Chapter 2
He’d lied.
Bastion had seen something on the island. But it was so outside all the expectations he’d read about in the Accounts that shame had locked his jaw.
Yes, gods and visions were common enough.
They forced potential knights to face their inner darkness or offered a glimpse of the future and what challenges might await them.
Even the spirits of ancestors had been reported, requiring their descendants to confront their family’s past in order to heal their bloodline before they could rise above it.
Some of the Accounts he’d read–and Bastion had read all of them–were so harrowing, it was a wonder that more knights didn’t go mad.
Bastion sighed as he leaned over the rail, watching the port draw nearer. Madness might be preferable over this emptiness.
At minimum, he’d expected to encounter a god in some form or another. One that chose him to bestow favor on. The Accounts all differed in how and when that happened, but the last page of every single one had a Godmark recorded, identical to the one emblazoned somewhere on the knight’s body.
Except Bastion.
Instead, all he got was fleeting glimpses of a strange, giggling thing that seemed to be more plant than human.
An infuriating, wily creature that eluded every trap and snare he set.
An imp with a grinning face that led him a merry dance round and round the island, raided his camp, and kept him up at night.
It was the only thing of note and in failing to capture and identify the imp, he wasn’t sure it was even real.
Bastion ran his hands through his overlong hair, fingertips pausing over the secret it had hidden his entire life. He hadn’t just failed his Trial. Without the blessing of a god to legitimize everything he worked for, he might have lost what little family he gained.
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Anyone else would have found Brightwater Bay more than suitable for a leave of absence.
Vibrantly painted buildings, ever-present laughter, and the delicious smell of fried fish should have been all the invitation Bastion needed.
Endre probably expected him to stay in town and drown his sorrows at an inn.
Bastion had enough money to do so, and very comfortably, but he lacked the desire.
So much cheer was jarring after the bedlam of the imp and the island and the last thing Bastion wanted was to be around people.
He only stayed in Brightwater Bay long enough to buy provisions.
Then he left, taking a cross-country route south along the coast. After several hours, he’d grown tired of the snow-kissed wind whipping across the bluffs and reconsidered the wisdom of his decision.
But he didn’t turn back, and continued to trek through brittle winter grass that hissed softly all around him.
He crested a vista and stopped to look out over the sea, his heart and mind as turbulent as the waves.
A sliver of brilliant orange cut across the horizon as the sun began to sink.
It lit up the shelf of grey clouds stretching across the skies, the reflection leading his eye to a sheltered cove down below he might have otherwise missed.
By the calmness of the water, he judged that it was fairly protected and would be a good place to camp for the night.
He made his way down, carefully picking his path through splotchy, pockmarked rock interspersed with dried quaking grass and the tall rattling seed pods of wild mustard. Near the bottom, he began to collect fuel to start a fire.
A small beach met him, nearly devoid of wind. Bastion chose a stretch of sand tucked up against the cliffs, interspersed with grass and other shrubby plants–clearly above high tide–and dumped his belongings and the armful of wood. Then he unbuckled his sword.
He stopped to look at it–really look at it.
He’d received the long sword nearly ten years ago, the day he began training.
At the time, it was far too heavy for him.
Like every weapon in the general armory, it was devoid of any ornamentation except for the pommel, where three leaves formed a pointed bud.
For all its simplicity and functionality, it was a beautiful weapon, and every instructor stressed the importance of caring for his blade, promising that eventually he would grow into it.
And he had, practicing with it morning, noon, and night until it was as familiar as the back of his hand.
It represented the future he planned for, and the skills he’d honed with it would unlock that dream.
As the only weapon allowed on the island, he’d been more than grateful for it.
But he’d been looking forwards to trading it in and commissioning a new sword from the royal blacksmith, as was tradition for all new knights.
One that was deeply personal and publicly declared to anyone who met him that he had been tested, weighed, and found worthy to wield such a weapon in the service of the kingdom of Etruria.
Bitterness overwhelmed any thoughts of the future.
Earning his knighthood was supposed to be the first step towards fulfilling the purpose that had driven him in the first place.
Now, he just felt delusional, and the sword was a visceral reminder of all he stood to lose when he returned to Tynamara.
Anger burned inside him. He clenched the handle until his knuckles turned white, letting the worn leather wrapping bite into his cold palm.
Bastion walked to the edge of the water, muscles coiled with the intent to hurl the sword in.
It would feel good to throw it. To watch the steel spin in the fading light and hit the water.
He’d finally reached the summit he’d worked so hard for only to find it meaningless.
A lie he’d been foolish enough to believe.
Instead, he stared out over the waves, wound tighter than a crossbow.
Tears came to his eyes.
A scream lodged in his throat, the words like barbs. He wanted a mighty storm, dark and tumultuous, that would match the anguish tearing at his soul. His feelings were too big for such a quiet cove.
He threw the sword down, the dull thud against the sand angering him more than a clean, sharp sound would have.
Suddenly, all he wanted was silence.
He wrenched off his cloak and shirt. His boots, trousers, and undergarments followed.
For one brief moment, he stood in the liminal space between the sea and the shore, naked, as the waves danced around his ankles.
Every inch of his skin sang as the cold air hit him.
He arched backward with his face to the sky, and let a cry rip from his throat, pouring out all his heartbreak in a final demand for a sign from the divine as it echoed across the water.
Nothing happened.
His entire life, he’d been told the gods were present, watching over humanity, guiding them. Bastion had believed it. Counted on it. And now, his failure only reinforced what he’d suspected all along.
They weren’t real. And if they were, they had never cared for him.
With a yell, he dove into the water, embracing the cold as he swam beneath the waves.
He strained against the force of the sea, something so much bigger than him, evading the pull toward the shore and all the shattered dreams he’d left there.
By the time he hit bottom, his breath seemed so far away that he could feel his heartbeat in his ears.
For a long, long time, he sat on the seafloor, letting the waves rock him back and forth, the rhythm as soothing as a lullaby.
When he finally allowed himself to drift to the surface, it was only because his head had begun to throb.
Icy air flooded his lungs, piercing his chest. Lightheaded and miserable, he lay back and let the waves buffet him gently. He wondered how long he’d stayed under this time, allowing himself that small accomplishment amidst his turmoil.
A soft splash, incongruent with the cadence of the sea, brought him upright.
Bastion scanned the surface, a thrill of uncertainty cutting through him. The white caps, tinged with the last molten light of the sun, made it difficult to distinguish anything out of the ordinary.
Then, he saw her.
A pair of sea green eyes set in a face the color of twilight bore into him. Beyond that, two delicate horns curved back over her head. She watched him with all the contempt of a panther forced to tolerate a kitten.
Yvri–one of the dragon-kin.
She moved then, gliding toward him effortlessly as he tread water to keep his head above the rolling waves.
Black hair trailed after her, studded with pearls and small shells, opalescent stars in a night sky.
A hint of danger hit Bastion, like claws scraped over stone.
She could drown him right now, if she wanted.
Bastion expected her to speak, but she kept her lower face below the surface. Her eyes raked over him, vertical pupils narrowed with annoyance as she passed by. He spun in the water, unable to look away even if she meant to gouge his eyes out.
Then she turned away, dismissing him in favor of the shore. When she reached the shallows, she rose out of the water the way tales described goddesses, sea foam clinging to her bare hips and legs in lacy rivulets.
Without a backwards glance, she went to the rocks near where he emerged onto the beach and bent to retrieve something. A loose shift, camouflaged by its subdued colors, which she pulled over her head.
Then she was gone, disappearing up the rocky trail as easily as a shadow.