Chapter 8

“Get him up!”

Regealth was yanked up by the back of his robes from the wooden box he was crouching in. The crate had bounced about in the back of a wagon all night as it rolled over a rough and rocky road. His legs were stiff, and his back screamed in agony.

“Let’s go, old man,” said the burly, unshaven man who held his robes. He smelled like stale beer and dirt, and his breath was putrid.

Regealth, Gatekeeper and long-time advisor to the King of Karth, blinked his pale grey eyes, unseeing, in the bright sun. He could sense the light, and though he could hardly see anything, he smelled the sea and heard the crackle of gulls overhead.

“Ah, the ocean?” he muttered to no one.

“Gren! Bring him to me!”

Regealth turned his head toward the voice. It was familiar, he thought. He stumbled a few steps across a wooden surface. But when he hesitated, someone hooked him under the arm and half-dragged him toward the man shouting the orders. Finally, they stopped moving, and it was then he could feel the gentle tell-tale swaying of a ship’s deck.

If he were stronger, he could use magic to spy on his captors from anywhere, but the mage had been through so much these last hours that he felt lucky his heart was still beating. He raised a shaky hand to try and reach out and touch whoever was in front of him. Tired or not, he was confident he would be able to gain identity through a simple touching bond.

As the Gatekeeper’s trembling hand rose, the man jumped back as if it were a snake.

“Oh no, old man!” he hissed. “You’ll not put one cursed finger on me. I know your tricks!”

Regealth dropped his hand to his side and made a show of sighing in defeat. His hand snaked upward to grasp the heavy jewel hanging around his neck. He fluttered his fingers around for a moment before panic struck.

“The Gate!” he gasped. “What have you done with it!”

His captor chuckled and turned toward the ship’s bow, surveying the sky: slate-grey clouds were blowing in from the south with the rising wind, and they needed to get underway. His employer did not like to be kept waiting, and he was already behind schedule. He shouted to the crew to shove off and set sail. But a feeble cry from behind made him whirl around to see the aged Gatekeeper crumple to the deck.

“Get him below!” the man shouted to his men. “And feed him! I can’t have him dying unless we all want to die with him!”

The men hoisted Regealth up and carried him below deck. His wispy grey hair disappeared down the stairs; a voice purred from behind.

“Ah, yes. Let’s not kill the poor old thing.”

He turned to see a tall, willowy woman gliding toward him from the ship’s bow. She was dressed in a deep rich velvet gown, a fitting contrast to her pale skin. The dress hugged her curves, cascading to the deck. She locked her dark, brown eyes with his, and he was certain she could see straight into his soul. She idly twisted a section of her chestnut hair in her slim fingers before pointing them directly at him.

“You, Markan,” she said, “are as clumsy as a cow.”

She moved past him to lean on the railing, watching as the ship slipped from the wooden dock and into the bay. Venalise turned toward Markan, leaning back against the rail. “You must be more careful. That old relic may be blind and frail, but do not mistake his outward appearance for weakness. Regealth is as powerful a mage as any that has lived. I would know.” She smiled a sly and dangerous smile.

“Do not make him too comfortable,” she continued. “The stronger his body becomes, the faster he will kill you.” She leaned close to Markan. “And he will kill you if he gets a chance.”

Markan waved her off and stood beside her at the rail. Leaning out over the water, he chuckled, “With what? His charm and good looks?” He reached into his pocket and pulled out a silver and leather thong. He held it up, reveling in the look on her face as a large, blue, and green crystalline stone fell from his palm to dangle in front of her. Its weight pulled the leather taut. “I’d like to see how powerful he is without this!”

“Fool!” she spat. In the blink of an eye, she snatched it from the trader’s grasp. “This stone is more powerful than anything you could imagine, and you have it tucked away in your grimy little pocket?” She cradled the crystal in her hands and stepped past him. Without looking back, she hissed, “Keep him below.”

She gazed at it for a moment more, then placed the stone in a pouch belted to her waist. She turned to Markan and dismissed him with a wave of her hand. He left, but not before glancing back over his shoulder to see Venalise caressing the pouch with a smile of satisfaction on her face.

Regealth wrung his hands as he was led down the rocking hallway. His mind raced. The Gate. He had worn the stone for so long; it had played an integral role in what made him who he was — the very thing that kept him alive these many hundred years since its creation. Everything depended on its safe return — his life, the safety of their world, and the very existence of the Travelers.

He heard a door open. “In you go, old man,” a gravelly voice said, and rough hands shoved him inside. He was alone, with only the sound of the turning lock behind him to keep him company. Regealth took a step forward, but as he did, the boat lurched, and he went to his knees. The impact jarred him, and he fell forward onto his chest, his weakened arms useless to break his fall. He lay there, too drained from trying to rise. He took a moment to appreciate the opportunity to rest and allowed his legs to straighten. His captors had kept him in the cramped wooden crate with little opportunity to move. Thus, his body was wracked with cramps and aches.

He did not know how long he lay there on the deck, rolling and swaying as the boat sailed along. He pressed his ear to the wooden boards and noticed the pitch of the waves seeming to deepen — the ship was gliding over deeper water. He closed his cloudy eyes and slowed his breathing, moving his consciousness to its center. He sought to settle his thoughts, to try to find his sight. Drifting through his mind, he gently beckoned for the magic to come forth. It had been so long since he had drawn power from himself that he was unsure if it would still be there or if it had long since atrophied.

He searched for a memory of himself as a young man, drawing upon magical energy. He chose a simple task, like lighting a candle or lifting a spoon. Though, the images were fleeting and always just out of his reach. The effort drained him, and he stifled the urge to give up and sleep; however, there was little choice for him in the matter. His body, old and frail and now without food, rest, and the sustaining power of the Gate, could go no further. He felt himself dissolving into a wash of falling stars as he lost consciousness, rocking into a dreamless sleep.

Venalise sat down at the captain’s desk, still mesmerized by her treasure. The fabled Gate, here in her hands — hands that trembled in anticipation. She turned the stone repeatedly, watching the lantern light shine in the blue-green facets.

“Wrought from the sea and stars,” she whispered, transfixed. She closed her eyes now and clutched the stone to her breast. For a brief moment, she considered attempting to reach out to the power of the Gate, but she pulled it from her chest, withdrawing her efforts. She must be careful. Regealth created this talisman, and she was unsure which element Regealth was affiliated with. Should she not share his affinity, the incongruence alone could permanently dampen her abilities.

Venalise hesitantly opened her hand and lay the Gate in a heavy silver locket on the desk, lined with rowan bark. She closed the locket and gently placed its silver chain around her neck. She sat back in her chair, resting her hand on the ornament’s decoration — a little jeweled acorn over her heart. It would take time, but her patience was a small investment that would yield such significant and glorious results if she were successful and her employer got what he desired.

A knock at the door snapped her from her reverie.

“Who is it?” she snapped crossly.

“Ma’am, your tea?” A tiny, thin voice came from behind the door.

“Come!” Venalise barked. She heard the shuffling of feet, and the door creaked open. A youth who looked no older than seven entered the room awkwardly, carrying a tray that held a broken teapot, mismatched cup, saucer, and biscuit. The woman gestured to the child to put the tray on the table. Venalise glanced back at the tray and noticed a small paper flower lying on the saucer. The mage looked back to the child, who wore a hopeful expression. “What is your name, child?” Venalise asked.

“S-Sam.”

“Well, Sam, do you have so much free time that you can play with paper dolls?” She smiled at the child, whose faint smile slowly melted away. The child said nothing but began to back toward the door.

“Because you are idle,” Venalise continued, her sweetness tinged with venom, “you can clean the floors of all the cabins. I want them done by dark!”

The ragged youth stifled a gasp, nodded once in understanding, and ran into a figure who appeared at the open doorway in their haste to flee the room. Venalise chuckled.

“And how can I help you, Master Omman?” She turned her attention to the man at her door, her feigned amusement fading.

The ship’s captain, Omman Ehia, was a tiny man, but he made up for what he lacked in stature with presence. An Eztradian ship captain by trade, his time on the sea had made him hard and demanding. He was not an unintelligent man, either. The child darted past him and out of the cabin.

“You know, he’s just a child—”

“Do not,” Venalise chided, “proceed to lecture me!”

The captain smirked at her, unafraid.

“My Lady,” he said, “I merely suggested you not waste your time on such a small thing.” He did not break eye contact with the powerful mage.

Venalise, unused to challenge, felt her temper flare but thought better of herself and calmed. She rose gracefully and took the few steps that led her just to Omman.

“My good Captain,” her tone resonated with a haughty air, “I would advise you not meddle in my affairs.”

The captain smiled again. He studied the woman for a moment. “My Lady.” His smile did not fade, but there was a steely strength beneath his mask of civility. He continued. “I would advise you to remember that we ride upon the water, and I am the only one fit to guide this vessel where she has been paid to go. I am sure you understand the importance of hierarchy, and on this ship, when we are at sea, my word is law.”

He tilted his head and smirked again, “That is, unless you are a water mage.”

Venalise seethed inside. She was powerless on the water, and he knew it. Her strength came from the rocks and the metal of the land; without it, she was just a mage with little more than parlor tricks. The route over the water was an unfortunate necessity, and Captain Ehia was well aware of his unique position. She gathered her composure and strode back to the desk.

“You have matters well in hand, good captain,” she said through clenched teeth.

He smiled at her and bowed. “Then I shall return to my post and allow you to rest.”

Venalise slammed her fists on the wooden tabletop as he shut the door. Idiot! She mustn’t allow her temper to get the better of her. Not here. Not where she was cut off from the source of her power. She sat and toyed with the locket. They should be on the water for no more than three days. Three days, and she would be back on solid ground — where there would be no doubt as to who was in charge.