I thought that I’d known fatigue and hardship. I was wrong. Nothing I’d ever done prepared me for that night. The aching muscles. The constant worry for my friends. The fear that some terrible predator from the deeps would hunt us. Between the mental trauma and physical exhaustion, I was sorely pressed, and to this day I’d be lying if I told you I knew what it was that drove me on. Was it loyalty? Friendship? Fear of death? It might even be that I was simply too stubborn and stupid to give up.
—From The Collected Writings of Lord Ivrian Galanor
Either because Gombe lacked a ring or because the salvager was still injured, Ivrian tired far less swiftly. Yet Gombe never complained. He insisted they push on, kicking and kicking mile after mile, surfacing from time to time to keep the shoreline in focus. There was a frightening moment when Mirian stopped moving altogether, and they had to surface so Gombe could press his ear to her chest. Her heart still beat. She was simply spent, too tired to carry on after multiple injuries, none of them fully healed.
After the first few hours of the swim Ivrian was numb, any thoughts of sea predators far from his mind. They saw few large fish, close as they were to the surface. Once a pod of squids the size of his torso streamed below him in a line, but the odd-looking creatures seemed eager to avoid them.
On and on they swam, until both men were gasping. Their legs and arms were heavy as anchors. They had to stop and drift to clear cramps. With the help of the magical rings and Gombe’s air bottle, they couldn’t drown, but Ivrian was beginning to think they might well pass out from exhaustion. To make matters worse, he hadn’t eaten well for days, and hunger gnawed insistently.
Yet neither man complained. There was too much at stake: Their leader and friend, carried between them. The treasure on their backs that could save a kingdom. Their friends, trapped still in the hands of their enemies.
And so in the late hours of the night they staggered out of the sea and onto a rocky beach, dripping wet and cold. The moon was high, or Ivrian would have stepped right onto a spiky sea urchin. He croaked a warning to Gombe, and then the two swayed like drunkards as they carried Mirian past a little tidal pool and up a rocky beach. They lay her down as gently as they could, then sank together near a palm tree and looked up at the stars.
“By the gods, I’m hungry.” Ivrian’s voice was hoarse.
“I…” Gombe breathed in and out slowly, “used to think … a moonlight swim was romantic.”
Ivrian considered their surroundings. They’d come ashore a quarter mile from a cluster of huts.
“I never realized how comfortable lying on rocks could be,” Gombe said. “If only I weren’t so thirsty.”
“Come on.” Ivrian forced himself to his knees. His legs ached in protest. “We’ve got to find a healer for Mirian. Find transport. Although perhaps we should stow this treasure.”
“Lad,” Gombe said without moving in the slightest, “we can’t risk this. Let me go in, alone. I’ve got some Ijo blood. And the Ijo know about the Raas family. Leovan dealt with a lot of villages over the years.”
“Then you’d best get moving. It’s getting cold, and Mirian needs help.”
“Just enjoying the stars a bit.”
“Come on!”
“All right, all right.” Groaning, Gombe climbed to his feet and staggered toward the huts. Ivrian supposed Mirian knew how to start a fire in the wilderness, but he didn’t want to wake her, and was uncertain she’d be capable of instruction even if he did.
His mother could have managed a fire, he was certain. Thinking about her again was like opening a fresh wound, and he forced her from his mind.
Fortunately, Gombe returned with some brawny, broad-backed Ijo before too long. The villagers proved friendly and gregarious—not unlike Gombe himself—and were more than willing to lend aid. Soon they had everyone seated around a fire pit.
The real trick was getting them motivated to lift anchor at night and set out for Crown’s End. They thought the idea rash and dangerous, especially given Mirian’s condition, and urged delaying until morning, when a healer could be summoned from a nearby village.
But Ivrian insisted, and offered a sapphire in payment. They looked insulted, but went back to fetch a boat anyway.
“What did I say?” Ivrian asked when they were gone.
Gombe shook his head. “Ijo don’t need bribes to care for their guests, lad.”
“Oh.” Ivrian felt a pang of regret about bullying them onto the ocean at night. If he survived all this, he promised himself, he’d see this village further rewarded. Somehow.
The winds were with them. Ivrian was hard put to stay awake for the two-hour trip, but he’d resolved to monitor Mirian the whole way, ensuring she stayed wrapped in blankets. Her terrible shoulder and arm wounds had been sealed by the healing potion, but he was certain the raw, burned skin would have stung terribly if she fully regained consciousness. Once she woke and asked about Kellic, Rendak, Jekka, Kalina—even Heltan. He assured her that they were all alive, and she rose up to look for them before her eyes rolled and she fell back asleep.
Gombe dozed off once or twice, then kept himself awake talking quietly with Ivrian in the bow of the little boat. The four Ijo sailors were busy manipulating the sail and rudder and had little to say in any case, resenting their guests for asking a favor so far beyond what should reasonably have been expected.
“When we arrive,” Gombe said, “we’ll head to the temple of Iomedae.”
The idea surprised Ivrian. “Shouldn’t we go straight to the governor?”
“In the middle of the night? And have you seen yourself? I mean, look at us. You think any guard is going to let us near the manor house?”
Ivrian looked down at his dripping sleeves, his torn and stained leggings. He’d left his boots drifting in the ocean. He touched his face and felt days of beard growth. And he smelled rather strongly of the ocean. “I suppose you’re right.” He hadn’t thought of any of these particular difficulties. He’d been so fixated on getting to the shore, turning the money over to the governor, and freeing his friends that he had somehow overlooked further challenges.
“My uncle’s a priest here,” Gombe said. “Of Iomedae. The head priest.”
“You’re kidding!” The news was like a welcome thunderbolt. Weary as he was, Ivrian felt a surge of energy.
“Oh, yes, a fine joke.”
“We’ll go to him, get Mirian healed, get cleaned up, then see the governor!”
“Exactly what I was thinking,” Gombe said.
“Will the temple even be open?”
“No, but my uncle lives beside it.” Gombe looked down at Mirian, stirring fitfully. “It’s going to be a long walk up the bluff.”
“We can hire a cart.”
“At this time of night? This is Crown’s End, not Eleder.”
They arrived a little before two bells, putting in at the end of one of dozens of long quays where ships were moored. Ivrian supposed that somewhere nearby he’d find Sylena’s ship, if he cared to look.
They thanked the Ijo, who gruffly replied that it had been their duty, though they looked none too happy about it. And then Gombe and Ivrian stumbled out onto the dock, supporting Mirian between them.
Despite Gombe’s pessimism, they did find a cart for hire, though the halfling who drove it looked dubious until they tendered him a small jewel. Ivrian had nothing else to pay him with. After that, the driver was the soul of courtesy, and conveyed them promptly beyond the port and up the cobblestone road to the little walled town on the cliff.
Iron gates and a stone watchtower guarded the settlement. The soldier on duty waved them past. Just beyond, to the right, was a narrow building of stone, complete with steeple and columns. It was clearly a temple, though the shadows were too deep for Ivrian to discern any further details. The halfling let them off, though he reminded them the temple was closed and suggested a variety of hostelries.
Ivrian thanked him, and then he and Gombe hoisted Mirian between them and trudged past the wide front entrance, diverted to the side and through a sagging metal gate. It creaked as it swung open, and then Ivrian shut it behind them, wincing a little both from the noise and the agony of moving his aching legs.
Gombe was already knocking on the door of the small stone home beside the temple. There was a brief exchange with grumpy servants before the door opened and a bevy of assistance whirled them forward. Mirian was whisked one way, Gombe and Ivrian another. Before long, an old, dignified Mulaa man with rich black skin and short white hair was in earnest discussion with Gombe, promising that Mirian would make a full recovery.
Ivrian rather wished to hear the assurances in more detail, but he was led to where water had been pumped into an austere but immense bathing tub, which he soaked in gratefully before climbing into a set of clean clothes. Afterward, he was taken to a narrow, high-ceilinged dining hall with a long cedar table to behold a wondrous sight: half a cormorant breast on a bed of rice beside a bowl of coconut soup.
Ivrian gratefully dug in. He’d finished off the bird and nearly half the soup, seasoned with lime and filled with chunks of tender crab, before the white-haired fellow entered the room. Ivrian wrestled himself to his feet.
“There’s no need for that,” the man told him, voice heavy with dignity and age.
Ivrian bowed. “You are a priest of Iomedae.”
“And also uncle to Gombe.” The older man stepped closer, and Ivrian noticed for the first time that he walked with a limp. He was clothed like a colonial, in tailored pants and a shirt, but wore a colorful red-and-yellow vest, and aged slippers. “From everything I hear, you are a very brave young man.” The priest gripped Ivrian’s shoulders with two powerful hands and pulled him in close. Startled, Ivrian belatedly grabbed the priest’s shoulders.
“My nephew is so tired from what you have endured that he fell asleep sitting upright, but I believe I understand the gist of the matter. My given name is Onwu, and that is what I wish you to call me. I will join you. Please. Eat.”
So saying, Onwu pulled out one of the high-backed chairs and lowered himself to the cushion—with some pain, Ivrian thought. After a moment, Ivrian took his seat, his own aches rendering his motion a mirror to the priest’s.
“I can’t thank you enough for your hospitality, Fath— Onwu. And Mirian is going to be all right?”
“I have personally tended her injuries. She will be fine, so long as she can have rest. Which you need sorely as well. I need be no healer to see that.”
A woman he hadn’t noticed behind him passed a goblet Ivrian’s way, then stepped to hand one to Onwu.
Ivrian drank gratefully. Fermented coconut milk mixed with brandy. Sweet, with a burn at the end. It felt good in his throat.
“You have a warrior’s soul,” Onwu told him. “To fight sharks. To risk all for your friends.”
Ivrian shook his head. “There are people, friends, who still need our help. I’ve got to speak with the governor and get them off the Chelish ship.”
Onwu set the goblet aside. “It is not so simple. You cannot take these treasures you brought to the Icehand.”
“Icehand?” Ivrian repeated.
The woman answered, her voice low. “My grandfather means the governor. Ilina Ysande. They call her the Icehand.”
Ivrian glanced over at her, but in the poor light he saw only a slim figure in one of the long yellow skirts of the Mulaa, a dark-red blouse hanging over a bare and muscular midriff.
“This is Jeneta, my granddaughter. And she speaks true. The Icehand will take your money. You will have to get it to the baron without her.”
“And what about our friends?”
“I’ve looked into it,” Jeneta said. “Three lizardfolk and a single man were sold to the arena by the ship Wayfarer.”
“How did you find out so fast?”
“My granddaughter is resourceful,” Onwu said. “But this information was not gained as swiftly as you might think. You were long in the bath.”
Ivrian put his hand to his head. Fatigue beat at him like a hammer. “Do you know if the man was named Rendak?”
Jeneta turned her head slowly from side to side. “No one remarked upon him, only that he was a murderer. They recalled the lizardfolk.”
“Those four are the ones we must ask the governor to free. We don’t have to mention the money.”
“The governor will not care,” Jeneta said. “It’s unlikely you’ll get them back, particularly if they’ve been judged.”
“Judged?”
“Those presented as criminals to the arena are given a chance to explain their case to a ‘judge,’” Onwu explained. “A man who takes a cut from all those brought in for combat. You can guess why he very rarely rules in a victim’s favor.”
“Then we’ll just pay off this man.”
“It doesn’t work that way. Once past the judge, any prisoners are auctioned to agents who represent the arena stakeholders. You’d have to track down the agent, or the actual owner, and bribe them.”
Ivrian was too tired for all this complexity. “Surely there’s some other way.”
Onwu leaned forward, his dark face grimly serious. “As a priest, I could gain entrance to offer final prayers. But getting anyone out is problematic. No guards would accept bribes to release prisoners, not when the wrath of the arena’s owners would fall on them.”
“Gombe says you have magics that allow you to breathe underwater,” Jeneta interrupted.
“Yes,” Ivrian said, a little annoyed by the change in topic.
Jeneta continued. “A sewer exit drains from the arena and out into the bay. It’s tied to an underground stream. A lot of blood has to be washed out of the arena every week. People have tried to escape that way, but they always drown. With your magic, though, they could live.”
Ivrian felt the first flash of hope. “That may be our answer. We have two rings that allow the breathing of water. And an air bottle.” He frowned in thought. “Do you know how long the tunnel is?”
“A quarter mile, perhaps? Maybe longer.”
“That might be a bit long for the lizardfolk,” Ivrian said. “They can hold their breath for a good long while, but they can’t breathe underwater.” He remembered those eerie green-lit tunnels beneath the ancient city and tried to estimate how long the Karshnaar had gone without surfacing. How far could they swim if pressed to their limit? He couldn’t really guess. “It may be our best chance. Onwu, can you get me in to see them?”
“I will take you,” the woman declared firmly. She stepped forward, and Ivrian had his first clear sight of her. She was tall and strapping, long-chinned. A bronze headband held back a mass of tightly curled hair from her face.
There was no missing her determination, just as there was no missing her age. He had been deceived by both her height and her low, sonorous voice. She couldn’t be much older than sixteen.
Tired as he was, Ivrian’s patience was razor thin. Still, he managed politeness. “Lives are at stake,” he reminded them. “I mean no offense, Father Onwu, but as head priest you’ll have far more authority than your granddaughter. Won’t you have better luck getting me in?”
“I will be using my ‘authority,’ such as it is in this snake pit, to find a legal way to free them. If not, I’ll find you a way out of the town. If you must visit them, Jeneta is up to the task. She is a cleric of Iomedae herself.”
The girl stepped closer and bowed her head with dignity. “You may have faith in me, young lord.”
Ivrian started to object further, but Jeneta cut him off. “Grandfather, the lord looks as though he needs rest.”
“I’ve never been more tired in my life,” Ivrian admitted, and it was true—he hadn’t been so weary since he’d stayed up for almost forty-eight hours straight writing sonnets to that damned Varisian actor. What a crashing waste of time.
“To bed, then,” Onwu said. “May your dreams be blessed. Sore trials lie before you and your friends tomorrow.”