Voyage of the Fox Rider (20 page)

“And when he climbed out he bowed deeply to me,
his grin lighting up the whole world, and he said, ‘In case you have forgotten, my name is Farrix and I never lie, and my fox there behind you is Rhu.’”

Once again Jinnarin leaned over the wale and peered down at the placid sea rising and falling below. And as gentle swells from the towing rowers passed across the undulant surface she said, “And that’s where I first saw the face of my true love—reflected in a mirrored pool.”

Six days and nights it took to escape the claws of the Crab, for upon the dawn of the seventh morn they haled into a light wind, Reydeau piping the tow-crew aboard, Rico piping up the hoisting of sail, and ere the break of fast the
Eroean
was once again cutting the waves, her white wake churning behind.

It was on this same morn, though, that Jinnarin woke refreshed after a peaceful night of sleep. And the moment she realized such, she burst into tears. Rux whined in anxiety, licking at his mistress’s face, and he cast about for sign of threat, finding nought.

“What’s all this ruckus?” called Alamar, knocking on the wooden wall of Jinnarin’s under-bunk quarters.

“Oh, Alamar,” sobbed Jinnarin, “I slept the night through.”

“Eh?” Alamar rattled the tiny door.

Jinnarin opened the panel and stepped into Alamar’s room. “I said, I slept the night through.”

A frown came over the Mage’s face. “Oh my, not good. Not good at all.”

Jinnarin, sobbing, plopped down on the floor, burying her face in her hands, whining Rux alternately nudging her and glaring at Alamar, as if to place blame.

“No dream at all?” asked the Mage.

Without looking up, Jinnarin shook her head.

“Not of any kind?”

Again Jinnarin shook her head,
No
.

“Well, Pysk, we will just have to wait and see.”

Snubbing, at last Jinnarin looked up. “Wh-what might it m-mean, Alamar?”

Alamar stroked his white beard. “Any number of things, not all of them bad.”

“Such as…?”

“Look, just because you didn’t have your usual nightmare, it doesn’t mean—”

“Don’t try to cozen me, Alamar! Tell me straight out.”

Alamar sighed. “Well…it could be that whoever is sending this vision was troubled last night and too busy to cast you your nightmare. Likewise, it could be that he or she no longer needs to send the dream—why? I know not. Perhaps his problem is resolved. On the other hand, the sender could be injured or…” The Mage fell silent, his words sputtering to a halt.

“Go ahead, Alamar, you can say it: the sender could be injured or dead!”

Chapfallen, Alamar nodded, and at this confirmation again Jinnarin burst into tears. Now Rux growled a warning at Alamar but made no move toward the Mage.

At last Alamar spoke, saying, “Let us ask Aylis. Mayhap she will know…or can find out.”

Aylis stared into the small silver basin of jet black water, her face reflected from the ebon surface. Her emerald eyes were lost in intense concentration, and sweat beaded on her brow. To one side stood Aravan, his own features filled with concern. Alamar sat across the table, and Jinnarin kneeled in front of the dark liquid, peering deep within. The portholes were blackened out, and a single taper burned in a silver candlestick on the table beside the Pysk.

“Patefac!”
demanded Aylis for the fifth or sixth time, a strain in her voice, but the raven-dark water did not change.

“Patefac!”
she gritted again.

Yet nought altered in the silver bowl, and with a groan Aylis slumped back, her eyes closed.

Jinnarin gasped, and Aravan leapt forward, catching up the seeress’s hand. “My Lady Aylis,” he called, chafing her wrist.

“I am all right,” she murmured. “Just exhausted. The shield…it is too strong. Beyond my power to discern aught past.”

Aravan touched her hand to his cheek, and she looked up at him, startlement in her gaze. He smiled and sat
beside her and clasped her cold fingers between his two warm hands.

Tears welled in Jinnarin’s eyes. “I am so afraid,” she said, her voice quavering.

Alamar sighed. “I don’t think that there’s anything to be afraid of—”

“Oh, Alamar,” burst out Jinnarin, “I am not afraid
of
something. Instead I am afraid
for
Farrix.”

“Look, Pysk, we don’t even know who is sending this dream, much less whether it has anything to do with Farrix.”

“Father”—Aylis’s voice came quietly—“I deem that Jinnarin has cause to worry, for who else would send such a vision to her?”

“But, Daughter, ‘tis a nightmare, this dream. Would Farrix send such to his love?”

Jinnarin leapt to her feet and paced back and forth upon the table, and in the flicker of candlelight, shadows seemed to gather about her and disperse and gather and disperse and—“Alamar, you said yourself that dreams are oft not what they seem. Farrix would not deliberately send me a nightmare.”

Aylis glanced at the Pysk and then to her sire. “She is right, Father. Besides, the vision she sees—the storm, the black ship, the pale green sea, the crystal castle—these things in and of themselves are not frightening. Instead, there is something else in her dream that brings fear with it, something that remains unseen.”

Alamar grunted in acknowledgement. “And, Daughter, you have no idea as to what it might be, or of the meaning of the dream itself?”

Aylis made a negating gesture with her free hand. “None. As I said when Jinnarin first told me of her vision, it seems indeed to be a sending, yet what it means, I cannot say, for I could not then nor can I yet see unto the source.”

Alamar stood and shuffled to one of the three curtained portholes on the starboard side. “Let’s get some light in here,” he growled, sliding back the velvet drape.

As the bright morning Sun streamed into the captain’s lounge, Aylis reluctantly freed her hand from Aravan’s and snuffed out the candle. The Elf stood and stepped to the larboard ports and slid back the covering cloths.

Jinnarin plopped back down to the tabletop and sat with her legs drawn up and her arms wrapped about her knees. “What can I do, Aylis?” she asked, a tormented look on her face.

“Oh, Jinnarin, there is little you
can
do. Merely wait, that’s all. It may be that Farrix, if indeed he is the sender, is tiring, for it takes energy to give a dream unto another.”

A tear rolled down Jinnarin’s cheek. “Tiring? You mean weakening, don’t you?”

Aylis turned up her hands. “I don’t know, Jinnarin. I simply do not know.”

Over the next several days, Jinnarin went about the decks of the
Eroean
in poor spirits and weary. Her days were cheerless and her nights filled with fitful sleep, the Pysk tossing and turning and unable to rest, for no nightmare plagued her dreams. All the crew noted her downtrodden stance and a glumness fell upon them as well. Even Rux seemed dispirited, his tail hanging lank, and his hunting of rats and mice fell to nought.

“We must do something about this,” said Finch to Arlo and Rolly and Carly, the carpenter and sailmaker and tinsmith and cooper concerned over Jinnarin’s despondent state. “Our Pysk is disheartened and needs cheering up, she does.”

“How about music?” asked Rolly. “I could play me pipe.”

“Sea stories,” suggested Arlo, “we have some tales that’d set your hair on fire, we do. Mayhap that’ll take her mind off her bother, wotever it might be.”

“How about a spree of sorts, wot d’y’ say?” chimed in Carly. “We c’d get Trench ’r’ Hogar t’ make a cake, wot?”

“Celebrating wot?” asked Rolly. “I mean, sprees is for something or other—a victory, a remembrance, an anniversary, wotever.”

“How ’bout twelve years since I come aboard?” asked Lobbie, the sailor lying on his bunk and listening to the four.

Rolly and Finch and Arlo and Carly looked at one another then shrugged. “Seeing as there is no objections,” declared Finch.…

And so it was that a celebration was engendered—Lobbie’s Dozen, it was called.

And two days later as evening drew down upon the
Eroean
, lanterns were lit and all hands gathered on deck and a shipboard spree was held. Songs were sung and tales were told and arm-in-arm jigs were danced.

Some of Bokar’s warband demonstrated their skills with axes, whirling the double-bitted blades about, casting them spinning into the air, catching them by their oaken helves, clanging steel on steel with one another while stepping through an intricate drill, all cheered on by their fellow crew mates.

Alamar the Mage juggled balls of light and pulled vanishing doves and disappearing fish from the hair and beards of various members of the crew, to the
Oooos
and
Ahhhs
of the others. Why, he even pulled a huge red jewel right out from Bokar’s left ear, he did, the giant ruby to turn into sparkles and twinkle away even as the armsmaster reached for it, the onlookers howling in glee.

And then, while Lobbie played the squeeze box and Rolly his pipe and Burdun banged on his drum and all the Men and the Dwarves stomped in time and clapped their hands, Captain Aravan and Lady Aylis danced a wild, wild fling, stepping and prancing and whirling about and laughing into each other’s eyes. And when they were done a mighty shout rang up into the sky, and the Captain picked up the Lady by her waist and spun her around and planted a kiss on her lips, and wild pandemonium reigned, sailors and warriors alike cheering in reckless abandon.

When this madness died down, Trench and Hogar, with Tink and Tivir helping, brought out the cakes and a vat of green brew, this latter made from limes. And upon one cake were written the words,
Lobbies Duzzen
, and this one they set before Lobbie for him to cut and serve.

And as the Men and Dwarves and Mages and Elf partook of the cake and sipped on their cups of green squall—for so the lime drink was named—a Pysk and her fox took center deck, Jinnarin mounted upon Rux.

Jinnarin whispered something to her fox and commenced a measured clapping of her hands.

Slowly, slowly, did Rux begin, following Jinnarin’s stately beat, the fox pacing an arcane pattern.

Step, step, turn and pause. Step, step, and turn.

The crew looked on, their eyes following Pysk and fox, wonder in their gaze.

Step, step, turn and pause. Step, step, and turn.

Gradually, gradually, the beat increased, Rux keeping pace.

Step, step, turn and pause. Step, step, and turn.

And all the onlookers stood entranced, cake and brew forgotten.

Step, step, turn and pause. Step, step, turn.

Faster came the beat, faster paced the fox. And a member of the crew took up the rhythm, clapping in time with Jinnarin.

Step, step, turn and pause. Step, step, turn.

More joined in, and more. And still the pace increased, Rux no longer stepping stately but now prancing through the gait.

Step, step, turn and pause, step, step, turn.

Pysk on fox, Jinnarin’s hands free and clapping, still the beat increased.

Step step turn and break, step step turn.

Now someone began to stomp in time, others joining in.

Step touch turn break step touch turn.

“Hai, hai, hai, hai…!”
called out Jinnarin, clapping even faster, her voice sharp and piercing, Rux’s feet now but a blur, the clapping hands and stomping feet of the crew climbing in deafening crescendo, Men and Dwarves crying out a raw wordless shout.