The deck of the Cormorant was stained a dark nut-brown. Rime did not particularly recognize the wood grain itself, but she assumed that the signature color came from the staggering amount of coffee that the captain continually sloshed and spilled every which way from a dented metal tankard that he carried as a permanent fixture in his left hand. Captain Tarwell Blackberry seemed to be a constant slow dervish, talking and pointing and tying a line here and refilling his coffee flagon there, issuing sharp controlled screams of indistinguishable orders in the direction of his first mate and two crewmen. All the while the tepid brown liquid sloshed and spattered on the deck as unnoticed as the salt spray. His orders were carried out with a certain degree of blithe humor by the crewmen, two boys of ten and eleven, and with a seething disdain by his first mate, a tall black-haired girl of eighteen and a half years. Rime knew each of the crew’s names and ages because they were constantly referenced and repeated by the captain. They were his eldest daughter and two sons.
“Londra! Londra! Dammit, watch that throttle now! You have to keep a steady hand or you’ll burn through all of our . . .” Captain Blackberry took a long slurp from his coffee.
“Yes, Father. I know.” The tall girl did not take her eyes from the seas ahead, accustomed and unaffected by her captain’s exhortations.
“Wick! Tell your brother to stow that line properly now!” The captain spun, and Rime ducked underneath the arm of his brightred coat. The first day she had nearly been tossed overboard by just such a powerful gesticulation and had learned to never take her eyes off the man when he was less than fifteen feet away from her.
The Cormorant was a small ship powered by a simple Arkanic reactor. It could burn any mineral of sufficient complexity for its fuel source. A family-owned ship like this mainly used quartz or spike-granite; larger ships required far more exotic and expensive fuel sources—or different means of propulsion entirely. Another gift of the Precursors, another tiny machine that we use barely understanding how it works. Another shadow . . . Rime cut herself short. It was a beautiful day. The sun was bright. The sea air was sharp in her nostrils, and she had only had coffee spilled on her once this morning. She would not think about ancient history today.
She carefully extricated herself from the captain’s blast radius and made her way toward the prow of the ship. The youngest Blackberry lumbered by with his arms full of some sort of tarp. She gave him a wide berth as well. Fortunately the pile in his arms kept him from having an unobstructed view of her. The youngest was named Warp, and over the past day and a half of travel he had spent a great deal of time staring at her with his eyes moon-wide. I’ve already got one boy stumbling around after me; I certainly don’t need another.
Her guardian sat in the prow with his back against the simple wood, his eyes determinedly focused on his cloak and thread. Rime had been amused to discover that while Jonas did not get “seasick” to the cartoonish degree so often portrayed in plays and novels, sea travel did make him queasy, and he preferred whenever possible to keep his attention off the vast horizon of blue water that surrounded them.
“Hey.” Rime leaned against the prow, taking a deep breath of the salt air.
Jonas grunted.
“So. Want to tell me your dark secrets?”
The squire sighed, his eyes still on the needle and thread; the hem of his brown cloak that always seemed to need repair. “Rime. I . . . look, I know I told you that I would tell you the story. But it’s hard, okay, it’s just, I mean—how do I tell it? How do I tell it right? There are a lot of parts to it. I want to make sure I have it all straight and together in my head so I can tell it right.”
Rime rubbed her eyes and tried to keep her patience. “I understand, but we’re landing in Shiloh sometime tomorrow. We’re stepping off this boat right onto the soil of Gilead. You told me it was bad, the reason you ran away. I kind of need to know exactly how bad, and the more time I have to plan, the better.”
Jonas tied off a knot in the thread and bit off the excess. He stowed the thread and needle away and replied without looking up. “Tonight, okay? I’ll tell you the whole story tonight.”
She looked out across the crisp blue waves and closed her eyes for a moment. Impatience did battle with some other less familiar sentiment and surprisingly gave over the field. “Okay, tonight, then.”
“Right here, after dinner.” Jonas tapped the deck. “Tales like this need the open sky as judge.”
*
That night a storm hit. Captain Blackberry and his brood carefully sealed each hatch and were more than a little mystified when their two passengers insisted on going back on deck.
“It’s pouring rain, Miss! The sea and wind is calm enough, but you’ll be soaked through in an instant.” The captain offered her a sailcloth jacket many sizes too large. “At least take this.”
“No,” Rime almost hissed. “It’s an important religious ceremony for my guardian. Very important. Absolutely no way that it could be performed in the dry comfort of our quarters.”
Jonas flushed but pushed past out into the driving rain with stubborn boot steps.
“Here’s your hat,” Londra said, passing the wide-brimmed item into Rime’s hands. The mage bit her tongue, crammed it on her head, and stomped out into the storm.
She found Jonas doing his level best to lash a piece of tarp across the point of the prow to give them some sort of cover. Rime grabbed the back of his tunic and pulled him back. With a quick glance to make certain that the Blackberry clan had sealed the hatch behind her, her eyes flared and she snapped her fingers. The tarp jumped to attention, flinging rain like a catapult. The lengths of rope wrapped around the steel eyes set into the railing for just such a purpose like snakes; the entire impromptu awning drew taut and Rime bent down to get in out of the rain. Jonas shook his shaggy hair like a wet dog and followed.
This tiny burst of magic only whetted her appetite, so Rime went ahead and pulled all of the water from her soaked clothing into a neat ball that hovered over her palm. Her companion watched with interest, brow furrowing when he realized that he was not going to be similarly dried out. The mage concentrated, forcing the water to become solid, to form into a lantern of ice shaped like a crescent moon. With a final nod the lantern began to glow with a cool green light, making the awning a small peapod of illumination surrounded by rain and dark and sea.
Rime sat the lantern down on the deck in satisfaction. It required a small bit of her will to maintain but nothing that would tax her overmuch. She would let it fade when the squire’s story ended. Peering into Jonas’s face, she saw his gaze fixed on the brown-stained planks, now turned almost purple in her lantern’s light. The dull roar of the rain made her lean in close to catch his first words.
“My father was a baker. We baked bread mostly—loaves for the common folk—though every so often we’d do special things for feast days. Cupcakes, cookies, cakes, all the . . .”
“NO.” Rime nearly exploded. “You cannot start the story this way. Are you going to tell me the entire story of your life? Can’t you just skip to the part that matters?”
“It all matters, Rime,” Jonas said, hurt clear in his eyes. “I told you, I have no skill in telling a tale. But this is my story. Please let me tell it the best I can.”
“Fine.” The mage settled back against the Cormorant’s rail with ill grace. “Tell it, then.”
“My father was a baker. We baked bread mostly, loaves for the common folk. Sometimes we’d do special things for feast-days: cupcakes, cookies, and the like. I thought for most of my life that flour and yeast were all there was for me. I used to play in the streets with the other kids pretending to be in the Legion, pretending to be Alain the White, pretending to fight monsters—but at the end of the day I knew that I was going to live my life making bread. It didn’t bother me; it was just the way things were. I never prayed for anything different on church days. When I swung my wooden sword I always knew it was just a game, just a dream. The Academy was for the families with the right blood or the right coin, and mine had neither. But then, one day . . .”
“I get it. You were poor, but you got in the Academy somehow, right? It’s a big deal for you and your family. Is this part of the bad stuff?” Rime demanded.
“Well, not really. It happened after I had been in the Academy for two years and was ready for the final part of . . .”
“Okay, then! Can we just skip a little bit?”
Jonas flopped wet hair out of his face and managed a rueful smile. “Yeah, okay.”
The mage made an imperious gesture and settled back in her spot.
“At the end of our training, all of the cadets have a choice. They can join the regular Legion as soldiers or if they can find a knight to sponsor them, they become squires. They receive special training from their master and one day become knights themselves. To serve in the Legion is an honor, but to become a Knight of Gilead, the Order of the Wand, the Bow, the Sword, and the Scroll. There is no higher honor, no greater calling. To me . . . to me it was . . . impossible.” Jonas smiled again. “I didn’t even seek out a single knight. I was happy to go into the Legion as a soldier. But on Measure Day, we all stood in rows according to our units. The knights would walk up and down inspecting us—a tradition, a formality—all of the matches were prearranged, of course. But then he put his hand on my shoulder. He chose me. Sir Matthew Pocket with his silver sword, Hecate, at his side. He walked right up like he had known me my entire life and put his hand on my shoulder. ‘Let’s go’—that’s what he said. Rime, you have to understand, it was like a piece of a legend walking up and touching me. All the dreams I’d never been brave enough to have, all of the prayers I’d been too small to pray, that wooden sword in my hands in the alley, all of it! Right there in front of me. Choosing me.”
Rime, for once, said nothing.
“Not that he really looked all that impressive.” Jonas laughed, eyes lost in memory. “He had this long white mustache that was always getting caught in his mouth. And his skin was so crinkly that he looked like an old potato. But he was a hero; he was my master. He taught me so much. Everything, really. Everything that mattered. In the Academy they teach you how to fight with a sword; he taught me when not to. Before, everything about being a soldier, about being a knight, was just words; he taught me what they meant, what it could mean for someone to stand against injustice, to stand against evil. To do good, to be a Hero True.”
The squire’s body was tight with concentration. Rime saw the tears begin to slide down his face and then was startled to find her companion looking directly into her eyes.
“I know I can’t really make you understand, make you feel it. I’m not telling it right. He was the best. The best I’ve ever met, maybe that there ever was. To stand at his side for even a short time was the greatest honor of my life, more than I’ll ever, ever deserve. The thought that I could be a knight . . . I’m . . . I’m not telling it right.”
Rime reached across the lantern and, without breaking eye contact, took her guardian’s hand. “Tell me the rest. You have to. There’s no turning back now.”
Jonas took a long breath, and then nodded. “It was his sword, you see. I’m sure even you’ve heard the tales of the monsters he fought—the darkness he could find where all other hunters would give up. Sir Matthew Pocket and his shining blade, Hecate, the sword blessed by the three moons. I was only with him for a few months, but I saw him face things of great evil. Vampires, bog wraiths, an archlich and his skeletal horde. He kept me safe from all that. I wish you could have seen it. It was like watching a god—a story made flesh—he and the silver sword tore through the dark like . . . like light itself. I was with him for almost a year before he finally trusted me enough to tell me his secret. His curse.”
The mage leaned in, eyes wide.
“You see, the sword didn’t lead him to evil, it drew evil to him. He told me one night over dinner in his tower when the Black Moon was new. The sword was blessed by the moons with great power but cursed as well. As the Black Moon waxed the effect grew worse; every dark heart for miles around would find itself inexorably drawn to Hecate and her master. And he would deal with them, had been dealing with them for nearly twenty years at that point. And he was tired, so tired. Tired of never being able to stay in one place for long, tired of never having any family, tired of the endless nights of blood and death. So he asked me.”
“What did he ask you, Jonas?”
The squire looked down at his navel, his hands twined. He spoke very quietly, just above the rain. “He asked me to kill him. That night. He had traveled far with Hecate and knew that the curse could only be passed to a willing bearer. But if he died still the sword’s master, then the curse would fade. That’s why he’d picked me, he said. I had no prestige or gold to risk. He could train me as best he could, then present me with the facts and trust to my good steel.”
Rime gritted her teeth, anger held close. “He used you, Jonas. He made you love him, made you worship him . . .”
“Yes. I did. I did love him,” Jonas said. “I also cut his throat. We finished dinner; he drank a good deal of wine. He gave me a huge purse of gold for my escape. I stuffed it into my pack. I walked right up to him. He was fast asleep, wine sleep. I took the knife I used to cut potatoes and I opened his throat.”
“But why? I know he told you to, but if he wanted to die, why make you do it? Why couldn’t he take poison or hang himself or fall on his precious sword?” Rime stood up on her knees, nearly upsetting the lantern. “And why did you just run off into the night like a thief? You had to know there would be a hue and cry, stories told about the ‘murderer’ of the great hero. Dammit, Jonas, why?”
She was yelling directly into his face now, fists balled into the sodden brown cloak at his shoulders. Their faces were inches apart, and she could see his eyes like empty wells, and down at the bottom Jonas was drowning.
“Because I’m not supposed to be a knight,” he said. “Because I was never going to be. I’m a baker’s son. It was my charge to keep him safe, to learn from him, to be worthy of the burden he carried. I couldn’t do any of that, not really. He was the greatest man I’ll ever know, and if the only purpose he found suitable for me was executioner, then it was . . .”
“Shut up. SHUT UP. SHUT UP.” Rime’s anger tore through the tiny awning, flinging the tarp off into the wind. The delicate lantern of magic and ice she had crafted burst and began to melt, lost among falling rain. Water poured down around them, and her eyes crackled and shone like the lightning the storm itself could not muster. Jonas blinked, unafraid—his slow litany at least halted by her outburst of emotion and power. “He used you. Used you and you thank him for it. I don’t care how many songs they sing about him or how many statues of him the birds shit on in Corinth. He isn’t worth more than you. His quiet little death stinks to high heaven, and only a fucking moron like you would throw away your good name and your life because some gray hair told you to.”
“Rime, I . . .”
“I’m not finished.” The mage dragged the much taller boy to his feet and snarled through the pounding rain. “I can’t believe it. You’ve been moping around the world, drinking your way from town to town, and this is the story?”
“I failed, Rime. I failed my charge. Only Once.” Jonas managed to get her small hands off him. “I did what he commanded, I did what he asked. But I shouldn’t have—I should have found another way. If I was a hero or a knight, I could’ve figured it out. But I couldn’t, so I did what he said and then I ran.”
“Yeah, yeah, ‘Only Once.’ You only get one life, but yours isn’t over yet. And you are in luck, because we are going to the throne of the king.” Rime crossed her arms. “I need to go there anyway—once we’re there, you can plead your case. If Gilead is truly the land of heroism and justice that you say, we can clear your name.”
Jonas shook his head, startled. “Wait, wait—what? We’re going to see the king? Why are we going to see the king? How are we going to see the king?”
The mage grimaced. She hadn’t intended to be as explicit with her guardian. “The . . . the Gray Witch told me that was where I had to go.”
The squire’s eyes bugged out, and he had a small coughing fit. Rime understood; the Gray Witch made her feel much the same. She and Jonas had sought her counsel a few weeks back only to be rewarded with riddles. But as was often the case in such matters, the riddles the witch had dangled bore just enough mashed-up truth and prophecy to be irresistible. She and Jonas had only known each other for a few days when they encountered her, and both still bore the scars of that meeting.
“She told you back in the marsh?” the squire sputtered. “And you’re just telling me now?”
“I told you we would be going to Gilead. I was working up to specifically where in Gilead later. I thought she was a wild mage, remember? That she could tell me how to not go crazy? She gave me a clue, and it’s all I have to go on, okay?” Rime wiped rainwater out of her face. “And why are we still standing out in the rain arguing? Are we done with your little story? Can we go inside now?”
“Yes, I guess we can!” Jonas bellowed and stomped toward the main hatch across the deck. Abruptly he turned back, causing Rime to skid to a stop on the rain-slick deck. “No! Two things. One: What exactly did she say? Two: Did you really mean what you said?”
Rime pulled her wide-brimmed hat down tighter on her head in frustration. “What was it that I said?”
Jonas smiled. “That I’m worth as much as Sir Matthew Pocket.”
The mage rolled her eyes, then punched the smirking squire in the stomach with a quick jab. While he recovered, she repeated what the Gray Witch had told her: “‘You will go to Gilead, to the throne of the king. There you will find your answer. We will never meet again. In time you will know my price.’”
“Price?” Jonas asked, a haunted look forming on his face.
“No idea,” Rime half lied.
“She’s tricky, Rime. She asked me all sorts of weird questions and then she kissed me, and then the tower . . .” Jonas stopped and turned his attention to the hatch. “I mean, we should be really careful.”
The mage sighed with annoyance, dancing from foot to foot with impatience. “We will, we will. I’ve got to figure out how to disguise us so we can pass through Gilead, gain audience with the king, and somehow not draw attention to the fact that I’m traveling with a villain from a bard’s tale. Are you having trouble with the latch or do you just like slowly drowning?”
“I guess Gilead is the one place where I’m more wanted by the authorities than you, Rime.” The squire chuckled weakly, his attention still on the thick steel clasps on either side of the portal belowdecks.
Rime snarled and elbowed the squire away from the hatch. She would never have the strength of his arms, but her magic could part the slick clasps in half a heartbeat. The mage turned to say something sharp and drizzled with molten peevishness, but the look on Jonas’s face made her stop. He was very close to her but stared out over her shoulder into the rainy sea. His eyes were wide and fixed on a single point—as if he was staring at the specter of his past, his guilt, his foolhardy murder. She realized that he needed support; he needed comfort, maybe even a hug. Vomit. I will vomit forever. Maybe the captain’s daughter would lend an ear to his troubles? Rime considered the tall girl’s laconic nature and steel-eyed demeanor and decided it was unlikely—at least not without a small crate of wine. The mage gritted her teeth and prepared herself to make some sort of human gesture to ease her companion’s despair.
“Jonas, look, I think . . .”
“Pirates,” he said, ripping his sword free from its plain leather scabbard.
“Wha . . .” Rime spun, looking out to the rain-stammered waves, just spying the dark outline of a wooden galleon less than a dozen yards from the side of the Cormorant. They had extinguished all lights on their deck, but the fickle moonlight still glinted off the edges of a few ragged cutlasses bristling near the prow of the approaching ship.
“Good. Good!” The mage pushed her wide-brimmed hat back until it hung free on a cord around her neck. Rime cracked her knuckles and grinned with relief that they could stop talking about the squire’s feelings. A pirate battle is the best remedy for emotional trauma.
Jonas took his place in front of her, his steel held low; Rime reached down into the Magic Wild and called a trill of lightning to dance between her fingertips. The wooden hull crashed into their tiny ship, pouring salt water, pirates, and more rain into their waiting arms.