Chapter Six
The seas were not in agreement and struck up an argument with their ship not far out of Kingsport, just before dawn.
Lorath sealed the hatches, and he had already taken the lines in hand when Keldon gave the order to reef the sails.
He and Tyrael managed to lower them before the worst of the winds came roaring at the ship.
The swells began to mount, piling high enough to capsize them if they should lose their heading and be caught sideways.
It took all four of them at the tiller to hold them on course, the ocean lashing their faces with whips of water.
The Arabel ’s resolute prow cleaved the waves with all the determination of a barbarian’s axe, but her keel seemed to flex and groan with the strain.
“We should heave to!” Lorath shouted over the crash of the storm. “Wait this out!”
Keldon’s hair hung across his nose and cheeks like seaweed. He stared into the wind without any apparent concern, saying nothing.
“Keldon! Heave to!”
“Don’t tell me how to sail!” the captain replied. “She can handle this!”
Lorath had spent some time aboard the ships of Westmarch as a soldier in service to the crown, guarding transports, protecting dignitaries, and fighting pirates. He had watched the sailors at their work, and he had been through storms. He knew something of surviving them.
“Keldon, this is madness!” he shouted. “I’ll trim the headsail—”
“No!” Keldon roared. “She is my ship!”
Donan stood at Lorath’s shoulder, hanging on to the tiller in desperation more than to hold it steady. Tyrael leaned into the storm, blinking through the spray, as if willing their vessel forward, while Lorath felt utterly powerless to do anything to save them.
The waves and the troughs heaved the Arabel up and down, yet by some luck, Keldon succeeded in steering them along the safest paths.
Several times, Lorath thought the next swell would swamp them or throw them over, but somehow the ship cut through, dauntless, even graceful in its dance through the storm.
Over time, Lorath’s arms weakened, then felt as if they had seized up, locked around the tiller whether he would release it or not.
The water had soaked through his clothing beneath his armor, and he shivered and trembled at the chill in his limbs.
He assumed the sun had risen, but he could not see it.
He felt a dragging fatigue in his muscles even stronger than his fear, begging him to surrender, lie down, and rest.
Then, without warning, the wind slowly abated, and the seas calmed. The storm had passed over them, leaving them tossed in its aftermath. They all looked at one another, soaked and miserable. Donan was the first to laugh, which made Lorath laugh. Even Tyrael managed a smile of relief.
“ Now we heave to,” Keldon said, setting the tiller and the sails in opposition so that the Arabel came to a stable drift despite the wind. He then went below to check the hull for damage, and Lorath paced until the captain returned a few minutes later, looking pleased with what he had found.
“Are you always that reckless?” Lorath demanded.
“Reckless?” Keldon chuckled. “Most would call it reckless to set sail for Skovos in the first place. If you wanted to avoid storms, my friend, then you should have stayed on land.”
“I am not your friend.”
“Suit yourself. But I’ll thank you not to tell me how to sail my own ship ever again. I know her limits, and I know the sea.”
“He did bring us through it,” offered Donan.
Lorath bristled with irritation at the younger man’s naivety. “We were lucky —”
“Mind your helm there,” Keldon said. “Luck had nothing to do with it. You asked about my debt to the Harbormaster. Well, it weren’t coin I owed her. She wanted me to sail for her because I’m the best in Kingsport.”
“And you refused,” said Tyrael, sounding pleased.
Keldon blinked, then nodded. “Aye.” Then he whipped a smirk at Lorath. “Luck is always at play on a ship, boy, but so is skill and talent, both of which I have in full measure. Don’t question me again. That will not be the last storm we encounter.”
Lorath thought better of pressing the matter any further in that moment, in part because he didn’t doubt the man’s seamanship as much as his mental condition.
Keldon’s decision to plow headlong into the storm had not seemed to be a tactical decision, but rather an act of willful disregard for his own life and the lives of his passengers.
Keldon gave the rest of the ship a looking-over, and when he was satisfied, he declared they could be on their way. “To which of the lovely Skovos Isles would you like to sail?” he asked Tyrael.
“Temis,” came the answer.
“Straight to the capital, then.” Keldon nodded. “Aye.”
They shook out the reef from the sails, and, once trimmed, the Arabel plied a southeasterly course at an exuberant speed, as if the ship itself enjoyed being free of the harbor where she had been so long confined.
As the leagues passed beneath them and they entered deeper seas, they saw fewer gulls, and the water took on a darker hue.
The three Horadrim rested at the bow, letting the wind dry them out after the storm.
“Have you ever been to Skovos?” Donan asked Tyrael.
“Yes,” he replied, looking out over the sea ahead of them.
“I traveled there almost three centuries ago with four Horadrim: Jered Cain, Iben Fahd, Tal Rasha, and Zoltun Kulle. Together, we built a vault on the island of Skartara.” His voice had grown distant, as if pulled away from the present by his memories.
“This was before Tal Rasha sacrificed himself to imprison the Prime Evil Baal, and before pride and ambition corrupted Zoltun Kulle. I was still an archangel then. That time now feels as if it belongs to a different age…” A few moments passed, and then Tyrael shook himself from his reverie.
“Since then, I have had occasional dealings with Amazons. I learned much about more recent events in the islands from a woman named Akara, some years ago.”
Lorath cocked his head. “Where have I heard that name?”
“She served as the high priestess of the Sisterhood of the Sightless Eye.”
“That’s right,” Donan chimed in. “Deckard Cain wrote about them. Fierce warriors, by all accounts.”
“Yes,” Tyrael said. “But some wielded magic. Akara was an accomplished healer and revered spiritual leader, and the Sisterhood did derive its name from a powerful magical artifact.”
“The Sightless Eye is real?” Lorath asked. “I’d always assumed it was a myth.”
“I have never seen it,” Tyrael said. “But I believe it is real. When the Sisterhood left Skovos, they stole the Sightless Eye and carried it with them. I have no idea where it might be now.”
“Wait,” Lorath said. “Without the Sightless Eye, how are there still seers in Skovos?”
“They have other ways to maintain their gift of foresight,” Tyrael answered.
“Their caste has its center of power on the island of Philios, while the Amazons occupy Athulua. Temis, where we are sailing, is the city-island that lies between them, where I hope to meet with the Amazon Queen. But we must tread cautiously at court if we are to find our Horadric comrades. I recommend we conceal our true purpose, at least for a time. The Harbormaster recognized us too easily.”
With that, the three Horadrim removed the medallions that marked their order, and Tyrael collected the insignias in a leather pouch to be hidden below deck.
“The name of a former archangel might well be known to them,” Donan said.
Tyrael nodded in agreement. “I will use a false one.”
“We have to get there first,” Lorath added, eyeing Keldon at the tiller.
Tyrael seemed to notice the direction of Lorath’s glare. “I have confidence in the captain.”
“I’m glad one of us does.”
They sailed for several days, encountering frequent squalls and storms, but each time, the Arabel rode through them without significant harm.
Lorath gradually began to accept that Keldon did know his ship, as well as how to navigate her through rough seas.
On calm nights, they hove to, allowing three of them to sleep belowdecks while the fourth stood watch.
The forecastle held two narrow, coffin-like beds and one hammock slung when needed.
Lorath did not enjoy his turns alone under the canopy of distant and silent stars.
He dreaded the stillness, the halt in movement toward a destination.
Without a target, a quarry, the rage within him grew restless, turning in its lair as if chasing its own tail.
On their seventh night at sea, Lorath awoke and went up onto the deck, rubbing his eyes to relieve Donan at the watch. He found the younger man resting amidships in front of the mast, poring over a book by the light of a candle stub. “What’s that you’re reading?”
“Something I bought in Kingsport,” Donan answered, neck bent, eyes on the pages.
“What kind of book is it?”
“I think it’s a journal. But it isn’t written in any language I recognize.”
“You bought a book you can’t read?”
“I think it might be some form of code.” Donan looked up, forehead creased in frustration. “I’m trying to decipher it.”
Lorath yawned. “Sounds like your kind of book.”
“What do you mean?”
“I know how you enjoy a puzzle.”
Donan returned his attention to the journal. “I suppose I do.”
The younger man seemed more drawn to books than Lorath ever had been.
Not that he found books unimportant—he knew they held useful information and insights—but he preferred action over study and contemplation.
It was a question of priorities. In a world as ravaged as Sanctuary, time spent in the library often felt like a luxury he could ill afford.
Lorath turned and looked behind them, northwest toward Kingsport, which had vanished over the horizon days ago. “I can’t help feeling like we’re running away.”
Donan looked up again. “How so?”