Chapter 43
43
A T MIDDAY, N YX stood at the end of the stone pier. She watched the last of the flotilla of skiffs head out to sea. Mournful bells rang a slow dirge from those boats. Voices rang in sad accompaniment. She didn’t understand the words, but the sentiment was somber, yet tinged with hopefulness.
Standing beside her, Daal must have noted her attention. “A prayer,” he whispered. “To the Dreamers.”
Nyx looked to him. “What are they asking for?”
“For their cherished to be preserved,” he mumbled. “To live forever in the dreams of the Oshkapeers. ”
Daal stared across the waves, his features pale, his eyes lost. She didn’t need to touch him, to share that intimacy, to know he was recalling his own experience with the Dreamers. She had tried to pry the story from him, but before she could press the matter, Graylin had rushed in with the others, with word of their discovery of the Fyredragon and a rekindled hope that the Sparrowhawk could be repaired.
She could hardly get her own voice heard over their excited chatter. When she did finally manage, Graylin had balked at her going on this voyage. But by then, it was too late. She had already informed the Reef Farer of her intention; to refuse at the last moment would risk insulting an ally who remained their strongest advocate. Graylin finally conceded, knowing they would need Iskar’s cooperation if they hoped to get the Sparrowhawk flying again.
Not that he would allow Nyx to go by herself.
Vikas kept behind her on the pier, her ever-present shadow. Shiya stood alongside her. The bronze woman’s strength would be needed if Nyx hoped to use bridle-song to reach those Dreamers deep in the sea.
Still, Graylin wasn’t satisfied with just Shiya and Vikas as guardians. The knight was already aboard the Reef Farer’s barge, speaking to the Crèche leader and his lissome consort. The pair—Berent and Ularia—had shed out of their festival finery and wore plain white robes, the color of mourning. The only embellishment was the Reef Farer’s stone circlet of gemstones and Ularia’s diadem that held a single bright emerald.
Meryk stood with Graylin, aiding in communication, though both the Reef Farer and his consort understood a smattering of Noorish.
Everyone else in their group had remained behind in Iskar, to start work on the swyftship. Floraan had promised to rally her fellow Noor in the Crèche—those that weren’t joining the flotilla—to aid in the labor. Henna had pleaded to go with her brother, but her mother was not about to let her daughter travel so far from her side.
Graylin nodded to the Reef Farer, then strode across the barge toward Nyx. Once at the rail, he extended a hand toward her. “The Reef Farer is heading out. We should get settled.”
Before taking his hand and boarding, Nyx turned to Daal. “I’ll see you in Kefta.”
Daal nodded, his lips a hard line of worry. He turned and crossed to the other side of the pier, to where his family’s skiff was moored. Neffa and another orkso floated in their harnesses, waiting for the voyage to the island town.
Daal would be traveling separately—not only because he was considered unworthy of accompanying the Reef Farer, but because Nyx would need that skiff later. Her group intended to sneak off from Kefta and attempt to contact the Oshkapeers.
As Nyx took Graylin’s hand and stepped into the barge, she searched the mists overhead, praying they would be successful. With Bashaliia gone, it felt as if a part of her was missing. She wondered if this was how Bashaliia felt, cut off from the melding with his brethren. Though for him, it must be a thousandfold more painful. He had given up so much to come with her.
And look what that sacrifice had wrought.
I cannot let it stand.
She joined Graylin on the deck, more determined than ever to discover what the Dreamers knew about the raash’ke.
Once Shiya and Vikas boarded, Graylin drew their group to the stern, collecting Meryk, too. Daal’s father seemed to be trying to stare everywhere at once, both nervous and excited to be aboard the Reef Farer’s barge.
The wide-bellied craft was sculpted of woven kelp that swept up into waist-high walls, bolstered by a long keel that appeared to be the rib bone of some great sea beast. In the center, a pair of shell-encrusted chairs sat atop a dais, thrones for the Reef Farer and his consort. Elsewhere, benches striped the deck, dotted with those who were closest to the leader.
It was an honor to be allowed to travel with such esteemed company, a respect that the Reef Farer hoped would rub off on Nyx’s group, to help assuage the growing tension in the village. Nevertheless, they were relegated to the barge’s stern—which was just as well.
Nyx still felt she shouldn’t be here.
The rails of the barge were decorated with garlands of a sea plant, blooming with bright white blossoms. Stone bells adorned its length, ringing a mournful note as the barge left the dock, pulled by a shoal of six orksos.
Across the waves, the prayerful dirge continued to echo.
Nyx stared over to where Daal guided his skiff. He met her gaze, then turned away, plainly still unconvinced of this course.
He was not the only one.
Graylin sat heavily beside her. He let out a long breath and leaned over, keeping his voice low. “Is it wise to trespass where it is forbidden? Especially now.”
She frowned at him. Everything had happened so quickly that none of them had a proper chance to discuss matters in detail. It had been a hard morning for all of them—and it was only the middle of what would surely be an even longer day.
“We have to risk trespassing,” she answered. “Daal believes the Oshkapeers know more about the raash’ke. We must find out what that is. There’s so much we don’t know about them, about their history. Something in the past must have turned that horde more savage.”
“Not necessarily,” Graylin huffed. “I know the Myr swamps. Bashaliia’s brethren were as much a terror to those living there as the raash’ke are to the Crèche.”
“This is different,” she mumbled.
“How?”
She simply shook her head. She hadn’t told anyone about the shadow she sensed hidden within the malevolence of the horde-mind—unsure if it was even real or born of her own panicky imagination.
Graylin touched her knee, his manner softening. “Nyx, I know you hope that you’ll learn something to help Bashaliia, to free him from the enthrallment of the raash’ke. But he’s been gone three days. It takes bridle-singers far less time to break wild horses or tame giant sandcrabs.”
“Bashaliia is much stronger. He’ll fight with all his heart.”
“I know, but is he strong enough ? It took only five of them to bring him down and—”
She pushed Graylin’s hand off her knee, refusing to listen, but support came from another source.
“We are also not strong enough,” Shiya warned Graylin, and nodded to Nyx. “Even together. We barely survived our first encounter with the raash’ke.”
Graylin sighed. Clearly, this worry had not escaped him.
“If we should prove successful in getting the Sparrowhawk aloft,” Shiya continued, “we will only be brought low again by that horde.”
Still, Graylin remained stubborn. “But should our trespass among the Dreamers be discovered, it will quash any good graces we have with the village. We will never get the Hawk repaired without Iskar’s help and forbearance.”
Vikas had been listening quietly and gestured her own opinion: “Then we must not get caught.”
Nyx nodded. “Everyone will be busy at the tribute feast in Kefta following the burial. With care, we should be able to slip away long enough to engage the Dreamers.”
Daal had suggested this plan, pushing past his own reluctance to offer it.
Shiya nodded. “We must try, or we will never be able to continue on with our quest.”
Outnumbered three to one, Graylin simply sighed, accepting the inevitability of this course.
Nyx settled back, listening to the continuing dirge, the ring of the barge’s bells. She caught sight of Ularia staring toward them. The woman’s eyes matched the emerald in her diadem, both in color and hardness. Her gaze remained fixed on Nyx, until she finally turned away and whispered in the Reef Farer’s ear.
Nyx felt a residual chill from those cold eyes. Ularia could not have overheard them, not with their voices low and the bells echoing around them. Still, Nyx was certain of one thing.
We must be extra wary from here.
G RAYLIN DROWSED AS the barge humped through the waves, rocking him gently from side to side. But he had been a knight for most of his life. Even in slumber, his ears were forever alert for the slip of steel from a sheath, the furtive footfall, the whisper of a threat.
So, he stirred and opened his eyes when the mourners’ song of lament was finally answered by a heavy tolling of larger bells. He shifted enough to spot the glow of flames through the mists ahead.
“Kefta,” Nyx said next to him.
As they watched, a shoreline slowly appeared out of the fog, lit by a hundred flickering firepots and lanterns. The island looked like a collapsed volcanic cone, a sickle of red rock and darker sand. Most of it was sheer cliffs, but one side lay open to the sea, creating a large bay in its caldera. The village hugged those waters and stacked up the inner walls in a series of carved tiers.
Much like Iskar, Kefta was made up of sandstone homes and walls, with roofs woven of dried weed. Similarly, a large square bordered the town’s rocky piers. The sheltered bay was packed with boats. A few already headed out to meet the flotilla.
More would soon join them.
Kefta had sent many of their young men and women to the Krystnell festival in Iskar. Tragically, a few were returning wrapped in kelp. The flotilla would tarry in these waters only long enough to collect the town’s mourners and give them time to say their goodbyes and to ink their loved ones.
Afterward, the boats would continue to the lair of the Oshkapeers, to sink their dead into the embrace of the Dreamers of the Deep. The site was another four leagues farther on, in seas challenged by boiling waters. Once done, all would return to spend the eventide in Kefta, where a tribute feast awaited them, where mourners could drown their misery in wine and ale.
Graylin glanced to Nyx.
Only then will our true undertaking begin.
Nyx’s gaze remained fixed to the sea, but not toward the village. She stared toward a small skiff that plied the waters nearby. Daal stood balanced at the bow, with reins in hand. His gaze appeared to stretch beyond Kefta, toward those boiling seas and the Dreamers below.
Motion drew Graylin’s eye. The Reef Farer and his consort rose from their seats, spoke a few words to those gathered around them, then headed toward the stern. Graylin rose to meet them, bowing respectfully to each.
Meryk joined them.
Berent held up a hand. “We anchor,” he said haltingly. “Sail again aree. ”
“I understand,” Graylin said, appreciating the Reef Farer’s attempt to speak their language. “Is there anything we can do?”
The Reef Farer motioned to his side. “Ularia. Curious. About…” Berent frowned and waved brusquely at Shiya. He leaned toward Meryk. “Sree nix faryn?”
Meryk nodded. “The Reef Farer wants to know if Shiya is a true woman.”
Graylin knew such a conversation was long overdue. He had tried to keep Shiya away from the villagers. From a distance, she looked like a woman. Her molten bronze could be mistaken for darkly tanned skin. She moved with exceptional grace. Even the soft plait of her hair streamed and curled like those of any other woman. It was only her glassy eyes that gave her away, softly glowing with the energy inside her.
“She’s a woman,” he answered as truthfully as he could. “Just not one born of seed and flesh.”
“How that be?” Berent asked after Meryk shared Graylin’s answer.
Graylin took a breath. Honesty was usually the best course, but sometimes a lie served one better. “As you know, we Noorish have considerable talents with metal and sophisticated alchymy. Over the two centuries since the Fyredragon crashed here, my people have made great achievements.”
Graylin motioned to Shiya.
For their own safety, it had been decided to maintain this conceit. Best to let the villagers believe their group had hidden talents, to engender a respectful fear of their abilities to stave off any violence.
Ularia showed none of that hesitation. She stepped around Berent and eyed Shiya up and down. “I assume she can speak for herself. Is that not so?”
Graylin blinked, surprised at the smooth fluency of this inquiry. Even Meryk’s eyes widened. Apparently, Ularia had her own talents that she guarded.
“Of course,” Graylin stammered out.
Ularia faced Shiya. “Where are you from? When were you crafted?”
Shiya could lie, but most often she did not. “I would prefer not to tell you,” she answered honestly.
“Is that so?” Ularia’s eyes narrowed.
“We do protect our knowledge,” Graylin interjected. “Maybe with time and trust, that will change.”
“Hmm…” She cast a discerning glance over their group. “Like the tides, trust must flow both ways.”
Graylin kept his face stoic. She gave him a penetrating stare, as if she could peer down to his bones. When she finally turned away, he stifled a sigh of relief.
But she was not done. She glanced back, turning those eyes on Shiya. “Nenta nell ta’wyn nee nich va?”
Graylin looked to Meryk for a translation, but Daal’s father gave a small shake of his head, his eyes pinched with confusion.
Ularia’s gaze stayed on Shiya, whose features remained fixed and unreadable. Still, Graylin noted her bronze fingers curling ever so slightly before relaxing again.
Ularia sniffed, then finally turned away, drawing Berent with her.
Graylin waited until the pair were accosted by others and drawn into new conversations. Only then did he sit down.
Nyx leaned toward Meryk. “What did Ularia say at the end?”
The Panthean shook his head. “It is not in our tongue. It sounded like…” He struggled for the word, then found it. “Gibberish.”
Graylin turned to Shiya. He didn’t have to ask the question.
“I do not know either,” she admitted. “But I recognize the tongue. If I hadn’t lost so much of my knowledge—of myself—I might understand it fully.”
Nyx reached to take her hand, clearly responding to the pain and frustration in Shiya’s expression. “It will come,” Nyx assured her. “Maybe when we reach the site out in the Frozen Wastes. The city of winged protectors.”
Shiya frowned. “Angels,” she corrected, using the ancient word for that place. “Once before, I told you that name was recorded in a language older than your histories, long before the Forsaken Ages.”
Shiya shifted her gaze over to Ularia. “The words she spoke just now—though I don’t comprehend their meaning—I know they were in that same language.”
Graylin stiffened. “How could that be?”
Shiya shook her head.
Meryk offered a possible explanation. “Ularia is a Nyssian. One of the most revered of the three. It is why Berent is not married to her. Such a union is forbidden. He loves her, desires her, but he does not carry the proper seed to give her the daughter she needs.”
“I don’t understand,” Nyx said. “What is a Nyssian ?”
“There is no Noorish word for it,” Meryk admitted, scrunching up his face. “Nys Ularia and her sisters are the keepers of our history, preserving our past, all the way back to the first melt that formed the Crèche. They keep it all in their heads, far more than we can record in any of our books.”
Nyx looked shocked. “Do you mean they studied and memorized the entire history of the Crèche? All the way to its founding?”
Meryk shrugged. “Some say a Nyssian is born with this knowledge.”
“That’s impossible,” Nyx mumbled.
Meryk shrugged again. “All I know is that long ago, there were many sisters. Now only three. The first—Nys Pephia—was said to have been touched by the Dreamers. It is believed they shared a sliver of their godhood to grant her this gift. She was the only one to ever commune with Oshkapeers. Not counting our dead, of course. It is why it is forbidden to dive in those waters.”
Graylin glanced at Nyx. They had not shared their intention with Meryk to seek out those creatures. Daal had been adamant that his father not be involved, nor any of his family. It would pose too great a threat to them.
Across the barge, Ularia laughed, drawing Graylin’s attention, less from the outburst than its inappropriateness. Her eyes found him. The smile faded from her lips, turning harder. He tried to fathom the mystery behind the cold woman. How could she know that ancient tongue? And why did she offer those words to Shiya just now?
What is your game?
Ularia turned away, brushing past Berent, drawing the Reef Farer in her wake like some bridled pet. In that moment, Graylin knew the Reef Farer was not the true power in the Crèche. It traipsed at his side. As Graylin tracked her, he felt a familiar tingle along his spine. He had hunted the wilds of the deep Rimewood for nearly two decades. The perils of that icy forest had sharpened his senses. He had learned to recognize when a predator was nearby.
Especially one on his trail.
Certainty grew inside him as he watched Ularia settle to her throne.
That woman…
She’s far more dangerous than any shark in these waters.