A SHIP, a trader in incense, salt, and copper, departed for Tomarziya Varya in Denariya with the next tide. With Gatacinne still in Gelonian control, the sea was the only trade route open, down the western coast of the Fever Lands and through the perilous straits called the Firelands, then north to Denariya itself. Sandaron departed without a word of farewell.
Danar dreamed of Tsorreh weeping. He knew why she wept, even though she would never admit it. He had known since the moment he had walked into the Isarran court.
He also realized that he was no longer in love with her. When she had arrived at his father’s house in Aidon, she had seemed as radiant as the Star That Brings in the Day, as kind as the Kindler of Hearts, and as mysterious as Moon-Dancer. He, on the other hand, had been young and miserable, beset by his tyrannical stepmother and worries for his father’s health. In truth, Tsorreh had been only a mortal woman, not half the pantheon of Gelonian goddesses, only a fellow human creature pressed almost past her limits. She had been as much in need of a friend as he.
Danar’s escape from Gelon, his friendship with Zevaron, the passage through the Azkhantian steppe, and all that had happened there, had tempered him. Once he had fancied himself as a follower of the Remover of Difficulties, but the God of Forgotten Hopes might have been a more apt choice. Now he did not know what he believed. He trusted the words that flowed so easily from his mouth, words of hope and reconciliation. He trusted the impulse that had stayed his hand when Leanthos challenged him to a duel.
He trusted what he saw with his heart as well as his eyes. When Tsorreh looked at Sandaron, she glowed like an ember about to burst into flame. Whatever happened now, with Zevaron off on a hopeless quest so far away, with upheaval in Aidon and war brewing here in Isarre, Danar would always have the memory of seeing his friend happy.
The days limped by as Ulleos made his preparations to recapture Gatacinne. Soldiers drilled in the fields outside the city. Women rolled bandages and prepared healing tinctures. The land force departed, and ships were requisitioned and equipped.
At Tsorreh’s request, Ulleos granted permission for her to go riding every day, with Danar as her escort. Danar thought the king was glad to have them occupied, and the exercise did both of them good. The months in Azkhantia had hardened Danar’s body and increased his ease in the saddle. At first, Tsorreh was a poor rider, but she practiced with such determination that her skills rapidly improved.
Every day they rode down to the harbor. The river-wharves of Aidon were tame and colorless compared to this swath of kelp-laced sand. The sea smelled bitter and salty and urgent. Here Tsorreh introduced him to her friend Bynthos. With his clothing, his weathered skin, and the way he knotted his hair, the former monk looked like any seaman. Danar glimpsed a hint of longing in the older man’s gaze when it fixed on the expanse of waves. The poets of Borrenth Springs called the sea the Lady Without Mercy. They said it forgave nothing, taking all and everyone forever to itself.
As the time for the navy’s departure neared, it would become increasingly difficult to obtain a private vessel. Bynthos made arrangements with a ship setting out for the Mearas before it could be requisitioned. He warned that it wasn’t much, just a fishing boat that had been modified for longer hauls and greater cargo. The quarters would be cramped, but the craft was sound enough. It was to hide offshore and return for them after the navy departed.
Danar and Tsorreh rode out to watch the morning tide, as had become their custom. They left the city shortly after sunrise. The good horses had gone with the land force, leaving only a handful of aged or unsound beasts. Danar’s mount was blind in one eye and had gaits as rough as an onager’s, and Tsorreh’s mare wheezed at the slightest exertion. One of the horse-boys accompanied them on a donkey.
The night before, they had each prepared saddlebags filled with necessities, and Tsorreh had divided what money and jewels were rightfully hers, to be carried on their persons. She wore a loose Isarran gown and a sand-colored cloak, and a dagger hung from her belt, one Danar had not seen before. He suspected that Sandaron had given it to her. It was a puny thing compared to his own long knife, strapped in a leather sheath to his thigh, but a more practical weapon for a woman her size. Tsorreh’s other preparations included two notes left in her quarters. One was addressed to Ulleos, although he would not receive it until after the fate of Gatacinne had been decided. The other went to Rhessan, appointed by Ulleos as regent. Privately, Danar did not think Rhessan would regret their absence or track them with any great vigor. He had seen the sour looks the councilor had given Tsorreh.
They halted to let the horses breathe at the top of the rise looking down over the village. The harbor was almost empty, for the few remaining fishing craft had already set out.
Tsorreh pointed across the gray-blue water. “Bynthos has not failed us!”
Danar peered at the boundary between sky and water. A ship, stout and unlovely, had just rounded the headland into the mouth of the bay. Tsorreh nudged the old mare with her heels and they rode down through the village, the horse-boy on their heels.
Two fisherwomen, who had been loitering on the dock beside a moored dinghy, sprang into action as the riders approached. One lowered herself into the dinghy and began loosening the ropes while the other gestured for them to hurry. They spoke a patois of Isarran and a dialect that Danar did not recognize. He understood them enough to gather that Bynthos had arranged for them to take him and Tsorreh out to the ship.
Tsorreh handed her reins to the horse-boy, along with a silver coin. Danar unstrapped the saddlebags and passed them down to the woman in the boat. After helping Tsorreh into the dinghy, he almost fell into the harbor himself as the craft shifted under him. Cackling in glee, the second fisherwoman grabbed his arm and yanked him onboard. Greasy, fish-smelling water filled the bottom, but a sideways plank served as a rude seat.
The dinghy moved away from the dock. The water had looked smooth enough from land, but the craft tilted and swayed alarmingly. Within a few minutes, Danar was holding on to the side of the boat, wishing he hadn’t eaten breakfast. Tsorreh smiled at him, looking quite at ease. Meanwhile, the fisherwomen never missed a stroke.
Sea-tanned faces peered down at them as the dinghy came alongside the Mearan ship. One of the fisherwomen shouted a greeting, and a rope ladder was lowered. Tsorreh leaped from the rocking dinghy to the ladder. Several sailors, their faces stretched into wide, broken-toothed grins, lifted her over the side.
Praying he would not disgrace himself, Danar gauged the distance and jumped. His fingers closed around the knotted rope. A wave dashed against him, almost breaking his hold. Salt water stung his eyes and nose. Sputtering, he grabbed for the next rung and pulled himself up.
Bynthos was waiting on deck, wearing seaman’s dress. A smile creased the corners of his eyes. “Welcome aboard the Riamanha-Ka, my lady, my lord.”
Perhaps it was the effect of seawater, but Danar’s stomach already felt calmer. The ship that had looked so ungainly from afar felt blessedly steady beneath his feet.
Danar knew little about oceanfaring vessels beyond what he had read in his father’s library. This one had a large mast with an ordinary-looking squarish sail. A second, smaller sail angled into the wind. The deck had been scoured clean, and everything on it, from ropes to oars to unrecognizable canvas-wrapped bundles, was neat and orderly. A half-deck extended from the rear of the ship, covering a cabin or two. On their approach, in between bouts of sickness, Danar had noted openings for oars, but far fewer than the numbers of a Gelonian warship or those Ulleos had taken out. This ship, he surmised, traveled primarily by sail and not human sweat. Yet he saw activity aplenty, men doing complicated things with ropes, on their knees scrubbing wooden surfaces, or carrying barrels down the open hatch. They seemed to be in the last frenzy of activity before departure. More small boats pulled alongside, and crates packed with jars of oil and honey were added to the cargo of dried apricots, coral, and sea-jade.
“Where is the captain, that I might thank him?” Tsorreh asked.
Bynthos grinned and sketched a bow. “Thee will want to change from those wet clothes. ’Tis warm here in harbor, but the ocean winds blow hard.”
Danar glanced inside the tiny cabin before Tsorreh swung the door shut. There were no windows, only thick oiled cloth, and the space smelled pleasantly of tar and salt and some kind of soap. When Tsorreh emerged a short time later, she had changed her Isarran garb for calf-length drawstring breeches and a long shirt with a sash that went around her waist twice.
The ship turned toward the open sea, rising eagerly to the waves. Danar gazed over the gray-green expanse. The wind teased his hair and brought heat to his cheeks. It blew away the last touches of his seasickness.
Bynthos pointed to Danar’s sodden boots. Danar tugged them off and handed them to Tsorreh who, grinning, took them back into the cabin.
“Now that you’re barefoot like a proper seaman, you’d best pull your weight,” Bynthos said.
“I have no skill,” Danar admitted, uncertain of what use he might be. He knew a great deal about poetry and politics, but almost nothing about the practicalities of getting a ship from one place to another. He summoned up his most eager expression. “Show me what I am to do.”
“And me, as well,” Tsorreh said.
When Bynthos looked as if he would protest, she adopted an expression that Danar had come to know very well. With a shrug of surrender, Bynthos set one of the sailors to teach her rope mending.
The days rolled by like waves, each with its own rhythm. The Mearan crew were small, dark men, curious and shy. They knew a few words of Gelone and Denariyan, besides the patois the fisherwomen had spoken. They regarded Danar as a slightly dimwitted younger brother, showing him with gestures the best way to accomplish his work, for the ship was under-strength and every pair of willing hands was welcome.
Tsorreh worked at repairing the fishing nets with which they caught most of their food, and took her turn at the endless cleaning and scrubbing. From time to time, one of the crew would bashfully offer her a trinket, a piece of carved whale-ivory or shell.
Bynthos steered the ship along the coastline and the occasional cluster of islands. The Mearans were the most skillful of all sailors at navigation by stars, but too many nights were clouded for that method to be reliable, and they dared not risk becoming lost. With any luck, Gatacinne would be back in Isarran control by the time they arrived.
Danar gradually found a place among the sailors, amusing them with his attempts to make jokes in their language and occasionally diving off the side to swim alongside the dolphins. Growing up by the Serpan River, he had learned to swim as a child and was puzzled that few of the Mearans had that skill. He did his share of rowing whenever the sails lay slack. This was the one task Bynthos refused to allow Tsorreh to try. She watched the men, bending and pulling in the still air, with a curious, pensive expression, as if she were wrestling with memories.
At night, as the ship rode at anchor, Danar and Tsorreh sat on the deck and told stories. The Mearans hunkered around them to listen.
“What does Riamanha-Ka mean?” Tsorreh asked Bynthos.
“It’s Mearan,” Bynthos said, as if that explained any oddity. They were speaking Gelone among themselves.
“Boat That Stinks,” suggested Danar. He affected a scholarly tone. “The Ka indicates the stink.”
“It does not stink,” Tsorreh protested, laughing. “I spent yesterday scrubbing the deck!”
“The holds stink,” Danar insisted.
“All holds stink,” said Bynthos, “even ones on Mearan ships.”
At this, they all laughed, even the Mearans.
“What does the Ka really mean?” Tsorreh asked Danar when the laughter died down.
Danar shrugged but Bynthos answered: “It is the presence of the greater ocean that joins all water, or so the Mearans have told me. Whether this is a real ocean that lies beyond the Inland Sea or one more spiritual in nature, I cannot say.”
As Danar leaned on the railing, the sun poured warmth over his shoulders. The sky above was crisp, almost painfully clear. Below, the waves looked more blue than gray. His gaze wandered toward land, safe and stable, but it had disappeared behind a haze.
One of the Mearans, stationed at the lookout post on the mast rigging, called out. The wind tore away his words, but not the urgency behind them. He pointed, not in the direction of Gatacinne but southeasterly. Danar struggled to make out the blurred shape—one, perhaps more. Behind him, Tsorreh set aside the sail she was patching and stood up.
“Can you see anything?” she asked.
Danar shook his head, wishing he had his father’s far-seeing lenses.
Bynthos scrambled aloft. Clinging to the mast ropes, he shaded his eyes with one hand. Above the splashing of the waves, Danar heard cursing. “Gelonian warships!”
The safety of the open water vanished. Danar had not felt such an intense sense of peril since Zevaron had spirited him out of Aidon. Even when they’d encountered the Azkhantian war band, he had not been without resources—his words, the nomads’ honor, his dedication to ending Cinath’s mad conquests. Here on the wide, pitiless water, he had nothing.
Shouting orders, Bynthos raced to the steering oars. Danar rushed after him, eager to do whatever he could. He joined the Mearan sailors as they hauled on the lines. The sails creaked, catching the last breath of wind as the ship answered reluctantly.
Everything now depended on whether the Gelonian captains had spotted the Riamanha-Ka and if they were of a mind to investigate. Even if the Mearan vessel had been seen, perhaps it would be dismissed as a small trading vessel of no importance.
The Riamanha-Ka settled into the new course. Bynthos went aloft again, peering for what seemed like an eon into the hazy south. Finally he came down, more slowly this time.
“They’re following,” he told Danar. “At least, one of them is. Pray to whatever god protects you that the wind holds.”
The Gelonian ships would have banks of oarsmen, most likely slaves. The Riamanha-Ka could not hope to match their speed, and once they closed . . .
“Lady.” Bynthos laid one hand on Tsorreh’s arm. “Best stay out of the way.”
Out of the corner of his vision, Danar saw her fingers curl around the hilt of her dagger, Sandaron’s gift that never left her side.
“That won’t be much use in a fight,” Bynthos said.
I won’t be taken a second time. Danar read her thoughts on her determined face, for they were his own as well.
God of Forgotten Hopes! Danar prayed fervently, including any of the hundred other Gelonian gods who might be listening. Be with us now!
When the crew scrambled to their oars, Danar took one, too. The grueling work gave him the sense of doing something, instead of waiting passively for his fate. The coxswain shouted out the rhythm as the men hauled on their oars. Danar pulled and stretched, pulled and stretched. His muscles ached and then burned. Blisters and abrasions tore open the skin on his palms. How long they could maintain the pace, Danar could not guess. They were strong and fit . . . and desperate. And undermanned.
Sweat trickled down Danar’s temples and along the sides of his neck. His shirt was already sodden. His breath came hot and hoarse. He struggled to keep the pace, to not miss a single beat. His shoulders twinged with each stroke. A glance told him that the warship with its ranges of oarsmen was gaining on them. Soon it would come alongside with grappling hooks and swords.
Around him, the others rowed like madmen. Beneath their swarthy complexions, their faces were as red as if fire had touched them. Sweat slicked their hair to their skulls.
The next time Danar looked, the Gelonian ship was much closer. The prow was long and narrow, its metal-capped point shaped like the snout of a dragon. He made out the doubled ranks of oars clearly now. Water dripped and flashed as the blades lifted.
This should not be happening, Danar thought numbly, His own people should not be his enemies.
At the steering oar, Bynthos spat out curses. Danar heard Tsorreh’s voice, taut and desperate: “What can I do?”
“The men need water—”
Tsorreh raced across the deck. A moment later, she was moving down the line with a bucket and cup from the rainwater barrel. Steadying her hand on each man’s head, she lifted the cup to his lips. The men rowed and gulped and rowed.
Tsorreh reached Danar. Her touch on his face was surprisingly cool. He drank without slackening his pace. When the cup was half-empty, he tilted his head back for more. She poured the rest of the water over his sweat-slick back. His pulse, which had gone ragged, steadied. New vigor flowed through his muscles. He grinned up at her as she dipped the cup and offered it again to him. Then she continued down the lines. He kept rowing.
Danar felt the ship rise beneath him, as if carried on an immensely powerful swell, a tidal wave like the ones written about by Irvan of Solis. For a moment, as the Riamanha-Ka tilted, he saw only sky. Then the wave passed and the ship dropped into the trough.
The Gelonian ship came into view, even closer than before. Bynthos shouted orders to stow the oars and prepare for boarding. Muscles leaden, Danar set his oar aside with the others. They had only a few weapons, mostly knives that would be no match for Gelonian swords.
Tsorreh rushed to Danar’s side, her dagger gripped in her hand. He had never seen her face so set, so desperate. He wondered if she meant to use the dagger on herself, rather than be taken prisoner again.
Suddenly the Riamanha-Ka trembled in the grip of a huge wave. Tsorreh lost her balance and fell against the railing. Danar rushed to steady her. At first, she did not respond. She was staring over the railing. Something was moving in the water, something huge and pale, but not a dolphin or whale. It seemed to be passing beneath the Riamanha-Ka, heading in the direction of the Gelonian ship.
If this were the end, Danar prayed that the Master of Waters would receive them gently.
Leaning far over, Tsorreh called out in the holy language of her people. Danar knew enough of that tongue to catch her meaning: “O spirit of the water! May you be blessed now and forever!”
A pale, curved dome, like a gigantic pearl, pushed up through the waves. Higher and higher it rose. Sheets of foam-laced water poured off the emerging figure. Danar gazed dumbfounded at an enormous bearded man, broad-chested and muscular, rising from the water. Tangled sea grasses streamed like a mane over the shoulders of what must surely be a monarch of the sea people. His skin was mottled gray and green, and marked by scales. His face was human enough, except for the lidless eyes. In them, Danar saw both ferocity and intelligence.
The sea-king raised one massive hand in salute, not to Danar but to Tsorreh. Words rang through Danar’s mind as if they were shouted aloud: “Hail to thee, O mother twice reborn! O woman who speaks of the singing stars!”
Tsorreh had journeyed over this same ocean, reading aloud the poetry of the Shirah Kohav. Truly, Danar thought, the Mearans were right. All water was one. She must have prayed for a merciful death, and had been answered.
“No rest awaits you beneath the waves, O woman. The prophecy written before the dawn of time must be fulfilled.”
“What prophecy?” she screamed into the wind.
“What aid would you ask of the sea?”
“If ever the words of my people brought you joy, then help us now! Our enemies pursue us and we cannot outrun them!”
The waters lifted the sea-king even higher. The pearls woven into his mane and beard clicked like bones in the wind. Those enormous eyes regarded her, then turned to Danar. He was a particle blown by a storm, but she was the mountain against which the waves crashed and failed.
“To the citadel must you go, but for a sojourn only. Tarry there not, lest all the living waters perish.”
Then the sea-king was sinking, as if sucked down by a slow, inexorable current. Danar thought he saw the ghost of a smile before the waters closed over the massive head. The whipped-froth surface swelled as if the ocean were a colossal beast arching its back. The shape that moved beneath it was no longer shell-pale but dark, a creature of the abyss.
The ship lifted again, but gently. The winds subsided into breezes. Danar tipped his head back, his face toward a sky now an intense, cerulean blue. Sunlight bathed him, penetrating him with its warmth.
Gradually he became aware that the ship was traveling at great speed, although the last of the seamen had lain down their oars and were, like him, savoring the soft air. He ambled to the far side of the ship to see the Gelonian pursuers as mere specks on the horizon. Within moments, they disappeared as if the ocean had swallowed them up.
They traveled on, lulled by sweet-scented zephyrs. Languor seeped into Danar’s body. He wanted nothing more than to sleep. Bynthos slumped to the deck, his arm still wrapped around the steering oar. Tsorreh had curled up like a kitten beside the railing.
He was weary, so weary. The deck was warm. It rocked gently, soothing away the aches of exertion. There was nothing to fear, for the Gelon were far away. The sky was clear, the winds benign. He would sit for a little and regain his strength. For just a moment . . .
Danar jerked awake. The hypnotic rhythm of the ship’s motion had given way to a sharp pitching. The deck lurched and tilted under him, suddenly dropping away. His stomach roiled in protest. He clambered to his feet and steadied himself against the rail. Around him, the other seamen were returning to their tasks.
The sun, which had been well overhead, now dipped toward the western horizon. Traveling east, they had outrun the day. The strange stillness of the air had disappeared, and stronger gusts tugged at Danar’s hair.
“Land ahead!”
The line of haze before them resolved into a crescent of sand rising to eroded hills. Arms of headland embraced a sheltered bay. Foam marked the edge of a breakwater where the waves crashed against the rocks. A village nestled in a cleft in the hills, rows of white and tan buildings, red tile roofs, and gardens extending toward the neat harbor.
“We’ll put in before sunset,” Bynthos said. “We’re almost there.”
As Danar watched, the coast grew nearer. The buildings glowed in the slanting light, defined by long shadows. Bynthos stood at the steering oars, angling the ship toward the piers. The crew sang, and everyone shared a mood of jollity and relief.
But where exactly were they?