In the month of the Bear, the fleet located more of the islands from the Soth chart and landed crews to examine them. They did find some signs of human habitation, but it had been years since the villages were populated. On one island they were able to harvest a lot of feral pigs to replenish their supply of fresh meat, and it provided ample feasting for the New Year’s Festival. Even better, the pigs’ presence suggested the sea devils hadn’t visited the islands, which made everyone feel somewhat at ease.
The New Year’s Festival passed without so much as a storm, which they all found welcome yet unusual. No one complained, however, and the Festival carried on with an exchange of gifts among the people of the fleet: nothing extravagant, and all of it the product of labors undertaken in spare minutes here and there. Clothes newly decorated with embroidery were exchanged, serenades were sung for the enjoyment of all, and even the cooks outdid themselves by making the normal fare extraordinary through use of spices that had been hoarded against such a time.
Shimik even provided a present to those on the Stormwolf. Alotia, one of the concubines who had been apprenticed to the Lady of Jet and Jade, spent hours teaching the Fennych a dance. Jorim had not quibbled over her constant requests for the Fenn’s company since she kept him occupied during the dissections. It was only when she dressed the small creature in a blue robe embroidered with golden tigers that he wondered what she’d been doing with him all that time.
The traditional dance, which went by the formal name Chado-ong-dae, was usually performed to greet the new year by a young woman of marriageable age who sought a mate. It had long been seen as dance of seduction, with the lithe and fluid movements reflecting the dancer’s grace and sensuous nature. Jorim had seen it performed a number of times through the years, in a variety of forms, all over the Nine Principalities and beyond.
But never had he seen it done the way Shimik did it. What for a girl were graceful and delicate motions became strong and stalking. Where she was a tigress slipping through the jungle eluding all those save for the mate she chose, Shimik became the hunting tiger. His leaps tucked into rolls from which he emerged with a flash of claw and fang. He became all muscle and sinew, his movements deliberate and menacing, his hunting turns fearsome enough to make sailors scoot back and give him room.
And then, the music and dance would end and his demeanor would shift. He’d run to Alotia and leap into her arms as people cheered. The vestiges of feline nature would vanish into an infantile hug the concubine returned heartily, and growls became delighted coos. The transformation brought another round of applause from the spectators, prompting both performer and teacher to bow most humbly and wish the joy of the Festival to all.
So well received was the performance that Captain Gryst ordered Shimik sent around the fleet to entertain all the ships. Parties from each ship visited the Stormwolf in the wake of his performances. Before the month of the Tiger dawned, Shimik had uniforms from each ship as well as a variety of trinkets with which he filled a wooden box and gleefully pawed whenever foul weather kept him in the cabin.
But where the Festival had given them respite from foul weather and ill omens, the month of the Tiger lived up to its worst potential. Chado, the tiger god, moved through shadows and visited misfortune on those who displeased him. Clouds and fog closed in with the turn of the year, making it all but impossible to discern even the lamps burning fore and aft on the nearest ships.
Information passed between ships through a laborious process of lantern signaling. Not only did it take a long time to pass any messages, but many on the ships could read the signals. Rumors based on these messages abounded, and the last remnants of joy from the Festival evaporated.
The fleet was being stalked.
Everyone knew about the sea devil; there had been no keeping that news quiet. To counteract the fear, the scholars had been charged to try to figure out what the thing actually was. Captain Gryst had labored under the vain hope that someone might have known, thereby ending all speculation. Absent that sort of victory, the plethora of explanations could have split opinions and directed folks away from worrying too much. Unfortunately, the sailors uniformly dismissed any scholarly speculation, assuming that since the sea was their home, they knew best. And what they knew was that the sea devils were nasty and had attacked a ship, hauling the crew away. This meant they would be out there waiting to take the next ship that got careless, and would continue to do so until they were all gone.
Jorim realized that, given the sailors and their opinions, there would have been stories about the fleet being stalked whether or not there was anything to it. While he didn’t want to believe in what they were saying, there was no way the stories couldn’t get into his head. He felt ashamed of falling prey to superstitions, and said as much to Captain Gryst as they sat over a game of chess in her cabin one evening.
She looked up from the board and frowned at him. “I need not lecture you on how strange the ocean can be. If you think about it, water is but a thick fog over an incredible landmass. As the air has birds, so the ocean has fish. What is down below the fish, though, we have no way of knowing—any more than we can determine what is above the clouds. If you think about it just for a moment, you might see that the sea devils have their own empires down there, on the bottom of the ocean, and they have found a way to rise into their sky, to find out what is skimming their clouds. What they have found is us.”
Jorim shifted his shoulders as a chill trickled down his spine. “You don’t actually believe that, do you?”
“Believe? No.” She moved her Master of Shadows. “I would not waste the time or energy believing in that. But I accept it is possible. What I want is an answer, because this not-knowing is harming my crew.”
From somewhere on deck, a voice raised an alarm. Before the two of them had slid their chairs back from the table, Lieutenant Minan opened the door to her cabin. “Begging your pardon, Captain. Green lanterns off the port bow.”
“Out of the way, Lieutenant.” Anaeda pushed past him and led the way to the deck. “Keep to your duties, all of you. Helm, steady the course.”
They raced along the deck and Jorim went down once on an icy patch. He got up and sprinted up the ladder to join the captain in the bow. Cold wind cut at him, but it really didn’t matter because nothing could have warmed him.
Above, a thin crack opened in the clouds and bled silver into the mist. The moon’s light silhouetted a huge ship—one not nearly the length and breadth of the Stormwolf, but equally suited to long voyages over deep ocean. It bore the customary nine masts, but from them hung tattered sheets. Jorim could make out the crest on one of them and knew it to be Naleni, but from a time before Prince Cyron ruled.
One of the older sailors in the bow pointed. “That’s the Wavewolf.”
Jorim’s flesh tightened. “The Wavewolf was lost eighteen years ago. My father was on it.”
“No longer, Master Anturasi.”
The moonlight illuminated the creatures capering on the deck and clinging to the ratlines. Sea devils, each and every one of them. The one they’d found on the Moondragon had been a runt, for these creatures were half again the size of a normal man. The lanterns fore, aft, and hanging from masts burned with a green light that shimmered from scales as creatures spun through dances that had no accompaniment.
A million thoughts rioted through Jorim’s mind. He tried to recall what his father looked like and could not. The image of the man he’d held in his mind had been created from dozens of stories, but they all evaporated as he watched the shadowship keep pace with them. His father had filled how many bellies over there? He couldn’t imagine what he would tell his mother or grandfather, sister or brother. Will I get the chance, or will I feed them as he did?
An urgent tug on his trousers brought him back to reality. He glanced down.
Shimik raised his bow. “Twanga twanga!”
Jorim wondered for a moment how the Fenn had managed to string the bow, but didn’t let that sto
p him from bringing it to hand and pulling an arrow from the quiver Shimik had dragged on deck. He drew, aimed, and let fly.
The arrow disappeared in the darkness. Jorim thought he’d missed his mark, then one of the sea devils spasmed and fell from the rigging. The other sea devils paused in their dancing as he flopped to the deck, then fell on him, clawing and biting. They tore limbs free and several led merry chases over the deck as others sought to steal part of their bounty.
Jorim nocked another arrow, but Anaeda held a hand up. “It will do no good.”
“One more, Captain, please.” Jorim swallowed hard. “For my father?”
She nodded and stood back. He drew and aimed. He held his shot, measuring the distance, letting the ships rise and fall. He let the rhythm move through him, and finally shot.
The arrow hit its mark. A green lantern high on the main mast fell like a streaking star to the main deck. It exploded when it hit, spraying burning oil over the decking and back up the mast. Several of the capering sea devils became spinning torches. They careened over the deck, igniting cable and sail while the ship’s rolling spread the liquid fire further. Another lantern exploded, and another.
Whatever had been propelling the Wavewolf forward stopped. The burning ship fell off the wind and the clouds closed. But even without moonlight, the ship remained visible. It turned broadside to the ocean’s swells, rising and falling. One moment they could see the whole of it ablaze, and the next the masts showed as distant candle flames. And then even the candles went out and the Wavewolf disappeared.
Anaeda Gryst turned to him. “Shall I congratulate you on your shooting?”
Jorim shook his head. “If I thought that was the last we’d see of the sea devils, I would welcome it. I don’t think it is.”
“Nor do I.” She sighed. “In fact, I think it is highly likely that you’ve only made them angrier.”
Chapter Forty-one
3rd day, Month of the Tiger, Year of the Rat
9th Year of Imperial Prince Cyron’s Court
163rd Year of the Komyr Dynasty
737th year since the Cataclysm
Dolosan
The disharmonious nature of Dolosan’s western reaches—including the approaches to Ixyll—disturbed Moraven in ways he had not expected. In his life he had seen many things, but nothing quite matched the Wastes. He found all of it hauntingly familiar, as if he were half-remembering dreams.
The western reaches seemed to be full of places apart from the world. It took them a day to get through a lush valley carpeted with maroon plants that bore massive blue blossoms. The stems and roots throbbed, and none of the horses would eat them or the flowers. Tyressa had picked one blossom, and a whole swath of flowers had snapped shut in a rippling wave. Keles had dug into the ground and, as nearly as any of them could make out, the plants shared a network of roots.
Even more interestingly, the valley began to shift. The land itself moved, deepening the valley and urging them forward. Things never got to the point where they were in danger of being crushed, for the land’s swelling came gently. Moraven just felt as though the valley was nudging them along the way a finger might nudge a caterpillar off a leaf.
He’d looked over at the Viruk trotting alongside them. “This valley can’t possibly be alive.”
“No more so than the gyanrigot, but that does not prevent them from moving.”
Things continued to get more strange, as if each valley or plain had been shaped according to a plan. One meadow they rode through caused Rekarafi to stop dead and just crouch amid the flowers. Moraven wasn’t sure why, but Ciras offered a quiet answer.
“On Tirat there are scrolls. They are very old and on them are pictures of plants that no longer exist.” He looked around. “They look like these.”
The swordmaster rode over to the Viruk. “We can linger here, if you wish.”
“And allow me to wallow in a past that will never return?”
“Let you refresh memories that once brought you joy.”
Rekarafi looked at him carefully. “Even happy memories hurt. It’s the separation.”
Moraven had ridden off to allow the Viruk some peace. The ancient one’s words had found resonance in him. There was something about the Wastes he did not like. He wanted to ascribe it to constantly feeling the tingle of magic, but that had never been an unpleasant experience before. Still, he was so used to controlling magic that the sensation had him constantly on guard, and that did wear him down.
But as unsettling as he found the land of wild magic, Ciras clearly found it more so, and this bothered Moraven. He had not been as young as Ciras when he first felt the tingle of jaedunto, and had been more fortunate in having had training in a variety of schools prior to that. He couldn’t remember that training, but it had existed and Master Jatan’s instruction brought the skills back to him, even if he could not recover the memories.
The serrian experience had given him discipline and had trained him how to evaluate experiences so he could learn from them. This he had done immediately, and learned how to expand his access to the magic of swordsmanship. Phoyn Jatan had recognized his potential and position. He also took measure of Moraven’s maturity and explained very simply that he was at a crossroads in his life. If he were to view jaedunto as power, as some sort of right that allowed him to do as he willed, the power would twist him. Though he would live for generation after generation, his existence would be an eternity of torment. He would never know peace.
Taking to heart Master Jatan’s teaching, Moraven slowly learned how to harness his power. His lessons did come slowly, however, mastered only over time. He could never forget the haunted look in the eyes of young Matut when he’d slaughtered bandits without a thought on the road to Moriande. From that day forward, if it were possible to avoid combat, he did. If it were possible to avoid killing, he did. Where he had to kill, he made it clean and quick.
Ciras had not yet reached the point where he could separate the desire to perfect his skill from the consequences of employing that skill. Ciras did argue that the slaying of ruffians in Asath really mattered little and, in fact, had been necessary to prevent any alarm about Keles’ escape. Moraven agreed with both points. Had he not agreed with the latter, he would not have slain those he faced. The former point, however, was not as clear-cut. While the death of a ruffian had limited consequences—grief to those who loved him being the most likely—that view failed to take into account the effect on the swordsman.
Moraven could not remember every person he’d ever slain, and believed the peace of jaedunto insulated him from many of those memories. It did not save him from all of them, however. He’d killed in battles, in roadside encounters, and in duels. He recalled how it felt when a sword stroked a belly open, or the scream when a limb parted company with the body. Each time he took a life, it weighed his spirit down. In realizing my full potential, I block others from realizing theirs.
Moraven was fully aware that one school of thought about jaedunto suggested this was entirely necessary. It suggested that the way one reached that lofty position was by assuming the potential of those slain along the way. The obvious contradiction of this was a skilled cobbler whose skill slew no one, yet grew daily and carried him ever closer to jaedunto. Perhaps there was more than one path to jaedunto, or just that with each masterpiece made, someone else was robbed of the chance to have created it.
Regardless of the theoretical source of the power, hard work, discipline, and patience were all seen as vital. In their wanderings, Ciras Dejote had developed a certain impatience which, while it had not yet entered the realm of swordplay, did bring with it a disturbing contempt. He had no use for Borosan Gryst and his gyanrigot. While Moraven had been impressed with the Naleni’s skill at creating and re-creating the devices, Ciras harped on how quickly they broke, or how other, more simple methods could accomplish what they did.
Moraven had tried to deflect Ciras by giving him a simple duty. In their survey they cut across
signs of a bandit company scouring the landscape. They found evidence of raids at several small encampments. Thaumston prospectors had been murdered and any store of the precious mineral stolen. Likewise they’d discovered a number of small tombs—things from ancient cairns to tiny caves that had been walled shut—which had been opened and the contents rifled.
To Ciras fell the duty of recording all evidence of the band’s predation. This kept him focused. The idea of meeting and dealing with cutthroats, murderers, and defilers of the dead fueled him. It sharpened his powers of observation and even sparked his imagination. He watched the tracks so closely he could identify individuals based on their horses and footprints. He gave them names and would report back on their current states of existence.
Unfortunately, this duty also fed his impatience. Whenever they would find fresh tracks, he would want to set off immediately in pursuit. Moraven always forbade it, citing the need to help Keles. Ciras argued that their mission from Master Jatan demanded they intercept the raiders and should take precedence. Moraven reminded him that the mission had been given to him, not Ciras, and he would decide when the time to strike was at hand.
Finally, they had run across tracks that told a story that required investigation. Moving through lowlands, they came to a canyon splitting the face of an escarpment. The bandits had ridden into it, then most of them had come back and continued along the escarpment toward the northeast. Yet three of them had not returned, and Moraven found his curiosity piqued.
He chose to ride in the lead and studied the rock walls rising up so high the sky became but a thin ribbon of blue. He saw no one up there, nor any signs of climbing, but he remained alert. Moraven was fairly certain that the bandits had no idea they were being trailed, so the chances of their setting up an ambush were minimal—and using only three men to do so was foolish. Assuming, however, that the missing members of the group might be dead meant that something had killed them. Whatever or whoever that was will present a similar threat to us.