TANWEN
After half a moon of nothing but ocean as we crossed from the Western Wildlands of Tir to the Haribian city of Paka, you would think the sight of land would have thrilled me. Instead, I was puzzled.
“It’s so flat,” I said to Wylie as I gazed over the rail. “It’s like a field that’s been cleared for grain but never planted. Where are the mountains? The hills?”
“They don’t really have them. At least, not in this part of the country.” He pointed. “Those are marshlands along the coast, but when you get further in, the ground’s much drier. They do grow some kinds of grain there.”
“Oh! That means they have porridge!”
Wylie shot me a look but didn’t comment.
“Come about!” Mor’s voice cut through our conversation like a sword. “Bo-Thordwyan, all hands!”
Wylie shrugged. “Duty calls. See you, Tannie.”
I turned toward the approaching Haribian coastline. “All hands” didn’t mean me, and I knew it. I could tie knots better than before and help out with cleaning, but actually lowering sails or belaying lines? Not so much. Still, I donned my tricorn hat like the rest of them. Like I belonged.
They let me pretend.
And it didn’t sting to pretend, as long as I avoided Mor. Which I’d done with success since Meridione.
“Better get ready to disembark.” Speak of the blue-eyed devil. “There’s no proper port in Paka. We’re dropping anchor.”
“What does that mean?”
Mor nodded toward land. “We’ll get close, then we’ll let down the anchor to secure the ship. We’ll lower our rowboats and pull the rest of the way to shore.”
I eyed the rowboats as the men loosened them from their secure holds. They looked rickety, now that I’d been aboard ship so long. “Is it safe?”
“Not really.” Mor shrugged. “What choice do we have? We won’t linger in Haribi.”
I cast another mistrustful glance at one rowboat as Mor strode away. Then I sighed. He was right. What choice did we have?
The men got the ship anchored and boats ready to lower alarmingly fast. They were rather like huskbeetles building a colony. It made me wish I could do more than pretend to be a sailor. It would be nice to be part of that bustle—that efficiency.
Gryfelle was already loaded in one boat, Karlith with her. Mor and Jule conversed about the ship—Jule would stay back with most of the crew while we went ashore.
I caught Wylie’s gaze some distance away, and he shrugged apologetically. I guessed he had been ordered to stay behind.
“Tannie?” Mor’s voice from the other boat startled me. He had climbed over the side and now offered me his hand. “Ready?”
But I wasn’t. I stared at his hand, then met his gaze. What if we made sparks or fire or a golden cage of sadness when we touched in front of the whole ship?
Horrifying.
But then I realized he was wearing leather gloves. Maybe it wouldn’t work if his hands were covered?
I placed my fingers in his outstretched palm. Stillness. No strands. Just the tiniest bit of heat beneath the leather. Our eyes met, and I could see that he had been wondering, too.
Well, at least we knew how to stop it from happening, even if we couldn’t really control it. That was something. And yet, somehow, it felt like a loss.
I settled onto the bench of the rowboat next to my father.
“Ho, Tannie girl.”
I scooted closer and leaned against his arm.
But I didn’t have long enough to settle into anything that felt like comfort.
“General?” The worry in Zel’s voice carried across the waves from the other boat. “What’s that?”
Father craned his neck toward the shoreline. “We have a welcoming party.”
I wasn’t sure what a Haribian welcoming party usually looked like, but the line of warriors taking their places along the marshy coast didn’t look much like they wanted to welcome us.
I knew I was staring, but it was hard to look away. For one, these men barely wore clothes by Tirian standards. They stood bare-chested with long, colorful cloth skirts hanging down to the ground. Some had spears and small stone blades fixed to leather straps across their bodies. All of them held bows as tall as they were, and each man seemed to match Zel in height. What looked like white ink markings stood out on muscled, umber skin that glistened like it was covered in oil.
But I supposed it wasn’t the time to be admiring how impressive this party looked. Seeing as there looked to be about a hundred of them, and every bow had an arrow nocked. Especially since all those arrows were pointed in our direction.
“Hu!” The sharp cry from shore almost startled me overboard.
Several of the men had moved forward enough to meet our boat—and their bowstrings were pulled taut, their spears pointed at our throats.
“Wew ninani? Yaki ninini ni lengo?” one of the warriors shouted.
I stared at my father a moment, then glanced at Warmil. I sure hoped one or the both of them spoke Haribian. Or maybe Dylun? Was there more than one dialect of Haribian? Surely so, though I’d never thought of it before now. Father had said that Haribi was made up of about three hundred clans.
“Sisi kuju amani.”
I swiveled to look at Father again, for those Haribian words had come from him. How strange to hear this foreign language out of my father’s mouth.
He spoke to the Haribian with the harsh voice again. “Jumbe kwa malika.”
“Mwong!” The man pulled his bowstring tighter and aimed his arrow straight at Father’s head.
My heart shot into my throat and stuck there. “No!” I choked out.
Several pairs of eyes turned toward me. Would their arrows and spears follow?
Tears stung. I wished for the first time in my life I spoke Haribian. I gripped my father’s arm.
“Mwongi.” The one who seemed to be the leader nodded toward Father. But didn’t lower his bow, I couldn’t fail to notice.
“We’re not liars,” Father said in Tirian. “I do carry a message from the queen. Queen Braith En-Gareth.”
“Ah! Gareth!” The leader spoke in rough, clipped Tirian.
Mention of the usurper king might have been a bad idea.
But Father kept speaking in a reassuring voice. “Sisi kuju amani.” He held up his hands. “We mean you no harm.”
From the line of defenders came a thickly accented voice, but the Tirian words were clear. “I know this voice.”
While the Haribian warriors didn’t budge or lower their weapons, I saw Father’s breath release in a slow stream that sounded like relief. A smile broke over his face. Though the rest of us could have been carved of stone for all we dared to breathe.
The Haribian man who had spoken appeared at the front of the throng. He was tall, glistening, and every bit as fierce as the others. Just as armed, too. The polished-stone head of his spear was longer than any of the others, and I noticed with a leap in my chest that he wore a necklace of beasts’ teeth. But the moment he saw my father, his face split into a wide grin, revealing the whitest teeth I’d seen in my life.
“I knew this.” He laughed, lowered his spear. “Yestin. The old general of Tir.”
Father nodded, seemingly delighted. “Askari.” He addressed the rest of us. “Askari is a local warlord. His village is that direction, if memory serves. The village of Kiji.” He motioned left, toward the southwest.
“Yes, this is right. General Yestin.” Askari shook his head. “You were . . .”
“Dead?”
“Yes. How? How do you stand here?”
“Long story.” Father’s gaze shifted to the other warriors, whose weapons were all still trained. “I’m going to reach into my tunic and get the letter from the queen. Is that all right?”
Askari spoke to the others in Haribian. Most weapons lowered, but the harsh-voiced one paused.
“Gareth.” He glared at my father. “Gareth.”
Askari spoke in Haribian again, rapidly. I frowned. That language sounded to me like a hail of arrows hitting a stone turret. I didn’t think I’d ever be able to learn one word of it.
Askari turned back to us. “He fears this name. Gareth.”
“Gareth is dead.” Father held out the letter. “Here. Askari, you know I was loyal to Caradoc II, not Gareth. Please, I beg you. Give Queen Braith’s words the consideration you would have given to Caradoc’s.” He bowed and stretched across the distance to offer the letter sealed in wax with Braith’s signet pressed into it. “Upon my honor, Braith is cut from Caradoc’s cloth.”
Askari looked puzzled. “What is this ‘cut from cloth’? You make no sense, old friend.”
“Forgive me,” Father said quickly. “She is a ruler like Caradoc. Or she will be, if she can gather enough support to keep her throne. You understand?”
“Yes.” Askari stepped into the marsh and took the letter, then he handed it over to the harsh-voiced man. He looked at Father. “Is this why you have come? To deliver the Tirian queen’s letter?”
“Yes. But we have another purpose.”
It took Father a minute to explain the situation with Gryfelle and me. It may have irked the others that Father made a point to say, “My daughter is in danger,” when Gryfelle was so much worse off. But he knew what he was about. What would inspire compassion more, a Tirian stranger near death or the sick daughter of an old friend? I was beginning to realize Father was strategic in everything he did, every word he spoke.
Though truly, Askari didn’t seem to need the extra shove, even if the others might have. As Father spoke of Gryfelle, Askari’s face grew graver and graver. He eyed her in the other boat. Finally, he said, “We have our legends here. I know the help you seek.” But then he shook his head. “I do not know where it may be, my friend.”
Mor spoke up. “Please, sir. We have a map, and our situation is desperate.”
Askari cast his gaze back to Father, clearly amused. “Mwanume?”
Father laughed. “He is not a boy. He is the captain of that vessel.” He nodded out to sea where the Cethorelle was anchored.
“Ha! They give ships to younglings now.”
“Or perhaps we have grown old, my friend.”
“Perhaps.” Askari turned toward the harsh-voiced one and spoke in Haribian. After a moment of arguing, he turned back to Father. “Katili is warlord of Paka. This is his land here, and he does not want you. But I have told him he must, as a favor to me.”
“We will not stay,” Father assured him. “Our ship can’t be tethered too long.”
Askari nodded. “The village mother will look after you.”
I glanced up at Father. Village mother?
“A female elder,” he explained.
“She will look after the dying one.” Askari took another long look at Gryfelle. He didn’t speak his question, but when he turned to Father, I could see it in his eyes.
Is she not dead already?
“She is very sick,” Father said quietly. “But we must do all we can for her.”
“Haki,” Askari responded. “Indeed. I hope your map is a good one.”