Luck in the Shadows (24 page)

Rocky, steep-sided islands of all sizes punctuated the coastline, rising out of the water like ruined fortresses. Some were overgrown with copses of dark fir or oak; those with any sort of harbor were inhabited by colonies of fishermen. A few trading ships were still plying this route and Talrien hailed back and forth with them using a speaking trumpet.

The Osiat was alive with more than sea traders. Alec soon spotted his first school of porpoise. Leaning over the rail, he watched dozens of them leap and sport alongside the ship, their dark backs arching through the waves as they escorted the ship for several miles. Soon after, he saw another school leaping in flight before the dire form of the ship’s namesake, a grampus. Though not large as whales go, it looked positively enormous to Alec. The thought of such monsters swimming about under their very keel left him with a decidedly uneasy feeling.

The western shore of Skala presented a rugged face. The harsh granite bones of the country lay. exposed at the coastline and again in the peaks of its mountainous spine. Between these two stony extremes lay fertile terraces and valleys, the forests and harbors where the Skalan people had found purchase centuries before. Above the surf-scoured ledges of the shore, the higher ground sloped back from the sea in a series of ascending undulations to meet the inland mountains.

Looking shoreward, Alec could make out wagons and riders moving along a coastal highroad. A company of horsemen gave off glints of metal through the cloud of dust that half obscured their numbers.

“That there’s the Queen’s Highroad,” Biny informed him. “It runs all ’round the peninsula, then up the isthmus and clear to Wyvern Dug.”

That evening they put in at a little harbor to unload a shipment of wine and some of the poultry crates, taking on a consignment of copper bars in exchange.

When the hold was quiet again, Alec settled down next to Seregil, hoping to get a little more broth into him. But after a few spoonfuls he choked and Alec gave up. Seregil’s breathing was harsher now, rattling in his throat as his chest slowly rose and fell. As he listened, Alec felt despair crystallizing into a hard lump in his throat. Unable to bear it any longer, he dug down into Seregil’s battered pack and found the knotted scarf containing the jewelry. Stuffing it into his tunic, he hurried above in search of the captain and Sedrish.

“You’ve got to look at him,” he told them, trying to keep his voice from wavering. “I don’t think he’ll make it at this rate.”

In the hold Sedrish bent over Seregil’s still form, then shook his head. “The boy’s right, Captain. The man’s sinking.”

Talrien felt Seregil’s pulse, then sat down on a barrel frowning. “Even if we make straight for the city, passing all ports of call, I don’t know that it will be soon enough.”

“But you could do that?” Alec asked.

Meeting Alec’s bleak, determined gaze, Talrien nodded. “I’m master of this ship. I say when she sails and where. It won’t do my business any good to come in a week late—”

“If it’s money, then maybe this will help.” Alec pulled the handkerchief from his tunic and handed it to him.

Opening it, Talrien found the heavy gold chain, earrings, and the gold half sester Klia had given Alec.

“I wasn’t supposed to sell those things—he didn’t want me to.” Alec gestured anxiously in Seregil’s direction. “If it’s not enough, I think he can more than repay you once we reach the city.”

Talrien retied the cloth and handed it back. “I’ll have you in Rhíminee by noon tomorrow. We can talk about price later on. Sedrish, fetch this boy some ale.”

When they’d gone, Alec lay down next to Seregil and pulled both their cloaks over them, hoping to lend the sick man some of his warmth. Seregil’s skin was moist and cold, his eyes deeply sunken beneath bruised-looking lids. For an instant Alec thought he saw a faint expression of pain across his features.

With tears stinging behind his own eyes, Alec grasped one cold hand and whispered, “Don’t let go! We’re too close now, don’t let go.”

Again he thought he caught the faintest flicker of emotion in that still face. Probably it was only a trick of the light.

—the plain again. Unchanging emptiness and moaning wind
.

Ah, it was all too maddening! He wanted to curse, yell, kick, strike out. All he could do was spin around and around like an idiot, sweeping the horizon for some sign
.

But in the midst of his fury he caught sight of a dark figure in the distance. The dark stalker, his final adversary in life, had it followed him even here?

But no, even across the gulf of distance that separated them he could make out the figure of a man, the hood of his dark cloak drawn back to reveal the pale oval of a face. And the man was calling to him
.

No, singing!

He could not catch the words but the melody was so lovely, so filled with welcome and promise, that tears sprang to his eyes. How far? How long to reach him? Impossible to judge distance in this cursed barren place, but no matter. He would run to him, for he suddenly felt wondrously light as he skimmed over the dead grass and stones. He was running—no, he was flying! The feeling of release, of joyous movement was dizzying. The ground beneath him blurred and the figure ahead waited with open arms
to receive him. Too soon and not soon enough he reached him, was caught by him and held above the ground, for suddenly he had form again, as the man stopped his song and smiled kindly upon him. And such a face! It was as beautiful and serene as a god’s. The skin had the color and sheen of purest gold and gathered in supple folds at the corners of his eyes and mouth as he smiled. One eye was covered with a patch, but even this failed to mar the perfection of those features. The other eye, deep and richly blue as a sapphire or a summer sky, gazed at him with depthless love
.

“You have come at last, my wounded one.”

The voice held the very embodiment of all the love and tenderness he had ever hoped to find in his short, violent life
.

“Help me, take me from this place!” he begged, grasping at the beings arms, cold and rigid as stone beneath his hands
.

“Of course,” answered the god, for surely that must be what he was—Bilairy or Illior, come to rescue him from this terrible place
.

Gathering him close, the god cradled him like a child against his chest, stroking him with his cold, gentle hand. “We will pass through the gates and over the sea together, you and I. Give to me the gift you have brought and we shall go at once.”

“Gift? But I brought no gift,” he stammered, his heart suddenly hammering like a sharp, tiny fist in his chest
.

“But you did.” The god’s hand stroked his head, his shoulder, opened his shirt to lay bare his chest, which ached with the thundering of his pulse. “There, you see?”

The sickly odor rose in his nostrils again as a searing shaft of pain impaled him. Looking down, he saw the small wound that gaped just over his heart; from it, as if from a bloody socket, peered an eye as wonderfully blue as that of the god. A perfect match. And suddenly he was struggling in vain against the iron grip that held him as the golden-skinned god reached to reclaim it—

The
Grampus
pounded south through the night. Coming on deck just after dawn, Alec saw towering grey cliffs off the port bow and a cluster of islands lying close to shore ahead of them.

“Rhíminee harbor, just inside those islands,” Talrien shouted over the wind.

Rhíminee was the largest of the western ports, and the most heavily fortified. A series of long granite moles had been constructed between three smaller islands that ranged across the harbor mouth, leaving two openings to allow for the passage of friendly vessels. As the
Grampus
passed through one of these sea gates, Alec saw that the broad causeways bristled with catapults and ballistas. A similar arrangement of moles joined two smaller islands within the harbor itself, dividing it into inner and outer zones like the bailey of a keep.

The sailors furled all but one sail and they glided into the outer harbor, steering past scores of vessels already anchored there. Long, swift war galleys with scarlet sails and two banks of oars were moored near the causeways, their bronze ramming beaks just visible at the waterline. Merchant ships, square barges, and small, high-prowed caravels rode at anchor by the dozens.

The sea gate to the inner harbor had been constructed as a wide chute that afforded no cover to any vessel entering its constricts. Ballistas were mounted on either side and the facing walls of the chute were built in a series of tiers, so that companies of archers could harry any enemy ship that breached this inner defense.

The land embracing the harbor itself rose sharply back on all sides. Even before they had cleared the inner fortifications, Alec caught sight of the citadel above. It was huge; the main city spread over the tops of several hills set half a mile back from the water, and he judged it must be three miles wide at least. Sheer stone walls surrounded the city, hiding from view all but a few glittering domes and towers visible over the parapet.

The only approach from the harbor seemed to be a twisting road enclosed between long stone walls. Alec was no tactician, but recalling that Rhíminee had been built to replace a city destroyed in war, it looked to him as if the Skalans didn’t intend to lose a second capital.

Beyond the inner moles, a jumbled sprawl of buildings clung to the base of the cliffs below the citadel. As the ship was rowed toward an empty wharf, Alec looked with growing dismay at the bustling waterfront, the relief he’d felt at reaching the city quickly giving way to alarm at the prospect of trying to find a single wizard somewhere in the incomprehensible city before him.

He caught Biny by the sleeve as the young sailor hurried by. “Have you heard of a place called the Orëska House?”

“Who ain’t?” Biny exclaimed, jerking a thumb at the upper city. “See that shiny bit, over to the left? That’s the top of the great dome on it.”

Alec’s heart sank further; he’d have to find some way to get Seregil up there, traversing the width of the city. He fingered the packet of jewels inside his tunic, silently resolving to get Seregil to the Orëska House before nightfall even if he had to buy a wagon to do it.

Several men had come on board to speak with Captain Talrien. Alec was just turning to go below when one of them caught sight of him and touched his sleeve.

“Are you the friend of the sick man?” the stranger asked.

Taken by surprise, Alec turned to find a tall, thin old man smiling down on him. His long, good-natured face was seamed with age around the eyes and brow, and his short beard and the curling hair that thickly fringed his balding pate were silvery white, yet he stood as straight and easy as Alec himself. The dark eyes beneath the unruly white eyebrows revealed nothing but friendly interest. By his clothes—a simple surcoat and breeches under a worn cloak—Alec took him for a trader of some sort.

“What business do you have with him?” Alec asked warily, wondering how he’d known of Seregil’s presence on the ship.

“I have come to meet you, dear boy,” the old man replied. “I am Nysander.”

A
lec’s legs felt shaky as he led Nysander into the hold.

“It is as I feared,” the wizard murmured, cupping Seregil’s face between his hands. “We must get him to the Orëska House at once. I have a carriage waiting. Fetch the driver.”

Cold with dread, Alec found the driver and helped him bundle Seregil, well wrapped in cloaks and blankets, into the carriage.

In the meantime, Nysander spoke briefly with Captain Talrien, pressing a purse into his hands. Talrien nodded his thanks and turned to make his farewells to Alec.

“Many thanks, Captain,” Alec said warmly, wishing he could find better words.

“You’ve a brave heart in you, Aren Silverleaf.” Talrien clapped him on the shoulder. “May it bring you luck.”

“It has so far,” replied Alec, glancing anxiously toward the carriage. “I just hope the luck holds a bit longer.”

As the carriage set off at last, Nysander knelt beside Seregil and peeled away the dressing. A single glance was enough; recoiling, he laid the bandages back in place.

“How long ago did this happen?” he asked, glad that his back was to the boy.

“Five days.”

Shaking his head, Nysander began a series of silent incantations. If this was indeed what he suspected, who but Seregil could have survived such an attack?

When he’d finished, he sat back to take a second look at the boy. Pale and grim, he sat clutching Seregil’s pack and sword, eyes darting back and forth between his companion and the spectacle of the city passing by the carriage window.

Worn to a shadow
, thought Nysander,
and scared to death of me
.

This was a wild-looking lad to be sure, with his rough northern clothes and tousled hair. Nysander noted the ragged bandage bound around the boy’s left hand, and how he held it palm up on his knee as if it pained him. Taut lines scored his chapped young face, making him look older than his years. There was a great weariness about him, too, and an air of uncertainty. Yet beneath all that Nysander sensed the ingrained determination that had carried both him and Seregil through whatever evil had overtaken them.

“Another Silverleaf, eh?” Nysander smiled, hoping to put him at ease. “Seregil claims it is a fortuitous name. I hope that you have found it so?”

“At times.” The boy glanced up for just an instant. “He told me never to use my real name.”

“I am certain he would not mind if you told it to me.”

The boy blushed. “I’m sorry, sir. I’m Alec of Kerry.”

“A short name, that. They call me Nysander í Azusthra Hypirius Meksandor Illandi, High Thaumaturgist of the Third Orëska. But you must call me Nysander, for that is how friends address one another here.”

“Thank you, sir—Nysander, I mean,” Alec stammered shyly. “I’m greatly honored.”