Shadeborn: A Book of Underrealm (17 page)

He looked back out across the Bay, and Loren could see from his twitching jaw that he was barring harsh words. She did not like to see such frustration in his eyes any more than she cared to see him eye her with pity or sadness. If she were to see herself six months ago, she would have looked at Jordel in much the same way.

“I have known you all my life, and most of yours. I was there when your father . . . when he treated you as he did.” His fists clenched. “Often, I was on the brink of raising my own hands to stop him, however I could. Always you warded me off, either with words or the look in your eyes—eyes that have always been able to say so much, even when I felt like I alone could hear them. And it enraged me. You never lifted a hand to him yourself. If you had, no one in all the nine lands would have whispered a word against you. You had every right. And yet you did not. I thought it foolish for a time. I felt the way you say you feel now.”

Chet swallowed, drew a breath, and continued.
 

“And then I grew older, and somewhat wiser, or so I thought. I felt I finally understood why you acted thus. Because to raise your hands to him, or to lift your axe and end your father, forever, would be to lower yourself to his level. If you killed him, though anyone would have called it justified, you would only have beaten the man by becoming just like him. And that was far, far worse than suffering at his hands. That was how I stilled my own while watching you suffer all those years. I
knew
you were winning your victory by proving yourself the better person, though it might take all your life to do so. Or so I thought. Was I wrong?”

Loren wanted to say that he was. Since leaving the woods, she had seen so much—Damaris’s slaughter of the constables, Auntie’s horrors in Cabrus, the awful battle in Wellmont, and Jordel’s death in the Greatrocks. The world seemed filled with evil, far more potent than her father’s simple, stupid hatred that rotted his soul to the core. She could bear that evil forever if she had to. But Loren could not stomach the thought of letting a much greater evil envelop the kingdom she called home.

And yet she wondered, what good would it do to defeat those dark forces if doing so meant she must invite the darkness into herself? She still believed that those who killed when they thought themselves right soon turned to killing when it suited them. That was perhaps the source of all the wrongs that plagued them now; for even Rogan had a curious light of righteousness in his eye, when slitting the villager’s throat and soaking the dirt with his blood.
 

“I do not know the answer you want. Or rather, I know what you wish me to say but know not if I can do so with any ring of truth. I have seen so much and traveled so far. Now I am tired.”

“Forget the road. Forget what you have seen. Try to remember how you felt when you lived with me in our village. And try to remember why.”

She cast her mind back to childhood, when Loren’s father first pressed her into his labor, when she had felt the crushing blows of his fists for the first time. She remembered fleeing the work, and his beatings, escaping into the woods with Chet to sit in a clearing and listen . . .
 

“Mennet,” she said. “It was Bracken’s tales of Mennet. I was a young whelp and wished great harm upon my father. Bracken listened then told me of Mennet, the thief who could bring down a king without spilling a drop of blood. Yet now they tell me Mennet was nothing more than a legend.”

“I do not believe that, nor do you,” said Chet. “And even if it is true, why should we care? I have heard it said that even false tales have value.”

“But how can we know the gold from those stories told to scared little children hiding from their parents in the woods?”

“Is there no value in that?” Chet reached out and took Loren’s hand, as he had never done before, for it was always she who reached for his. “The value of a tale is what we take from it. The choice is ours. That is one lesson I learned from none of Bracken’s tales—or mayhap all of them. That belief kept me from falling into despair as I grew older, and I thought you might be something more than only my friend. When I wished to wed you, though your parents would never have let me.”

She held his hand and felt his thumb dragging across her palm. Then, on instinct, Loren leaned across the space between them, touched his cheek, and met his lips with her own.

The shores rustled below them, and the wind whispered. The moonslight sang a song that seemed sweeter than the rest.

Loren pulled back, relishing his smile, for she had put it on his face.
 

She smiled herself then stood.
 

“I suppose I have much to think upon. But we will be no good to the others if neither of us sleeps. I find myself weary, so I will leave you to the watch. Wake me when the moons are straight overhead.”

Loren descended the dune and away from Chet.

It was a great while before she could sleep.

twenty

Xain recognized the town as they drew nearer and told them its name was Brekkur. They could smell it long before they could make out the guards who stood above the gate. It was a fishing village, and the pungent odor wafted far upon the coastal winds.

The walls were wooden, not stone, and looked newly built. “That is likely because the village is growing,” said Xain. “Many such towns wax and wane with the seasons, and in summer find themselves full of fishermen. Then they take down their walls and erect them farther out, only to draw them near once winter sets and their citizens flee for warmer climes.”

They found little resistance at the gates. Loren guessed that the towns must have received no word of the Shades marauding across the kingdom. It seemed an ill omen that so wanton a slaughter could be carried out with not so much as a whisper of warning to reach the coastline. But then again, they had seen only the killing of a rather small village, and likely that was of no great consequence to the kingdom at large.

They soon found themselves making their careful way through many shacks and stalls placed against the ramshackle huts that were the town’s mainstay. Behind each stood old vendors, leaning forward to hock their wares to Loren and the others. Most had fish, but many offered hooks, nets, and lines.

“Do they think we are fishermen?” Gem said, sniffing as one particularly odorous old woman came too close.

“Most who come here are,” said Xain. “In summer, these places are like farms for seafolk, who spring up from nowhere to ply the sea and return with bounty, which is then brought across the nine kingdoms in preparation for winter.”

“But fish will not keep that long,” said Annis. “Even in the kitchens upon the Seat, which were often stocked with ice, they did not last long.”

“They do not need to,” said Xain. “When food is suddenly plentiful, and may be traded for, citizens in every direction may turn their attention to other things. And so for a while, Dorseans near the coast eat mostly fish while they turn to crafts like smithing and clothes. Thus summer is a happy time for the common folk, for they may turn their hands to things of beauty rather than the meager business of survival. Though you would likely have never noticed in your fine halls where food was always plentiful and you never had aught to do but your embroidery.”

The words came surprisingly harsh, and Loren looked at Xain with worry. He ducked almost as he spoke, and flinched from Annis as if ashamed. His shoulders were shaking in the stiff sea breeze, and Loren guessed the sickness was wracking his body harder than normal. Annis, for her part, kept quiet and refused to look at him.

Loren had suffered no ill effects from eating the magestone on the night the Elves had visited her. The next day, she had mayhap been weary, but that might have been from the fright of seeing those otherworldly creatures. She had had no cravings for the stones, nor had she felt any insanity creeping into her mind, the way it had crept into Xain’s. It seemed that illness struck only stone-eating mages—or mayhap her other guess had been right, and the dagger somehow protected her. Either way, Loren’s relief was great.

They reached the docks soon enough, and Xain inspected the ships with a practiced eye. Loren had not forgotten when they sailed on a riverboat down the Dragon’s Tail or how skilled the wizard had seemed with boatcraft. She had wondered then but was grateful now. He passed several smaller boats immediately but spent longer studying a large ship with its sail unfurled for cleaning. Then he inspected the waterline and turned away, shaking his head.

They were riding slowly down the docks, in no particular hurry, when they came to a great ship with twin masts. Loren found it breathtaking, though she knew little of ships. It towered above them, and a great wooden ramp ran down from its deck to where they stood on the dock. Upon its prow was fixed a carving of an eagle, wings folded as if diving, though it pointed straight ahead, its beak split in a scream.

“You’ve an eye for ships, I see,” came a voice.

Loren looked down to see a solid-looking man on the dock before them. He had spoken to Xain. Curled yellow hair covered his head, from the top down to the great bushy beard that tickled his chest. His shirt seemed too small, sleeves buttoned tightly around thick muscles, browned by the sun. His breeches and tunic were faded, clearly from long wear and ocean wind.

“This is your vessel?” said Xain.

“He is,” said the man with a nod. “The
Long Claw
, we call him, and I have commanded him across the Bay, and beyond, for nigh on a dozen years.”

“You are a man of Dulmun, judging from your speech and its make.” Xain spoke with curious interest, his voice more alive than it had seemed in weeks.
 

“You have an eye for many kingdoms, I would guess.” The man stood forward and offered a hand toward Xain on his horse. “I’m called Torik.”
 

“A pleasure, Captain.” Xain placed his hand in the larger man’s but said quickly, “Gentle, if you will. I have taken a spell of something on my journey, though ’tis nothing catching, I assure you.”

“A man must be bold to admit his ailing,” said Torik with a grin. “Though I cannot say as I would let such a man on my crew.”

Xain smiled. “Fortunate for us both, then, that I am not searching for such a position.”

Torik threw an arm toward the gangplank. “I would guess you seek passage, and that is something we have plenty of room for. I can take you aboard and show you his quality if you wish.”

“I can see for myself from here, but we will gladly take your offer.” Xain turned to the others. “Come aboard. I think this ship will do nicely.”

“You haven’t even asked him where he is sailing!” said Gem.

“He makes for the High King’s Seat and then to Dulmun,” said Xain. “It is the usual route for Dulmun ships that sail from the coast of the Great Bay. Is that not the truth, Captain?”

“Certainly enough,” said Torik. “Give your horses to the boy. He will tend them well, on my word.”
 

A young deckhand ran up and reached for their reins. Another stood expectantly nearby. Torik caught his eye. “Run and tell the boys guests are coming aboard. Make sure they keep the sheep guts out of sight.”

The boy’s eyes widened, and he scampered up the gangplank. Annis looked uncertainly at Loren. Xain spoke first to reassure her.

“In Dulmun, a ship is considered blessed if its decks are regularly polished with the insides of a sheep. But worry not, fair girl, you have already heard the captain means to keep such gruesome sights from you.”

“I am not afraid of sheep guts,” Annis snapped.

If Loren had thought the ship impressive from the dock, it was doubly so upon the deck. The mast stretched into the sky, longer from one end to the other than some of the largest buildings she had been inside. A mighty crew ran about from one end to the other, pulling lines and doing things she could scarcely guess at. Torik took them from one side to the other, here and there pointing things out. Loren was soon lost in his many strange words, though the wizard nodded appreciatively and seemed to be listening with rapt attention.

“Now let me take you into his hold,” said the captain. “We have many fine cabins below—and some not so fine, if you are short on coin. I can show you where you would stay, if indeed you wish to secure passage.”

An open hatch awaited, with a staircase leading down. Loren did not find the darkness inviting but swallowed her misgivings and followed the captain. The passage hooked around immediately, leading into a long hallway with doors on either side. It looked for all the world like the upper floor of an inn. Metal grates in the ceiling let the light in, and the place seemed far warmer and more inviting than she had expected.

Torik opened a door and said, “If you all step in here.”

Still looking about in wonder, Loren stepped inside. The others followed close behind.

The door slammed shut behind them with a
snap.
The air filled with the hiss of steel, and Loren saw half a dozen swords pointed toward them. Behind them stood broad men and women in red cloaks.

Loren shouted and reached for her dagger. Beside her, Xain muttered words of power, and his eyes glowed white. But the magic sputtered almost as soon as he reached for it, and his shoulders sagged. At the other end of the cabin, which was spacious enough, Loren saw a Mystic woman with her hands twisted to claws. Her eyes glowed white, and Loren felt herself unable to move, held in the mindmage’s grasp.