sand village she had crafted while waiting for him.
He smiled at her. She was only eight—half his own age—but she had sprouted tall already, testament to her mixed Noorish blood. She remained all kelp-armed and skinny-legged. Her long dark hair, threaded with the green strands of her Panthean heritage, remained wild and unkempt. In another four or five years, those locks would be shorn to mark her maidenhood.
I’ll hate that day.
He combed fingers through his cropped hair, a match to his sister’s blend of ebon and ameryl. His bare chest was fuzzed the same, defying his prayers. He had tried shearing the humiliating growth off with the sharp edge of a shell, but mostly ended up slicing his skin. He had wanted to match the smooth skin of the other men, those of pure Panthean blood—not that it would’ve helped much.
He lifted his hand before his face, spreading his fingers, frustrated by their meager webbing. He dropped his arm and shook his head. Even his ears were too large, sticking out too wide and rising to the barest point. But he was not about to try clipping those. It had been easier when he was young, when his hair was longer, and he could mask the Noorish blood that ran through his veins. But some aspects could not be so easily hidden. Like the unmistakable shine of his blue eyes. Even his sister bore the ameryl eyes of their father, a pure Panthean, like most who lived in the Crèche.
He was happy for her, if not a little envious.
Henna finished gathering the shells and fought to drag the heavy net across the sand. He moved to help her. “We’re two leagues from home, Henna. At this pace, we won’t get there until the morrow.”
She scowled at him. “I can do it. I’m not a baby.” She freed an arm and pointed at the green froth of waves. “See to Neffa before she crawls out here and scrapes her belly on the rocks.”
His sister was right. He shouldn’t neglect his friend. He held out a palm toward Henna. “I’ll need one of those ablyin.”
She brightened, fished in the net, and threw a shell at him. Despite her determined attempt, it landed in the sand between them.
“Good try.”
“I meant it to go there.” She returned to hauling the net.
With a shake of his head, he crossed over and picked up the large shell. He reached to his belt and freed a steel dagger, one of his most prized possessions, gifted to him by his father when his hair was shorn of its childhood. He used the blade to shuck the ablyin open and tossed aside one shell. He balanced the other in his palm, exposing the meaty mollisk flesh. He took a moment to tweeze out a few spitworms that squirmed across its surface and cast them away.
Satisfied, he stepped back to the lapping waves.
Neffa had beached herself to the height of her withers. Still, it meant Daal had to wade waist-deep into the surf to reach her. His sealskin breeches, snugged tight to his thighs, had nearly dried, but Neffa awaited her reward.
Anticipating it, she bounced a bit on her forelegs, casting forth more waves from the winged webbing of her limbs. As he approached, he had to be careful of her spiral horn, lest it spear through him in her eagerness.
He reached and offered the open shell. Neffa leaned forward and gently lipped the treasure, slipping out a pink tongue to scoop the mollisk from its shell. Her sharp teeth gnashed it with a grunt of pleasure. Puffs of steamy mist expelled from the twin holes flanking her horn on top.
Daal smiled and slid a palm along her smooth gray cheek, using a finger to rub the folds around her right eye. “Who is the best orkso in all the sea?”
She rumbled deep. He mimicked the same, casting out the contented grumble back at her, letting her know how much he loved her. For a moment, as he did so, a wave of deeper sensations swept through him. Certainly, he smelled her wet hide, her humid exhalations, the fishy odor of her breath. But he also felt the rough sand under her soft belly, the pound of two hearts, one in the chest, the other near the tail. Even a deep well of her tenderness.
Startled, he stopped his warm grumble, and the sensations dissolved out of him.
Strange…
He wanted to dismiss it all as his pure fancy, manifested by his affection for her. He had grown up alongside Neffa, bonded at a young age to be partners in the waters. They had weathered storms, both out at sea and through the trials of his life. Over the years, he had inklings of similar impressions, but never this strongly. And it hadn’t been just Neffa. All the shoals of orksos responded to him like no one else in the Crèche, not even the Reef Farer, who led all the clans.
He took pride in this talent. While he might be teased, sometimes harshly, for his mixed blood, none faulted his ability with the orksos.
And not just with those grand creatures.
He swallowed, chasing away that thought, but not before he flashed to dark waters, being dragged down by Neffa during a hunt, his ankle tangled in a saddle loop, a shiver of Kell sharks diving upon them, then—
“No…” he gasped aloud.
Henna stopped tugging on the net. “Then you take it,” she said, misunderstanding his outburst.
Daal cleared his throat, blinking away the memory. “I… I’ll fetch the net in a moment.”
He waded to Neffa’s flank and loosened the neck straps to free a small leather saddle from her back. He flung its wet length over his shoulder and patted the orkso’s side. Neffa craned her head around and settled an eye on him. She wheezed out her concern with a sharp spurt from her nostrils.
He patted her again. “I’m fine. Now you get yourself back to the village. I’ll meet you at the pen. I might even have a couple more ablyin shells that don’t make it to the feast.”
She eyed him hard, silently exacting a promise for him to do just that. With a grunt, she shoved with her forelimbs and slid into the deeper waters. She tossed her head, sweeping her horn high, then dove away.
Daal waded back to shore. He collected his net and spear and waved its forked end down the beach. They still had a long way to hike. He had chosen this remote spot to hunt for ablyin, where the kelp forests ran tall and the reefs were seldom scoured. His father had scolded him for hunting alone, but there were few in the village who were willing to join him. Still, to somewhat appease his father, he had taken Henna—not that she would be able to rescue him, but she could at least point to the spot where he died.
They set off down the beach.
B Y THE TIME they were halfway home, passing a stone plinth in the sand, carved into a large karp balanced on its curled tail, Daal’s feet had begun to slow.
Henna ran ahead, chasing crabs that danced from their path. He tried to remember when he had so much useless verve. He was already exhausted. It didn’t help that each step toward home added weight to his shoulders. Out here, away from the curled lips and the dismissive slights, he felt far freer. No longer watched or pointed at.
Plus, this eventide marked the first night of Krystnell, the celebration of the god of the hearth. It opened with a festival of dancing, where young men and women gathered from all the villages and sought their mates.
With his hair shorn, marking his manhood, this would be Daal’s first year when he could offer himself. Not that he held out much hope.
Old shame burned his cheeks as he walked. He’d had a single tryst half a year ago, a woman two years older who was soused on saltberry wine. They had fumbled in the dark, him more than her, at the back of a fishery. He barely knew what to do. He could not even breathe, all the blood rushing from his head, swelling him hard. She had stripped him, laid him on his back, come near to mounting him—then backed away in disgust, pointing between his legs. All that hair, she had said. Like matted kelp. I can’t do it. She had grabbed her smock and fled, leaving him humiliated and even more ashamed of his Noorish blood.
Days afterward, he caught other young women eyeing him, snickering behind their hands to one another. Some had looked upon him piteously, a few with matching disgust.
As he dragged his feet, Henna continued her determined crab chase. By now, she had nearly vanished into the fogged distance.
“Slow down!” he called to her.
Despite his reluctance, he set a faster pace. He had closed half the distance when hard thunder echoed off the cliff that framed the far side of the beach. He feared an icefall, a constant danger, when slabs of the frozen cliff would come crashing to the beachhead.
He dropped his net and pounded across the sand. As he ran, the thunder grew into a strange roaring, like that of a dragyn out of old stories. Moments later, reinforcing this conceit, the steamy mists overhead turned ruddy, then fiery.
He fled after Henna, who had stopped, looking skyward.
Directly over her head, something dark, riding those flames, dropped out of the mists. It looked like a fishing scow. Above it, a great bladder shook and rattled amidst dark ropes.
He sped faster, toes digging into the sand. He reached the site and dashed under the descending keel. The air burned hotter.
Daal reached his sister, scooped her up, and dove out of the craft’s path. He rolled across the sand with her. The strange scow struck the beach hard behind him. The flames roared an extra breath, then coughed into silence.
Daal got up, retreated, pushing his sister behind him. Once far enough away, he planted his spear and leaned its trident toward the danger.
The scow steamed and ticked on the beach, one side half jammed in the sand. The bladder above it teetered drunkenly. Then a stern door crashed open. Figures staggered out. Men and women. Strangers all. They did not seem to note him frozen on the beach.
Daal gasped as some great beast, shagged in dark fur, stalked out with raised hackles. It sniffed the air, then burst through the others, coming straight at Daal and Henna.
A gruff voice barked a harsh warning in a tongue out of the distant past.
The beast skidded on its paws. It kept its head low, ears high, snarling, baring fangs.
Daal kept his spear pointed at it.
A small form joined the creature, coming forward and resting a hand on its shoulders. It was a young woman, dressed in strange clothes. Her hair was a pure fall of shadows. Her blue eyes, flecked with silver, shone at him. She hummed under her breath, both to beast and to him.
As she did, Daal noted a glow emanating from her, limning her in a golden light. He found his throat vibrating, instinctively trying to match that harmony.
“Nyx…” a tall man warned, coming forward with a sword.
The woman ignored him. Her eyes continued to shine at Daal. Similarly with Neffa, he sensed more than he should have.
Whoever they are, they mean us no harm.
Daal lowered his spearpoint a handsbreadth and rose from his crouch.
Henna stayed at his hip. “Who are they?”
He shook his head.
The strange woman suddenly flinched. She stepped back and stared up at the dense mists, craning her long neck. A laugh of relief escaped her, stoking her glow brighter. “Bashaliia…”
Daal searched the mists and spotted a shadow sweeping downward, vague at first, then clearer, forming dark scalloped wings. He gasped. Such wings haunted the nightmares of all in the Crèche.
The creature dove into full view, revealing its true nature.
Daal hollered in terror, “Raash’ke!”
Henna screamed and fell back into the sand.
You will not take her.
Daal leaned a shoulder back and threw his spear with all his strength—aiming for the heart of the daemon.