Forge of the High Mage, page 19
part #4 of Path to Ascendancy Series
‘Admiral.’
‘Hardly.’ He jerked a nod to the cabin. ‘He’s in there.’
She padded past him and he chose to follow. She knocked and a muted voice murmured some objection within; she pushed open the door regardless. Cartheron followed.
Kellanved swept his feet from the desk within and quickly stood. ‘Nightchill! Greetings.’ He gestured to a chair. ‘Do have a seat.’
She did not answer this; nor did she sit. Cartheron pushed the door shut behind him. Kellanved went to a sideboard of decanters. ‘Wine? Liqueur?’
‘I bring news of the expeditionary force.’
The Emperor was studying a tall decanter. ‘Yes, of course,’ he answered distractedly.
‘It is delayed.’
‘Oh?’
‘We met local inhabitants. Hostile. But we have dealt with them.’
The Dal Hon elder nodded, half-listening. ‘Good, good.’
She crossed her arms. ‘However, we have also encountered an enclave of K’Chain Che’Malle.’
Kellanved fumbled among the decanters, knocking several over. ‘What?’
At the door, Cartheron stiffened, his breath catching.
‘You did not know?’ she observed, surprised. ‘You have been complacent.’
Straightening his shirt and vest, Kellanved moved to the desk. ‘Not my speciality, that.’ He leaned against the desk. ‘Do tell me all about it.’
‘The cadre are in agreement that a large Che’Malle enclave, a city or nest, lies at the centre of the wastelands. The expeditionary force is advancing towards it.’
The Emperor was nodding to himself. ‘The Mountain of Gold,’ he murmured.
‘Of legend,’ she agreed.
‘And so?’
The woman crossed her slim arms. ‘And so we expect a delay.’
Cartheron couldn’t help himself; he muttered: ‘Rather an understatement.’
Kellanved pressed a hand to his brow. ‘Funny – I was about to say the same thing. We too have had our delays.’ He sighed. ‘Nothing ever goes as planned – as is well known.’ He dragged the hand down his face. ‘So, we are to hold back, then? Is that what you are getting to in your rather roundabout way?’
The sorceress raised her thin shoulders. ‘That is for you to decide.’
Kellanved pinched his chin, obviously displeased by the vague response. ‘Thank you, High Mage, for your advice.’
Bowing very sketchily, the woman turned on her heels and headed to the door. Cartheron hurriedly moved out of her way.
‘Do keep in touch,’ Kellanved called, just as she reached for the latch.
Pausing, she tilted her head in acknowledgement, and exited.
Into the silence following, Cartheron let out a long breath, murmuring, ‘K’Chain Che’Malle …’
Kellanved waved a dismissal. ‘Nothing to us. I do hope Dujek is wise enough to just go around.’
‘That may not be possible.’
The Emperor now pressed both hands to his temples. ‘This is not what I wanted at all. Are the gods just playing with us?’
Cartheron decided the Emperor was being rhetorical.
Stabbing out a finger, Kellanved ordered, ‘Have the fleet shelter on the coast. Send out search parties for water and food and such. You know what to do.’
Cartheron nodded his understanding. ‘I see. Hold back. Well, for a time, anyway …’
Kellanved slumped into his chair. ‘Yes. For a time.’
‘Very good.’ Bowing, Cartheron exited. Outside, on deck, he shook his head in disbelief. K’Chain Che’Malle! Well, better Dujek than he! Not that he’d wish anything like that upon the commander; he rather liked the gruff fellow. For his own command, he decided that tomorrow morning, with the dawn, he’d relay the new sailing orders. With that in mind, he went to find the sailing-master – the Twisted would have to approach from the east …
* * *
Gianna’s unease did not fade away. In fact it grew. Over the next few days she became convinced that they were not travelling east, as the brother and sister had told her, they were actually travelling south.
She knew this, for a priestess of Mael and mage of Ruse knows the seas – knows their character, their moods, their sounds and their nature. Her instincts told her they were travelling Lure Sea when they should be crossing Old Guando Sea.
At first she tapped lightly upon the barrier of her hiding place, hoping Jan or her brother would answer. With no answer for two days she began banging. Soon after this a voice – Jan – called to her from beyond: ‘Quiet, lass! You must remain hidden, yes?’
‘Jan! Thank Mael. Tell me … why are we going south?’
The old washerwoman laughed. ‘South? Ridiculous, child. We are headed east.’
‘No we’re not. I can tell.’
‘Really? And how can you tell hidden away in there? Can you see? You are being foolish. Now be quiet.’
‘Jan … Jan!’ No answer. She had gone. Gianna pressed her forehead to the wood. Gods and daemons, what was she to do? She wasn’t strong enough to force this barrier. What was going on? Were they headed south or not? She was beginning to doubt herself.
But no. She knew the sea. It was in her blood. She was right.
She glanced up to the cracks between the thick wood timbers of the ceiling. It seemed to her now certain that the brother had lied. No daylight had, or would, seep down to her. Her instincts told her it was night in any case. She’d wait for the day. She might not be physically strong enough to force this issue, but she was perhaps strong enough in another way.
She lay back to try to sleep for a time; she’d need all that strength tomorrow.
When next she opened her eyes she felt she might have slept, but she wasn’t sure. Her dreams had been troubled of late. Perhaps she’d dozed. In any case it was time – no more delaying.
She sat up, crossed her legs, and readied herself to summon her Ruse Warren.
At first nothing happened and she wondered if perhaps it had been too long. But soon enough she started to sense the depths beneath her and felt as if she were inhabiting those limitless leagues rather than the pathetically tiny wooden construct that floated upon its thin surface.
Bringing her Warren to bear, she began to squeeze that poor little box of wood.
Groans and creaking sounded all about her; she kept up the pressure, intensified it. Poppings and crackings burst out now, as if planks were snapping.
Water came swirling round her legs, rose past her lap. Still she pressed. Only then did it come to her that she was imprisoned – her hope was that with her Warren she’d be able to somehow break her way out.
Frantic banging penetrated her concentration. Someone yelling. She raised her head, grunted through clenched teeth: ‘Yes?’
‘Stop this!’ It was Jan. ‘What idiocy is this?’
‘Get me out!’
‘Don’t worry, child.’
‘I mean it! We’ll all go to the bottom!’
Silence for a time. The water churning around Gianna reached her stomach.
Then came a snarled, ‘Very well!’
Creaking sounded, wood snapping, then the small barrier was pulled away.
Gianna slowly relaxed her concentration; the groaning of the stressed planks eased. Water, however, continued seeping in through sprung seams.
Gianna pushed herself out through the small opening. Rising, she found Jan and her brother facing her – from a respectful distance. She also noted the auras of raised Warrens shimmering about them both.
‘You are mages,’ she observed, startled.
‘As are you,’ Jan answered, rather resentfully.
‘What is this then?’
A shrug from the woman. ‘As we promised. We are helping you escape.’
‘Escape to where and to what?’
Neither answered that. Jan sighed, ‘What do you want?’
‘I want to be on deck.’
The siblings exchanged glances. The brother said, ‘There’s no getting away, you know. There’s no land in sight. Nowhere to go.’
Gianna struggled to keep her expression flat. ‘Please. I’m suffocating in there.’
‘Fine,’ Jan growled. ‘But we’re both watching you. Don’t do anything foolish.’
‘Thank you.’
The siblings parted, backing away to leave room for her to reach the steep stairway-cum-ladder. She climbed to the deck to find that the brother and sister hadn’t been lying: they had crossed through Lure Sea – perhaps into the southern passage.
She was also surprised to find the sailors of the vessel simply continuing about their duties: giving her wary glances, but otherwise ignoring her. Bought – the entire crew – bought. This must have taken far more than the pitiful sum her trinkets could have come to.
She turned to face the siblings. ‘So. Where are we headed?’
‘Never you mind that,’ the brother grumbled. ‘You’re on deck, right? So sit and don’t cause any more trouble.’
‘I think not.’
Both of the siblings’ Warrens blazed to light at their hands. Jan warned, ‘Do not challenge us, child.’
‘Who said anything about a challenge?’ And she turned and dived over the side.
Flames roared about her even as she slipped into the welcoming embrace of the cool waters. She sent a great wash behind, rising over the vessel in a wave, and swam as hard as she could for the bottom.
On board the ship, Janul and Janelle and the sailors picked themselves up from the water still swilling about the deck – all had been hammered flat by the gigantic wave. Janelle lunged to the side to search the waves. ‘Dammit to Hood!’
Janul joined her. He pushed back his sodden hair, let out a long grating snarl. ‘Teach us to try to kidnap a mage of Ruse at sea. I told you we should’ve taken her into the Warren.’
‘The moment we did that we’d have had a battle on our hands,’ Janelle answered. She waved at the waters all about. ‘And she has the advantage.’
Janul grunted his sour agreement. ‘Now what?’
‘We return. Our mission remains.’
He nodded. ‘Yes. Lower profile, though, hey?’
‘Yes. Lower profile.’ She continued studying the waves, and after a time she shook her head. ‘Could she really swim all the way to land?’
‘I suppose we’ll find out, won’t we?’
She snorted a short laugh. ‘Yeah. I suppose so.’
Still shaking her head, Janelle went to order the captain to turn around.
*
A touch woke her. She opened her eyes to look into the face of a gaping, staring child who promptly screamed. She fell back into the cold water just gratified to be alive.
Hands gripped her shortly afterwards, carried her from the rocks to a shore of grass. She roused herself enough to gasp, ‘Where? Where am I?’
‘Quiet now,’ a gruff older man said. ‘Rest.’
‘No! Where?’
A reluctant answer of, ‘Big Island. South coast.’
She relaxed then, and allowed herself to fall back into darkness.
Some time later she awoke again on a pallet of straw stuffed into old blankets, inside a small cottage. Probably a fisherman’s. She raised the thin and tattered coverlet to see that her outer clothes had been removed. Peering round she found them laid over a chair before the hearth.
Very slowly, and carefully, she forced herself from the cot, swung her legs down, and straightened. The pain from much abused muscles lanced her, but it was welcome. It meant she was alive. She hobbled to the hearth and dressed.
Outside it was raining in a light mist. The day was overcast, grey; combers sounded nearby striking a shore. Following the sound, she descended a path down a cliff to the strand. Here she found a man hunched over repairing nets next to a small beached dory.
Hearing her approach over the broken rock of the shore he looked up. ‘Ah! With us again I see.’
‘You …?’ she asked.
He nodded. ‘Aye. And my granddaughter. Gave her quite the fright, you did. Thinks you’re one o’ them Mael’s daughters. Them sea-people.’ Gianna’s lips tightened as she remembered her mother’s tales. The fellow’s gaze narrowed upon her. ‘You have the hair,’ he observed.
She reflexively touched her thick black hair. ‘Just a castaway – as you see.’
‘Castaway?’ the fellow repeated, doubtful. ‘No ships pass this coast. Only the Ice Sea beyond.’
‘And the Southern continent,’ she added.
He allowed himself a judicious bob of the head. ‘Aye … so they say.’
She cleared her throat. ‘My thanks. I owe you much.’ He just gave a shrug. ‘So – we’re on the south coast?’
He nodded, ‘Aye. South of Ictor.’
‘I have to go there.’
He shrugged again.
‘I’ll go in the morning … I suppose.’
The fisherman returned to his work. ‘If you must,’ he answered.
She paused here, waiting for more, but the fellow did not look up. She turned her attention to the sea beyond. Somewhere out there she’d jumped ship and remained far below the surface long enough for the vessel to travel some distance. When she’d surfaced it was gone, and, following her Ruse instincts, she’d struck out for the west, sensing that this was the closest landfall.
She believed that was five days ago. By the third day she’d hardly been swimming; drifting, really. Barely staying afloat. She’d been so exhausted and starved she’d passed out when her limbs had finally struck rocks. At the end there she really hadn’t known what had kept her afloat. Her own will? Or was it that she was just so at home in the waters?
Again, her mother’s tales of the true first people of Falar returned to her, and she shivered. Gone. All gone. She returned to the cottage and rested some more.
In the morning she kissed the granddaughter – who could not stop staring at her – on the brow and headed inland up a path that the fisherman said led to a climbing rutted road that itself led to Ictor. Near noon she found what looked like a road – three lines through rising hills that denoted horses or mules leading carts; this she followed north-east. Near dusk she came to a lean-to shelter next to the path she’d been following – she really couldn’t call it a road. A rickety enclosure for any mounts stood next to the hut and she imagined this must be a wayside stop for any travellers. Just how far she was from the civilized centres of Falar couldn’t have been more strongly borne upon her, and the hard-scrabble poverty of the lives she was seeing saddened her.
In the morning she woke on the raised wood cot to see that another traveller had arrived in the night. That she hadn’t woken was a testament to her exhaustion: a two-wheeled cart now rested a short way off while a mule chewed grass in the enclosure.
Rising, she came to the cart to find a young boy asleep across its burden of a tall heap of hay.
‘Morning,’ she offered.
The youth rubbed his eyes and nodded. Without a word he went and grabbed hold of the mule and set it to its harness. He invited her into the cart and she bowed, accepting.
The rest of that day she sat with her feet dangling over the rear wood slats of the cart while hay tickled her arms and neck.
Ictor was small for a Falaran city; more of a frontier outpost, or colony. Its collection of stone and wood buildings descended a slope down the waterfront where vessels rested at anchor. The town seemed to Gianna uncommonly quiet and subdued as she walked the dirt ways. Many of the citizens stopped to stare at her as she passed and, her hand going to her hair, she realized why. Her thick black hair was long now, impossible to hide: a mark of the Old People, the folktale first inhabitants of the isles.
She stepped up onto a pier that led out to boats waiting to load or unload, each tied off at the thick butts of the support timbers. She walked to the very end, the last vessel, where four men and a woman stood watching over a file of sitting children. As she closed, her breath caught and she almost staggered; the youths all bore that same mark: thick black hair, some matted, some luxuriant and long, even curled.
‘What is this?’ she gasped, her voice actually catching.
The four men turned, and she saw their brows rise in surprise as their gazes settled upon her own dirty and unkempt mane. The woman pointed a thick stick, a cudgel, to the file of youths. ‘Don’t make no trouble. One of these yours?’
‘What do you mean is one mine? What’s going on here?’
‘There’s been a new Call, fool,’ one of the burly fellows growled. ‘If none o’ these is yours, then get lost. Ain’t no business of yours.’
Gianna now understood. A Call. The Faith’s ‘recruitment’ of those of the old blood – so-called favoured of Mael. Or, as her mother used to name it: a Cull. ‘There’s been a Call already this year.’
‘Orders of Ortheal Leneth, Proctor of the Faith. Mael has need.’
She crossed her arms. ‘Mael has no such need. Release them.’
The four eyed one another, amused. ‘Early in the day to be so drunk,’ one drawled.
Gianna felt as if her black hair was now standing on end; she sensed the power of her Warren rising, unbidden. The hairs of her neck and arms seemed to be crackling with energy.
‘By my order you will release them,’ she fairly snarled.
More amusement. ‘And you are?’ the woman asked.
Gianna opened her mouth to answer only to snap it shut – perhaps it would be best if she did not reveal that just yet. ‘A citizen of Falar who has no tolerance for slavery … of any kind.’
The burliest of them slipped his cudgel into his hand and waved her off. ‘Just walk away, and maybe we won’t report this to the priests.’
She’d had enough. She swept an arm and a wall of water rose from beside the dock to sweep the four into the sea.
Rising amid the waves, gasping for breath, one growled, ‘You stupid bitch!’ and grabbed hold of the dock edge to climb back up.
Gianna gave a slow pushing gesture and the woman cried out, alarmed, ‘I’m sinking!’
‘Swim away now,’ Gianna called, ‘or drown.’
Reluctantly, cursing her up and down, they swam off. Gianna watched for a time to be certain.
