Blood of Mystery (12 page)

12.

Captain Magard’s ship was named the
Fate Runner
. Grace couldn’t have thought of a more appropriate name. But were they running from fate, or directly into its arms?

They sailed north through the sparkling waters of the Dawn Sea, the coast always just visible as a hazy green line far off to port. Grace knew it made sense for ships to stay close to the shore. After all, there were no global positioning satellites orbiting Eldh to tell them where they were. Their first day out at sea, she saw Captain Magard use an instrument she supposed was some sort of sextant to measure the angle of the sun. That would give him an idea of their latitude. However, without an accurate clock—something Grace had yet to see on Eldh— there was no way to measure longitude. Sailing away from the shore meant sailing off the edge of the map.

Then again, the Polynesians found Hawaii, and the Vikings made it all the way to Newfoundland in their dragon ships. Perhaps there were other continents on Eldh; perhaps ancient navigators had already discovered them.

That first evening, as the sun touched the sea and set it afire, she decided to ask Captain Magard about it. There wasn’t much else to do. It hadn’t taken long to get settled in their two cramped cabins belowdecks—one for Beltan and Falken, and one for Vani and Grace. While none of them were violently seasick, the other three were made more than a little queasy by the motion of the ship. Beltan and Falken lay on their cots, occasionally groaning like the planks of the hull when the ship struck a particularly large wave. Vani sat cross-legged on the floor of the cabin she shared with Grace, remaining very still.

“I’m meditating,” the Mournish woman said. “A
T’gol
must practice the art of concentration, so that she is never caught unaware.”

Given the greenish tinge to her coppery skin, Vani was concentrating on not vomiting more than anything else. Grace forced herself not to smile as she left the cabin.

Unlike the others, Grace felt no trace of seasickness. The sourness in her stomach that morning had been a result of anxiety rather than the tossing of the ship, and while it wasn’t entirely gone, the feeling had subsided. It would be impossible to turn back now, so there was no use worrying about the journey.

It was obvious her legs were going to take longer to adjust than her stomach. Just walking on the deck without toppling over the rail was a challenge, and she held on to everything in her reach as she inched along.

She found Magard on the aft deck, leaning against the rail and watching the ship’s swirling wake. She hadn’t been formally introduced to the captain—there had been no time in the bustle of leaving port—but Falken had spoken well of him.

“Excuse me.” She searched for something polite to say but found nothing and so decided to dive in. “I was wondering— are there lands on Eldh beside those of Falengarth?”

The captain turned around. His skin was creased like old leather, but his eyes were bright as a gull’s. With them, he seemed to size her up in a single look.

“There’s Moringarth to the south,” he said after moment. “But, save for the sultanates of al-Amún on the north coast, it’s nothing but a blasted desert and fit for no man. Then there’s Toringarth to the north, but the stories say it’s mostly ice. The Black Bard tells me that’s where you’re headed.” Magard rubbed his chin with a hand that bore only four fingers. “Though, by the salt of my blood, I can’t fathom why you’d want to go there.”

Grace decided it was easier not to reply to that. “Are there any other lands?”

“None I know of. My men think if you sailed too far east, you’d sail right off the edge of the world. But you know what I think, my girl?” His eyes crinkled as he grinned. “I think if you sailed far enough, you’d hit Falengarth again—only the west coast, not the east.”

Grace returned his smile. “I think you might just be right, Captain.”

“Now you’re humoring me. It’s a mad idea. But I’ll have to write it down someday, when I’m too old to sail anymore and have to spend my days in a tavern near the sea, sitting by a fire with a cup of spiced wine in my hand.”

“I think you should,” Grace said, and she meant it.

Magard turned, gazing across the ocean. The first stars were just coming out. “It’s said there’s a whole kingdom there, in the far west of Falengarth.”

A cool night wind sprang up off the ocean. Grace crossed her arms, shivering. “What kind of kingdom?”

Magard shrugged. “Who can say? It would be a fool’s errand to try to get there overland. They say the way was open once, but if it was, it’s closed again long since. Now there’s only the Great Western Wood, which goes on for a thousand leagues. And there are queer things in the woods, if you believe the tales. Old things. Yet if you journey all the way west, some say you’ll find a kingdom where the streets are paved with silver, and children play with baubles made of gold and jewels. If I could find a way to sail there and start a trade route, I’d be...”

His words trailed off in a sigh. For a time they watched the sea change from copper to smoky amethyst.

“I hope you do,” Grace said softly. “Find a way to your golden kingdom someday.”

Magard’s teeth flashed in the darkness. “And what would I do with a kingdom full of silver and jewels? I have all I need right here.”

He gestured to the sea. The reflection of countless stars danced on its surface, like diamonds on black silk. Grace smiled, then turned to stumble her way back to her cabin.

The days that followed were peaceful if not quite pleasant, although in their utter sameness one blurred into the next.

Grace rose early each morning. Not that there was anything for her to do. It was just that, between the rolling of the ship and the constant scrabbling of rats in the hull, sleep was a near impossibility. This fact didn’t seem to keep Falken and Beltan from spending most of their time lying in their cabin—but both rose quickly enough and scrambled abovedecks when the sound of the horn announced the distribution of the daily ration of ale.

In addition to a generous dipper of ale, every day Magard gave each person on the ship a half of a lemon to eat. It seemed the captain was familiar with both the perils and prevention of scurvy. Grace made sure the others ate every bit of their lemons, although Beltan made such horrible faces one might have thought he was eating a handful of alum.

Meals were served twice daily and consisted mostly of hard-tack and salt pork; Grace couldn’t help but wonder if that didn’t have something to do with all the vomiting. Not all of Magard’s crewmen were immune to seasickness, as she would have thought. When the smell became too much, Grace would stand in the cargo hold and breathe in the fragrance rising from the crates filled with spices, letting the aromatic scent clear her head until she felt ready to venture forth again.

Despite the fact that they shared a cabin, Grace spoke little with Vani. The Mournish woman appeared and vanished without warning. Magard’s ship wasn’t large; it had only two masts and was not much more than a hundred feet from stem to stern. All the same, Vani could disappear for hours on end, and one day Grace didn’t catch a glimpse of her at all between dawn and dusk.

Often when Grace did see her, Vani was perched precariously high in the rigging of the ship, shading her eyes with a hand, peering into the distance. Once Grace witnessed her balancing on a single foot on the very top of the aft mast, bending and swaying with the motion of the ship almost as if she were dancing. This feat elicited oaths and wide-eyed looks of awe from Magard’s crew, and after that the men would stare at Vani whenever she passed. However, the assassin seemed not to notice them.

The rare times Grace found Vani in the cabin, the Mournish woman was usually meditating, legs crossed, hands on knees, gold eyes half-lidded. Despite her relaxed position, Grace knew Vani was aware of everything around her and could leap into action in the space between two heartbeats.

As she did one day when Grace stepped into the cabin. The sea was particularly rough that day, and Grace had decided to give up trying to stay upright on deck. The roaring of the waves must have kept the sound of her stumbling even from Vani’s keen ears, for when she stepped through the cabin’s portal, Vani did not look up from her position on the floor. Then Grace saw the single
T’hot
card before her. On the card was the picture of a man. He had piercing gray eyes and was surrounded by blue rays of light.

“Vani...” Grace said.

In a motion faster than eyes could comprehend, Vani stood. “The weather grows worse?” she said tersely. The card was nowhere to be seen.

Grace nodded. She searched for something to say, but Vani brushed past her.

“I’ll keep a lookout for rocks and reefs.”

Once again Grace wondered why Vani had come with them on this journey. Was it really her fate, as she said? Or had it simply been her choice?

Whatever the cards say, she wants to find Travis. Just as
much as you do, Grace. Just as much as Beltan does.

She couldn’t help laughing at the absurdity of it all. For the slightly bumbling owner of a bar in a small Colorado mountain town, Travis certainly had a way of making others interested in him. The Pale King, Duratek, the Seekers, Trifkin Mossberry and the Little People, the dragon Sfithrisir, the Witches, Melia and Falken, Vani, and of course Beltan—all of them had shown a keen interest in Travis at one point or another.

It was the following day when Grace finally understood the reason for Vani’s frequent disappearing act ever since they had boarded the
Fate Runner
. After the previous day’s choppiness, the sea was unusually calm and glassy—so much so that even Falken and Beltan ventured abovedecks without the lure of ale. Craving fresh air, Grace accompanied them.

They rounded the foremast and nearly ran into Vani. The Mournish woman leaned against the mast, head bent. Grace caught a flash of color in Vani’s hands. Then the assassin looked up, and whatever she had been holding was gone.

“There you are, Vani,” Falken said. “Grace told us about your little balancing act.” He touched the mast. “You weren’t planning a repeat performance, were you? I was sorry I missed the display.”

Vani’s cheeks darkened, and she did not meet the bard’s eyes. “It was not a display. One must ever practice to keep one’s body and abilities honed. As a musician, I know you do the same. As should others.”

Now her gold eyes flickered in Beltan’s direction, focusing on his midsection. This time it was the blond knight’s face that flushed. Beltan was strongly built, and his health had been restored by the magic of the fairy, but no one would ever describe him as having a perfect physique. His limbs were long and rangy, and his old ale belly had begun to make something of a resurgence during their weeks at the villa outside Tarras.

Failing utterly to make the action in any way surreptitious, Beltan sucked in his gut. “I’ve had enough practice in my life. I think I’ll stick to my instincts.”

Vani cocked her head. “And just how good are those instincts of yours?”

Beltan opened his mouth to reply, but Vani was gone. A fraction of a second later, a shadow stepped out of thin air directly behind the knight. Like black serpents, lean arms coiled around his head.

“One twist is all it would take to snap your neck,” she said with a sharp smile. “You may be larger and stronger, but if I had wished it, you would be dead.”

Beltan grunted. “Maybe so. But then, at least I would have had some company on my way to the grave.”

Only then did Grace see the knife in his right hand. The blade was aimed back, its tip less than an inch from Vani’s abdomen. Grace calculated the angle of the knife and visualized the anatomy.

He knew what he was doing, Grace. The knife would pierce
the descending aorta. She’d be dead in minutes. There’d be
nothing you could do.

“All right you two,” Falken said with a scowl. “This really isn’t the time or place to show each other up.”

Vani’s eyes narrowed to slits. “No. This isn’t.”

The air folded in on itself, and Vani was gone.

Beltan rubbed his neck. “Maybe this time she won’t bother to reappear again.” The knight stalked away.

That was when it struck Grace.
That’s why Vani’s been staying out of sight. She’s been avoiding Beltan. But why come on
this journey if she dislikes him so much?

The answer to that was obvious. Both of them loved Travis. And nothing fueled suspicion like jealousy. The fact that Travis wasn’t there—that they might very well never see him again— only seemed to make things worse.

Grace sighed. She didn’t have the energy for this. The journey was going to be hard enough without having to worry about keeping Beltan and Vani from one another’s throats. And on this cramped ship, it was impossible they wouldn’t run into each other again.

Falken must have sensed her thoughts. He took her arm. “Come on, Your Majesty. Let’s get our daily ale and head to the aft deck. I’ve heard there are no Calavaner knights or Mournish assassins allowed there.”

Grace gripped the bard’s arm. “Sounds wonderful.”

13.

Two days later they docked at the port of Galspeth in Perridon.

Galspeth was a small city at the mouth of the River Serpentstail—and, according to Magard, the last navigable harbor until Omberfell far to the north. After more than a week aboard the cramped vessel, Grace was glad to get off the ship and stretch her legs on a surface that didn’t move. It would take Magard a full day to unload and sell his cargo of spices. Since the
Fate Runner
wouldn’t leave port again until the next day, the four of them would need to find a place where they could stay.

They made their way from the docks into the cramped and crooked streets of the burgh. Galspeth was wedged into a narrow valley; an imposing gray castle perched above it on a crag. The wind rushing down the valley was cold and sliced through her thin gown, designed for gentler, southern climes. Her shivering didn’t go unnoticed.

“We’d better find some new clothes,” Falken said. “Things are going to get colder the farther we go north.”

Beltan slapped his stomach. “Some ale in our bellies would warm us up.”

“How interesting,” Vani said, raising an eyebrow. “I have heard the seals that swim these northern waters grow thick layers of blubber to insulate themselves from the cold. It looks as if you are well on your way to emulating them.”

Beltan’s cheerful expression turned into a glower. Grace sighed and interposed herself between the knight and the assassin. Something told her Falken was right—things were going to get much colder indeed.

They made their way farther into the city. After the relative cleanliness of Tarras—a city that had happily known about sewers for centuries—Grace had forgotten just how filthy the medieval towns of the Dominions could be. The half-timbered shops and homes looked sturdy, but they were stained with soot, and lichen splotched their slate roofs. Dark water ran down the cobbled streets—where it didn’t freeze into black lumps—and even the cold wind couldn’t keep down the stench.

The people looked like those Grace had seen in other towns in the Dominions: small, gnarled, toothless—old before their time. They wore heavy clothes of smoky colors, although some seemed clad in nothing but rags. Grace saw dozens of small children running about barefoot, their shins covered with oozing chilblains. Why didn’t their parents buy shoes for them?

Maybe because they don’t have parents, Grace.

A band of children approached, eyes and cheeks hollow, holding out their hands. Grace fumbled for the fat leather purse full of coins Emperor Ephesian had given her. However, Beltan was faster. He pressed a small silver piece into each child’s hand, and without a word or smile they ran off.

“Galspeth is a bit dirtier than I remember,” the blond man said, watching the children go.

Falken nodded. “Of all the Dominions, Perridon was the hardest hit by the Burning Plague. Who knows how many people died?”

Of course—that was why there were so many orphans.

“It will probably take Queen Inara a good while to get the Dominion back in working order,” Falken said. “But I’m sure she’s up to the task.”

Grace would have liked to have seen the young queen again, along with her spy, the Spider Aldeth. Castle Spardis wasn’t far from there—no more than twenty leagues upriver according to a map Captain Magard had shown her. However, Grace knew there wasn’t time for a visit. It could take some time to find a ship in Omberfell willing to bear them across the Winter Sea. Then, whether or not they found the shards of Fellring in Toringarth—and Grace wasn’t entirely certain she hoped they would—they would have to make haste to the Black Tower to reach it by Midwinter.

They found a shop that sold a variety of clothes. The owner was a jovial man who looked as if he had decided to emulate seals as well—only with far more success than Beltan. He could barely navigate the cramped store as he chose woolen tunics, thick pairs of hose, leather gloves, and winter cloaks for the men.

Vani refused any new garb—she seemed quite attached to her tight-fitting leathers—but she did acquiesce to a supple, finely woven black cloak. For Grace, the shopkeeper chose a wool gown with accompanying undergarments, as well as a hooded cape lined with silver fox fur.

“You men can change over there,” the shopkeeper said, gesturing to a wooden screen in the corner. “And you, my lady, may don your new attire in here.” He opened the door to a small room. “I’ll send Esolda to assist you.”

Before Grace could say she didn’t really need help, the shopkeeper looked around, then bellowed. “Esolda? Where are you, you wretched girl? Show yourself now!” He glanced at Grace. “If she wasn’t the daughter of my beloved sister, who walks this world no more, I would have turned her out into the streets to beg with the other urchins. I don’t know what happened to her, my lady. She used to be a good lass, but lately she grows more lazy and surly by the day. Esolda!”

Presently a young woman whom Grace presumed to be Esolda appeared from behind a curtain. Grace didn’t think she looked so much surly as she did simple. She wore a drab gray dress, and the dingy bonnet that covered her hair was pulled all the way down to her eyebrows.

“Well don’t just stand there, girl. Help the lady on with her things!”

Esolda trudged after Grace into the side room. She held Grace’s new clothes, staring blankly, while Grace turned around and shrugged off her Tarrasian gown.

“I’m ready now,” Grace said, teeth chattering. There was no fire in this room. “Esolda, my undergarments, please.”

No response. Grace turned around.

The young woman didn’t move, save to blink dull brown eyes. “That’s an ugly necklace,” she said in a thickly accented voice. “It’s not a jewel at all.”

Grace reached up and gripped the cold shard of steel at her throat. She smiled, hoping that might make the girl more comfortable—and responsive. “No, I suppose it isn’t. I’m told it used to be part of a sword.”

Esolda chewed her lip, as if trying hard to comprehend what Grace had said. “A sword isn’t a jewel,” she said at last. “You shouldn’t wear that. He doesn’t like it when you do odd things. Things no one else does. I’ll tell him.”

Grace stared, the cold seeping into her bones. “Who will you tell?”

The girl spoke faster, as if excited, although her eyes remained expressionless. “Once I spied in a window and saw a man putting his thing in another man’s bum just like it was a woman’s locket. I told him about it, and he took the men away and chopped them to bits. I didn’t want him to chop them up. But you can’t do things others don’t do. And the blood...” She gasped, and a shudder coursed through her thin body. “I’ve never seen anything so red in all my life.”

If Grace had been in the ED just then, she would have called for a psych consult; the young woman seemed to be suffering from some sort of emotional trauma. The shopkeeper—her uncle—said her parents were dead. Had she watched them die from the Burning Plague? Clearly she was suffering from delusions. But who was the man she was talking about, the one she claimed to have told about what she saw? Was it her uncle?

It was too cold to think. Grace snatched the undergarments from Esolda and hastily shrugged them on. The young woman simply stood there, so Grace took the gown from her and donned that as well. When she had everything adjusted, she stepped through the door into the shop. Falken had just finished counting coins into the shopkeeper’s hand.

“What took you so long?” Beltan said.

“Nothing,” Grace said. “I was confused by all the straps, that’s all.”

She glanced over her shoulder. The door was ajar, and through the gap she glimpsed a pair of brown eyes gazing at her. While before they had been dull, now there was a dim spark of light in them.

Grace wrapped the fox fur cloak around herself. “Come on. Let’s get out of here.”

Newly protected against the bitter chill, they stepped outside and made their way through the streets to an inn the shopkeeper had recommended.

As they approached the door of the inn, Falken hefted his purse. There wasn’t much jingle to it. “I should have robbed more from Melia’s stash in Tarras. That woman has more gold than she knows what to do with. And our clothes were more expensive than I thought.”

Grace pulled out the purse Ephesian had given her. “Here, take this.” She plunked the fat purse into Falken’s hand. “I believe it’s my turn to pay.”

Beltan grinned. “The drinks are on Her Majesty tonight.” The next morning, Grace woke in the ghostly light before dawn. Shivering, she rose, crept to the room’s fireplace, and stirred up the coals. There was no sign of Vani; her bed appeared untouched.

After Grace dressed, she knocked on the door to Falken and Beltan’s room. The bard answered. “Sorry,” he whispered, “it’s a slow morning. Someone had a bit too much ale last night.”

“Quit shouting!” came Beltan’s groan from beneath a heap of blankets.

Grace couldn’t help smiling. “I think he definitely made some progress on the blubber layer.”

“Indeed,” Falken said.

“I heard that!” came the wounded reply from beneath the blankets.

Two hours—and many cups of
maddok
—later they reached Galspeth’s docks to find the
Fate Runner
nearly ready to depart. There had been no sign of Vani at the inn, but as they approached the ship she stepped from the shadows of an alley.

“Do you really have to do that all the time?” Beltan said with a scowl.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” the Mournish woman said crisply.

“Where were you?” Falken said.

Vani glanced back over her shoulder. “Watching. There is something...wrong in this town.”

Despite her warm new garb, Grace felt a needle of cold pierce her heart. “What do you mean, Vani?”

“I’m not certain. It’s a shadow on the people. A shadow of fear.”

Grace wrapped her new cape around herself and thought of the strange words spoken by the clothier’s niece.
He doesn’t
like it when you do odd things.
However, before she could tell the others about her encounter, a rough croak echoed over the street. Grace looked up to see a dark form on a nearby rooftop, perched atop a weathervane. As she watched, the shadow sprang into the sky, spread dark wings, and was gone.

Beltan let out a snort. “The only thing wrong with this town is that we’re still in it. Let’s get going before Magard sails without us.”

Hefting their bags, Beltan started up the gangplank. The others followed, and Grace couldn’t say she was sorry to leave the grim town behind.

They left port just as a gray mist poured down the valley. The fog chased them out of the harbor, but soon they outpaced it. The fog seemed to cling close to the shore, and did not extend out into the open sea.

“Anxious to go north, are you?” Magard said to Grace that first evening when he found her at the prow of the ship, gazing into the distance.

Under her cloak, she gripped her necklace. “I’m dreading it.”

The captain nodded, his dark eyes serious. “Best to get it over with swiftly then.”

Grace could find no reply for that. The captain left her to see to his men. The ship bore only a small crew now that it wasn’t laden with cargo. Before, when Grace was abovedecks, she had heard a constant din of bawdy jokes and cheerful, raucous songs. Now all she heard was the wind through the ropes. It made the empty ocean seem even lonelier.

For the next five days, as the
Fate Runner
sailed north, the thick wall of mist was always visible to port, shrouding the land from view. Starting on the third day, Grace sometimes saw flashes of muted light in the mist: yellow, and livid green.

“It’s the Barrens,” Falken said one evening when the lights were particularly frequent and violent in their intensity. He gripped the rail next to Grace.

Earlier that year, Falken, Durge, and Lirith had ventured into the wasteland of the Barrens to find the Keep of Fire—a fortress raised by the Necromancer Dakarreth to guard the Great Stone Krondisar. Only the keep was abandoned; Dakarreth had come to Castle Spardis, where Grace had dinner with him, not knowing his true nature.

“What happened to the people who lived there?” she said.

Falken shook his head. “No one’s ever lived there. At the dawn of the world, the Old Gods and the dragons warred in that place. The gods tried to build up mountains even as the dragons tried to grind them to dust. The land will never heal from the wounds it suffered.”

Grace held a hand to her chest and felt the fluttering beat of her heart. She knew about scars that could never heal. But Eldh went on despite its wounds, and so did she.

“The book I found in the library,” she said. “Have you learned anything more in it? About the shards of Fellring?”

The wind blew the bard’s hair from his brow; it seemed to have a bit more silver in it than Grace remembered. “I’ve gone through it three times, and while there’s much that’s fascinating, there isn’t a great deal about what happened to the shards. All it says is that, after Malachor fell, one of the last Runelords placed them in an iron box and fled with them to Toringarth. He made it all the way to Ur-Torin, although he was mortally wounded on the way and died soon after.”

“People seem to get mortally wounded a lot in your stories,” Grace said with a wry smile.

Falken only sighed and gazed at his black-gloved hand. Grace instantly regretted her words.

“Falken,” she said, laying her hand on his.

“No, it’s all right, Grace. Dakarreth may have thought he was cursing me when he made me immortal. But if I can live to undo what was done long ago, then it won’t have been a curse at all, will it?”

Why Falken blamed himself for the fall of the kingdom of Malachor seven centuries earlier, she didn’t know. But certainly whatever he had done, he had atoned for it long since. She wanted to tell him that, but the pain in her chest made it too hard to speak, so Grace only smiled.

“No matter,” the bard said. “The book has been an enormous help. I had always thought the shards of Fellring were taken west to Eversea. Now I know that didn’t happen.”

“Eversea?” Hadn’t she read that name in the book?