Beginning their journey was a complicated affair. Even leaving two tents behind, there was still a lot left to pack. They threw a pair of blankets over the horse – the empty horse, as Bandu called it – and tied them there with rope from one of the woolen tents. It was not as good as a saddle, but it was a start. Hunter carried the canvas tent, all folded and bundled up on his back. He seemed surprised and pleased that Bandu had brought his armor back from the fairy world, and while the loss of his shield clearly upset him, he tried not to show it.
“There’s so much to carry,” he said, pulling the shirt of scales over his head. “I wouldn’t have had room for it anyway.”
Narky carried the remaining venison and their cooking supplies, and Criton took the tent stakes and the three blankets that were not already on the horse. After that they set out eastward, moving at the children’s pace. The children slowed them down, but at least Bandu was no longer scaring all the game away.
After a week’s travel they came to a winding river, which Hunter said should lead them to Parakas. “The city stands at a delta between the sea and the Parek River,” he said. “The river is supposed to be lined with red settar trees, which I think is what those big ones are.”
“Where did you learn all that?” Narky asked.
“There was a war a little after I was born,” Hunter said. “My father told me about it. He was the king’s champion when we allied with Atuna against Parakas.”
Phaedra looked around at the rust-colored trees and nodded. “So this is the famous Parek,” she said. “Just like in the myth.”
“What myth?” Criton asked.
“There’s a myth that Parek was once a great king,” Phaedra said. “A greedy king. He only ever gave the Gods what was outright required of him, and no more. When Mayar had a special celebration for His daughter Karassa’s birth, all the kings of the world raised sacrifices in special tribute to Him except for Parek. Mayar became so angry that he cursed Parek and turned him into a river, so that from then on he has brought the Sea God a tribute every day, in the form of river water.”
“Huh,” said Narky. “Now that you mention it, I know that story. My pa told it to me, when I asked how come he always sacrificed an extra lamb on holy days.”
“It doesn’t go well with Katinaras’ theory,” Hunter pointed out. “It assumes that Karassa really is Mayar’s daughter.”
Phaedra smiled. “If everyone agreed with Katinaras, he wouldn’t be radical.” She looked around and must have seen how confused Criton was, because she spent the next half hour explaining what she and Hunter meant.
They followed the river for another two weeks until the trees thinned and the sea became visible. The land here, fertile and well cultivated, sloped down toward the delta where the Parek met the sea. By the intersection of river and sea, just as Hunter had said, stood Parakas. Criton’s eyes did not stay on the city long. He was looking for the wizard’s tower.
That must be it! The ruins were a good deal closer to Parakas than Criton had expected – perhaps a mile or two at most. Psander’s mentor must have had a commanding view of the city before he and his tower had fallen under the Gods’ might. Criton shuddered as he imagined looking down from the tower to see an army gathering in front of a roiling sea. That final view must have been terrifying.
“Oh, good,” said Phaedra, when she saw the city. “I’m tired of sleeping in the mud. Let’s get to an inn!”
They hurried down through flowering apricot orchards and fields of wheat and barley, craving civilized life. But when they reached the city walls, the gates would not open for them.
“Move along,” the olive-skinned gatekeeper called down at them. “We have no use for slavers.”
“We’re not slavers!” cried Phaedra. “We have no intention of selling these children! We’re just here to take Breaker home.”
“If that’s so,” said the gatekeeper, “send him forward and I’ll let him in alone.”
Breaker looked at them nervously as he approached the gate, but when it opened he darted in without so much as a glance behind him.
“All right then,” said the gatekeeper. “Move along.”
“Why can’t we come in?” asked Narky. “We’re not carrying a plague, you know.”
“All the same, you’ll stay outside,” the man replied. “If you need a place to stay, ask Scypho by the seashore. Like with like.”
“How do we get to Scypho?” asked Hunter.
Scypho’s house turned out to be more of a shack, with cracked clay walls and a sod roof. It stood right at the edge of the shore, so close that at high tide the waters would come almost to the doorstep. Criton could see the uneven lines in the ground where the farthest waves had reached. A wisp of smoke rose from the house’s central chimney.
Hunter knocked on the door. “Someone there?” a voice called from inside, and a short while later the door opened, revealing a bent old man. The children gasped even as Criton let out a sigh of relief: the man was an islander. Frizzy white hair grew out of his black scalp, and his dark face was lined with wrinkles that deepened when he beheld the crowd at his door.
“I thought I heard something,” he said. “How can I help you all?”
Everybody spoke at once. The old man covered an ear with one hand, waving at them to stop. “Enough, enough!” he cried, “I’m only a little bit deaf.”
He turned to Hunter. “Why don’t you start?”
“We are refugees from Tarphae,” Hunter said. “We met these lost children in the woods and are trying to bring them back to their homes. We brought one back to Parakas, but the gatekeeper wouldn’t let us enter the city. He said we should see you instead. We’re wet and tired from travel, and my friend is pregnant. We need food and horses and a place to stay before we start our journey up to Atuna, where these two come from. Can you help us?”
The old man looked behind him and then back at the travelers. “I don’t have room for you all to stay here,” he said, “and I have no money for horses. But come on inside for now.”
They left the elven horse outside and crammed into his hut as best they could. There was barely enough room for them all to stand in there without anyone ending up in the fire. A small pot of fruit was bubbling over the fire pit, and Scypho went back to stirring it.
“It’s been a long time since I had children in my house,” he said. “The ones here in Parakas all grew up after the war. I’m the only black skinned man they’ve ever seen. They think I’ll boil them.”
Criton noticed Tellos and his sister sharing a glance. They didn’t look entirely certain that the old man wouldn’t boil them.
“There were more islanders here before the war?” Phaedra asked, sitting down on the dirt floor.
“Islanders?” Scypho repeated a bit scornfully. “I’m no islander, young miss. I was born and raised in Parakas. My children were born here, and my grandchildren. We had a fine house right in the center of town, with four rooms and a garden, and walls and floors made of stone. People came to us to have their shoes mended. Mine wasn’t the only family, either. There weren’t many of us, but we had a community here before the war.”
Bandu sat on the floor beside the old man, and Criton followed her lead. It was so comfortable here in this house, even though there wasn’t enough room for Hunter to sit down, and Phaedra had to hold Delika in her lap. Criton felt more welcome here than he had felt at any time since leaving home.
“Do you blame Tarphae for what happened?” Hunter asked.
The old man shook his head and poked angrily at the jam. It smelled like apricots. “Of course not,” he said, sounding only half truthful. “Our neighbors were always itching to get rid of us. If it hadn’t been that war with Tarphae and Atuna, it would have been something else. That’s what my sons said, when they took their families and left. They said we were never wanted here, and it wouldn’t do any good to stay. So I gave them my blessing and they went. They weren’t wrong, but I’m too old to be sailing off and starting a new life on an island somewhere.”
His voice was bitter, and Criton wondered why this place felt so welcoming. The little home that Scypho had taken for himself was full of the old man’s misery, his loneliness and abandonment. Yet here, Criton could relax. The islanders had been traveling among continentals for most of a year now, and Scypho was the first one who did not stare. Their skin meant nothing to him.
Scypho stirred the pot one last time before lifting it off the fire and placing it on the ground beside him. “There’s some bread up on that shelf there,” he said to Hunter. “It’s not much to go round, but we’ll have to make do. Yes, just tear off a little piece and pass it along. You can all dip it in here if you like.”
“Why did you leave your old house?” Phaedra asked.
“It wasn’t my choice,” Scypho said. “I’ll tell you that. They said I couldn’t stay within the walls anymore. Have to keep the city pure and all that.” He snorted. “I hear my old house is a brothel now.”
“You still trade with the cityfolk though,” said Narky. “I mean, you didn’t pick those apricots yourself, did you?”
Scypho looked at him sternly. “No, I did not. There are still some people left in this city who would not stand by and see an old man starve, Mayar be thanked.”
“If we gave you the money, could you arrange to buy us horses?”
Scypho lifted a bushy eyebrow. “Refugees who travel with piles of gold?”
“My father was Lord Tavener of Tarphae,” Hunter said, “who led the island’s forces in the Parakese War. He did not send me from home empty-handed.”
“No,” said the old man, looking him up and down, from his young noble face to his heavy purse and rusting armor. “I see he didn’t.”
“Please?” Phaedra asked him, holding Delika close. “We’ll never reach Atuna without horses. We can’t take a ship, because it might be Mayar who drowned Tarphae. We need your help.”
“You want my help because you think my God is your enemy?” Scypho’s hand went to the necklace of shark teeth that he wore as a symbol of his God. Then he sighed. “How many horses do you need?”
“Five,” said Hunter, “but we have much travel ahead of us, and we’ll need money for food and inn stays too. I think we can afford four.”
“I hope you’re wrong about being Mayar’s enemies,” Scypho said. “Of all the friends I’ve had, He’s the only one who hasn’t abandoned me yet.”
He passed a hand over his eyes. “I’ll see about the horses tomorrow. Where are you going to stay?”
Criton looked around. Temena had already fallen asleep, slumped against a wall. “Could the children sleep here tonight?” he asked. “We can set up a tent outside for the rest of us.”
Scypho looked as if the very thought tired him. “Yes,” he said. “I suppose that would be all right.”
They put up the tent against one of the shack’s outer walls. There was only barely room for four to cram in there, but Hunter volunteered to sleep outside this time. Criton was glad to have shelter for once. The islanders had slept out in the elements on the way down, and let the children sleep in the tent. It was easier to fall asleep, knowing that he would not be covered in dew the next morning.
Criton awoke to the sound of Hunter sharpening his sword outside. “Morning,” Hunter said, as they all stumbled out of the tent. “Scypho’s out buying us horses.”
“Great,” said Narky. “I can’t wait to get out of here. This place is depressing.”
The children were less sullen. They spent the morning on the beach, laughing and trying to see how far they could follow each receding wave without getting caught by the next one. Criton went and sat on a stone at the edge of the sand, watching them play. He envied them.
“They’re sweet,” said Phaedra, noticing his gaze but misinterpreting it. She came over and sat beside him. “Are you ready to be a father?”
He looked away. “I don’t know what it is to be a father.”
Scypho returned shortly before noon, leading a single horse. “My friend will try to find you three more by tomorrow,” he said. “You’ll have to suffer my company for another day.”
They ate a midday meal, after which Criton asked about the wizard’s tower.
“It’s dedicated to Mayar, just like you say,” the old man confirmed. “They have guards there day and night to make sure nobody goes treasure-hunting. Only my God’s priests are allowed up there, to gather sacrifices for festivals and special events.”
“Sacrifices?” asked Phaedra. “What kind of sacrifices?”
“Whatever they can find,” said Scypho. “Furs, papers, scrolls, little carved statuettes – whatever the guards dig up, the priests burn it on the altar and scatter the ashes on the sea. It’s amazing how many scrolls and things that dangerous old wizard had up in his tower. I always knew he was trouble, but now we know that he had a whole library full of blasphemies! Good riddance.”
Phaedra looked horrified. “They burn scrolls?” she gasped, clutching her elbows as if suddenly cold.
Scypho looked at her sharply. “Of course they do, girl. The Tidefather protected us from that wizard for many, many years, and now the wizard’s gone forever. I’d say a proper set of sacrifices is the least we can do.”
“He was supposed to be an expert on dragons,” said Criton, feeling sick.
“Dragons, yes,” Scypho agreed. “The great lizards who thought they could fight the Gods. I’m glad I never had to live in those evil days.”
“When is the next sacrifice?” Criton asked.
“We’ve completely lost track of time,” Phaedra explained hurriedly.
“The Storm Festival is next week,” Scypho said. “Five days, really. I used to prefer the Rain Ceremony, but now I look forward to the Storm Festival every year.”
Criton nodded. The Storm Festival was the only one of the Sea God’s festivals worshipped at the seashore instead of at the church of Mayar. Criton still remembered how Ma’s husband had grumbled about having to stand cold and wet on the docks while the priest of Mayar made his prayers. He had complained about it, the cruel bastard, all while keeping his wife and Criton trapped in the house, unable to even see the docks from their window.
But Mayar’s church would be inside the city somewhere. For Scypho, the Storm Festival would be the only one of Mayar’s festivals that he did not have to worship alone.
“Five days,” said Phaedra. “So they’ll be building the seaside altar soon?”
“They will,” Scypho said. “Probably tomorrow, or the next day.”
“And the sacrifices?” asked Criton, his heart sinking, “When do they usually gather those?”
Scypho shrugged. “I don’t know. Soon. That young priest, Pellos, usually gets them.”
“Does anyone know where all the children went?” asked Hunter suddenly. “We’d better make sure they don’t drown.”
“Yes,” said Scypho. “Go, all of you. It’s been a tiring morning, and I need some rest.”
They left him there and walked back onto the beach, where all seven children were playing harmlessly in the sand.
“I know what you’re thinking,” Hunter told Criton, “and it’s too dangerous. We are not trying to rescue a pile of scrolls straight out of the hands of guards and priests and practically Mayar Himself.”
“I can’t believe they burn it all,” said Phaedra, shaking her head with a stunned expression.
“I’m with Hunter on this one,” said Narky. “We might not be happy about what they’re doing, but the answer is not to get ourselves killed. We’ve had a lot of close calls. We shouldn’t press our luck.”
“You’re right,” Phaedra admitted. “But I still don’t like it.”
Criton said nothing. Now he knew better than to ask Hunter or Narky for help. But one way or another, he would not stand by and watch his heritage destroyed.
He passed the next morning in agony, while Hunter and Scypho went to buy the rest of the horses. In the meantime, Narky and Phaedra watched the children and talked, and Bandu tried to pull Criton into the tent to make love. He didn’t go. He was feeling too tense, and besides, afraid though he was to say so, he was put off by her size. She was growing so quickly now, her body barely resembled the one he had grown used to. And they were, at best, halfway through this. He knew it was wrong, but what could he do about it? He felt the way he felt.
Bandu was insulted and hurt when he rebuffed her. She kept repeating, “Why you don’t want me?” He had no answer for her, so instead he fled.
He walked uphill toward the tower for a time, then turned around and headed for the city gate. He had just arrived and was trying to decide where to go next when out stepped a man dressed in blue-gray robes, an empty sack thrown over his shoulder. This must be Pellos, the priest charged with sacrificing Criton’s family history to the Sea God. Criton had to stop him.
“Excuse me,” he said, stepping into the priest’s way. “My wife is pregnant. Could you bless our baby?”
Pellos looked at him with surprise and alarm. Criton was surprised himself. Where had he come up with that?
“I am on an errand,” said the priest. “I will make sure to come by when I have finished.”
“I’m afraid she’ll give birth soon,” said Criton. “Please? It’ll only take a minute or two. We’re staying with Scypho.”
“Oh, very well,” Pellos sighed. “Lead the way.”
Criton brought him back to the hut by the sea, frantically trying to think of a plan. When they arrived, he found Phaedra and Bandu outside the tent, conferring with each other while Phaedra worked on adjusting a spare dress for Bandu. He wondered what Bandu had been telling Phaedra about him.
“Gods, man,” said Pellos, with surprise and irritation. “This girl is yet months away from giving birth!”
“Is she?” said Criton, looking to Phaedra for help. Please distract him, he tried to tell her with his eyes, please, please distract him.
“She miscarried once, at about this time,” Phaedra lied, her eyes acknowledging Criton’s request. “He worries a lot.”
“You worry?” said Bandu, confused. “That is why you don’t want me?”
“Well,” the priest sighed, “I suppose I can bless your baby anyway. Come here, girl.”
Bandu refused. She refused! “I don’t want bless,” she said.
“Stay,” said Phaedra to Pellos, “we’ll talk her into it. Criton, I don’t think your presence is helping.”
Thank you, he thought at her, and slipped away around the hut. As soon as the priest was no longer within sight, he began to run toward the tower. He suspected he had only a few minutes before Pellos disentangled himself from Bandu and Phaedra and came to collect the sacrificial relics. Criton closed his eyes, trying to picture exactly what the priest looked like. Yes, he thought he had it right.
When he looked down at his hands they were several shades lighter and a good deal smaller than before. He touched his face, and it felt right, at least. Now for the hard part. He had become an expert at transforming himself, but it would take an illusion to turn his ragged clothes into Mayaran robes. At illusion, he was a complete amateur. Still, if he could not do this, what was his magic good for?
He concentrated, thinking about the robe and trying to let his imagination extend itself out into the world. It worked, sort of. He did not think he had the color quite right, and his tunic did not rustle the way a robe ought to, but he thought this would probably do. He strode forward, silently praying to God Most High that the guards would not notice his mistakes.
There were half a dozen of them scattered around the ruins, looking bored. “Here he is!” cried one, and hopped to his feet.
“What have you found?” Criton asked him, trying to sound businesslike.
The guard gave him a funny look. “Are you all right? You don’t sound normal.”
Criton coughed and smiled and hoped that his racing heart was not audible. He might have looked right enough, but his voice and accent were all wrong!
He coughed again and shook his head. “Don’t worry about it,” he rasped, hoping that this would mask his terrible attempt at a Parakese accent. “Been like this all day.”
“Oh,” said the guard, still looking unsettled. “Well, the pile is over there, but you should have brought something to put it in. We found a few sculptures this time, and some precious stones, and of course more scrolls. You won’t be able to carry it all in your hands.”
Fool! Criton thought. How could he have forgotten that the priest had been carrying a sack?
“I’ll make two trips,” he whispered. “I’ll bring the sack next time.”
“Right,” said the guard. Criton wished he wouldn’t look so concerned. He suspected the guard would watch him walk back toward the town until he was out of sight.
He went to the pile of dug-up items and began collecting scrolls in his arms. There were five or six of them, some bulkier than others, and they fit poorly there. “I’ll be back,” he said, and hurried away as nonchalantly as he could.
He had not gone more than four steps before a scroll fell from his arms. As he bent over to retrieve it, another fell, and another. The guard with whom he had just spoken rushed over to help him, but when he handed the last scroll back to Criton, his hand passed straight through a piece of imaginary robe. The guard blinked, unsure of what he had just seen.
“Thanks,” said Criton, and fled as quickly as he could.
To his relief, the guard did not follow. Criton practically flew down the hillside, and nearly cried out when he saw the real Pellos coming toward him. The priest was looking down at his own feet as he climbed up the hill. Criton dropped his illusion at once and transformed back into his usual human shape, hurriedly stuffing scrolls into his tunic.
“Hello,” he said, when the priest looked up at him. He tried to use magic to look less lumpy, but the scrolls slid down toward his legs and he had to put his hand on his stomach and stand perfectly still to avoid letting them tumble onto the ground.
“How did you get all the way up here?” the priest asked with irritation, stopping to look up at him.
“Went for a walk,” Criton answered, completely unsatisfactorily.
“Your wife refused to let me bless the baby,” Pellos said angrily. “You and that dirty girl completely wasted my time.”
“I’m sorry,” said Criton. Why wouldn’t the priest walk on? “Anyway,” he said, “thank you for trying.”
“Huh. Right,” the priest said suspiciously. But he continued on his way.
Criton gathered up the scrolls and ran. His chest burned and his legs seemed to be moving faster than they were meant to, but he did not stop until he reached Scypho’s little house, coughing and panting. Scypho and Hunter had apparently returned with the horses, and Hunter was fastening a new saddle onto the empty elven horse while Phaedra gathered the children for their first meal of the day. Criton stuffed the scrolls into one of the horses’ saddlebags and waved his arms wildly at Phaedra.
“We have to go!” he wheezed. “Now!”
“Why?” asked Hunter, but when he turned around and saw Criton, his eyes widened in horror. “What did you do?”
Criton shook his head. “We have to go,” he repeated.
“All right, let’s go!” Hunter cried, turning to shout at the others. Bandu came hurrying out of the tent, and Narky ran out of the house. Criton helped Bandu onto a horse, then snatched up Tellos and placed him in front of her.
“Ride upriver,” he said. “Keep away from the tower.”
The others had all gathered round by now and were trying to figure out how they could mount four islanders and six children all onto the four remaining horses. “I can take two,” said Hunter, “one in front and one behind. Narky, can you do the same?”
“Wait!” cried Phaedra. “Where’s Delika?”
Criton lifted Temena onto his own horse and looked around. Delika was still standing at the edge of the sand, looking out to sea. The burning in Criton’s chest became a sudden deathly cold. His theft had not gone unnoticed. A wall of water towered above the shoreline, dark and angry, dwarfing the little hut that lay before it. And then it crashed.