The Heirs of Duty: Braenduir Chronicles, #1

Prologue

W hat is it, Pheb? demanded the lord, the excitement sprouting within him as his steward hurried to him across the foyer, his round face beaming.

A letter, master! Phebyllam gushed, pushing a small leather cylinder into his hand. Brought by a blue-eyed raven!

A blue-eyed raven? The lord snatched the cylinder from his stubby fingers. What does it say?

Why, I haven’t read it, master! Pheb sounded offended though the lord knew full well that he had read the message the moment he had removed it from the bird’s leg.

Pheb read all the letters that arrived at the manor. It was alright with the lord. The steward knew precisely how to break the direst news and make even the hardest blows tolerable to him. This message brought good news, though, he knew by Phebyllam’s glowing face before easing the tight roll of parchment out of the cylinder.

The lord smoothed the note with his long, delicate fingers and eyed through the lines of dense scribbling. His thin face split into a triumphant smile. He let the letter spring back into a roll and clasped Pheb by the shoulders spinning him around the lavishly furnished foyer. His face shone brighter than the chandeliers hanging from the limewashed rafters.

They’ve found him! he exclaimed. They have found the Caern, Pheb!

But that’s wonderful news, master! The steward beamed. Absolutely marvellous! From where?

Fjoka! They’ve found him at Fjoka! the lord sang, still whirling Phebyllam round and round until he started to feel dizzy. And at the best possible moment! He had been born just before the Conflux, and they could sanctify him right away! The tidings couldn’t have been better. Is the bird still here?

He stopped dead in the middle of his wild celebration. If he had not held Phebyllam so tight, the steward would’ve stumbled over his robes and dropped onto his fat rump. The lord kissed the crown of his bald head and started up the carpeted staircase shouting as he went: I must write straight back to them and tell them to bring him here as soon as possible!

Wait, master! squeaked Phebyllam, out of breath. Wouldn’t that be most unwise?

His master halted at the top of the stairs and turned to look back at him, frowning deeply: Why would you say so? Of course, we must get him here! The sooner, the better.

I agree with you fully, master, but wouldn’t it be too great a risk to bring him now? reasoned the steward. The sea is immensely treacherous at this time of the year. You should know that.

The lord sucked in his lower lip, pondering. A mixture of disappointment and submission veiled his face. He heaved a heavy sigh but admitted: You are right, as usual, my friend. More damage than good would be done by rushing ahead of things. Very well, I’ll tell them to take the best care of him and bring him to us as soon as it’s safe.

WHAT IS IT, PHEBYLLAM? The lord’s expression grew wary as his steward came to him, squeezing a small leather cylinder in his plump, well-manicured hand. Shall I like what I read?

I fear not, master. Pheb stopped in the middle of the foyer, his round, smooth face grim and pale in the golden candlelight. A raven came in the afternoon. A blue-eyed one.

And? The lord was impatient. What news did it bring? The Caern is alright, I hope?

Phebyllam cleared his throat and took a moment to arrange his thoughts before breaking the news: Well, I’m sure he’s alright... Wherever he is. I regret to tell you that he’s been lost.

Lost?! the lord shrieked. How can he be lost?! Certainly, he couldn’t have run away, being only a few moons’ turns old!

No, no... He hasn’t run. It says in the letter that the longboat they hired to bring him to the continent was hijacked and the babe taken. They fought, obviously, but most of the crew was involved in the scheme and... It pains me to say this, master, but many died in the clash.

His master’s leaf-green eyes flared. Pheb hadn’t often seen him as furious. He backed up a couple of steps despite himself. The lord clenched his fists, his knuckles cracking, and grunted: "Was there not hundreds of nautical miles between us, the rest of them would meet their maker soon enough, as well! The incompetent fools! I give them a single task, not even a particularly difficult one, and even that, they manage to muck up!"

His golden dandelion fluff of hair seemed to sparkle as he went on fuming in the same manner for a quarter of an hour or so, pacing back and forth in his untidy study. The room was crammed with books, scrolls, maps, and objects, one more peculiar than the other.

Phebyllam waited at the door, patient, and silent as a statue, knowing that as the sharpest point of his master’s anger had blunted, he would start figuring out a solution and ask his most trusted servant to help him in the process. Though first, he might ask for a glass of wine. Or something stronger, even.

The lord slumped into his high-backed chair, propped his elbows onto the desk, and dropped his head into his hands. Phebyllam moved quickly, dug a crystal goblet and a small flask of clear, bluish liquor from the pockets of his lilac robes, hurried to the desk, and poured his master a drink. The lord drained the goblet in one go and pushed it back for a refill. Pheb poured the cup to the brim again.

He had to repeat the process one more time before the lord mastered himself again. Grim as a gargoyle, he glared at Pheb from under his bushy eyebrows: What are we to do, Phebyllam?

We’ll find him, master, he replied. We’ll find him.

Of course, we’ll find him! the lord scuffed. The question is; when? When shall we retrieve him, and more importantly, what has become of him by that time? The older he gets, the more difficult it will be for us to make him what he needs to become. What if we won’t find him until he is a man grown?! By then, he has built himself a life, established his convictions, beliefs, values... What if they are opposite to what we’ll demand of him...

He trailed off, groping for the flask again, but Pheb snatched it out of his reach and said: We will find him before he grows too old, master.

I should hope so, the lord grunted. I should hope so, Phebyllam, for if we won’t, we may as well consider the case lost.

PART ONE

Momentous Encounters

CHAPTER ONE

A Dream of Freedom

IRANA WAS IN ONE OF the castle’s gardens, sitting under a blooming apple tree. The sky was high and piercing blue, the new grass soft and jewel-green, and the blushing apple flowers filled her nostrils with their subtle scent. Beneath the sweet fragrance and brilliant colours, everything was crumbling and rotting, she knew, though she didn’t know how she knew. She just knew, with the certainty of a dream, that underneath the fresh grass, the ground was gravel and ashes, the apple trees decayed under their speckless barks and blushing veils of blossoms, and behind the white walls surrounding the garden, the world was fire, and blood, and terror.

She put away the book she had been flickering though there was no writing in it. It was a blank book. An ancient and handsome binding without a word adorning its thin, yellowed pages.

As she rose to go and take a walk about the garden, she realised that she was chained to a tree, shackled like a slave from neck and ankles, her golden chain bolted into the trunk. She bent down, grabbed it, and gave it a sharp yank. The chain was so thin, not even as thick as her pinkie. She thought it might be easy to break. It didn’t budge. No matter how hard she pulled and tugged, it remained solid and unyielding.

She glanced around to find someone who could help her, untether her, for this was not right. She was no slave! She was a princess and a queen-to-be. The garden was empty, except for her and the nameless horror outside the walls, creeping closer and closer with the heartbeat. Suddenly, fear took her over, she started to yell for help and was soon screaming at the top of her lungs.

No one heard her nor cared about her distress. The horror tightened its grip. Irana yanked the chain again. It didn’t budge. She ran around the tree, only tying herself tighter to it. Tears flooded down her face, plentiful and uncontrollable. She ran back to her book and lifted it from the grass as if it could help her, opened it, and flickered through the empty pages. Nothing changed. She tossed the tome away, but instead of a solid thud of it hitting the ground, she heard a splash.

She wiped her eyes into her sleeve and peered around, blinking in the blinding, white light that seemed to come from everywhere and nowhere. Another splash caught her attention, and now she spotted the source of the sounds. A round, emerald fountain appeared among the apple trees not ten yards away. Or had it always been there, and she just hadn’t noticed it? She wasn’t sure, nor did she care, once she saw what was emerging from the water.

She screamed and fled into the trees as fast as she could, forgetting the chain. It tensed, and she flew backwards, landing on her back on the grass. She rolled over in panic, tried to scramble up, but the thing was already upon her. It was a man. And it wasn’t. Lean, tall, and knobbed like an old ash tree, it hovered above her. Water beaded its olive bark, skin, or whatever it was that covered its sinewy form. Leaves, twigs, and beard moss clung to its antlers. Its eyes were abysmal and filled with malice. It bent down over her to brush her cheek with long, stick-like fingers. Irana squeezed her eyes shut, praying that whatever it was about to do to her would soon be over, or that she’d pass out during.

The thing sniffed her. She felt its hot breath on her face and neck and smelled its earthy, beastly scent. Despite herself, she opened her eyes. The monster’s eyes were only a few inches away from hers. She realised, to her astonishment, that they weren’t as dark, fathomless, and cruel as she had first thought but rather sad and agonised. And midnight blue, not black. The fingers on her skin, stiff and woody as they were, didn’t hurt her but caressed. She swallowed and breathed: Help me? Please.

She didn’t know, what made her say it, but the thing did as she bid. It grabbed the chain and broke it with a single yank. Irana pushed up to lean on her elbows and scrutinised the monster’s face. It looked like a man who was morphing into a deer or a deer morphing into a man. Queer, yet not ugly. And not the thing she should be afraid of, she realised as the horror outside pressed closer still.

We should go. The enemy is coming, she whispered though she knew they weren’t going anywhere.

Not yet at least.

She didn’t object as the creature rolled her over onto her belly and pushed her skirts up over her buttocks. Instead, she spread her legs and gave herself to it willingly, whimpering when it entered her. Its shaft was as woody and lean as everything else in it, and though it wasn’t gentle, it didn’t hurt her either. Maybe that was just because she wanted it so much. She was sobbing wet and moaning in pleasure by the time it spilt its hot seed deep inside her and slumped on top of her, pressing its face into the well of her neck.

You’re right, it whispered in an astonishingly humane voice. We must go. However, the enemy isn’t coming. It has been here all along.

The thing pushed up to its feet. Irana rolled over and opened her eyes. The antlered monster was gone. In its place stood a man, a tall and gaunt human man whose body was covered in blue tattoos from the hips to collarbones. He had midnight blue eyes, sandy hair, and an apologetic half-smile on his face. He held out a callused hand. She took it without a second thought, let him pull her up to her feet and walk her to the garden gate.

The black iron bars were thicker than Irana’s arm, and the gate was bolted from the outside. Beyond it was blackness. Irana shuddered and shook her head: No... Another way. We must find another way.

This is the only way, claimed the man, squeezing her hand tighter. Do you want to be free?

Yes, but...

Then trust me.

He raised his hand and his palm started to glow. A burst of midnight blue and lavender flames licked out between the bars, and the gates flung open into the black nothingness. They stood at the edge of the world, at the edge of all existence, it seemed. Irana baulked, tried to withdraw, pull her hand off his.

No... We can’t. There’s nothing there, can’t you see?

Don’t be afraid, he said, smiling. That’s what freedom looks like. Come, fly with me.

Irana glanced over to the garden that was now decaying openly. The grass turned yellow and brown. The flowers fell from the trees, crumpled and dun like flakes of dirty snow. The tree trunks were crammed with pulps and boils that oozed green and yellowish pus. The horror was there. It had reached the walls and was creeping over them, its black, shadowy fingers coiling like serpents down the white stone.

She clung to his hand for dear life and stepped over the edge into the nothingness. She didn’t fly. She fell. As she realised that she was falling, she got scared. And woke up, sweating, and out of breath, her heart hammering inside its bony cage, the flesh between her legs throbbing and dripping wetness as if she had laid with the man in the dream for real.

CHAPTER TWO

The Likes of You

BEER? OR WOULD YOU rather have wine? the king asked, summoning his cupbearer closer with an impatient gesture.

Wine would be fine if it pleases Your Highness, replied Toren Eddesen.

Soon after Toren had crossed Naer Heigir, he had concluded that drinking anything but wine or water on the western side of Naer Heigir would be, if not downright lethal, definitely unhealthy, and highly masochistic, besides. He had no taste in torturing himself, so he had asked for wine in every inn and tavern he had dropped by along the way. His request had raised many an eyebrow and gained him countless slanted looks, but as he didn't keep a habit of giving a hoot what other people thought about him, he drank his wine at leisure and with pleasure. Even as the Westerners were shoddy at making mead and brewing beer, they did know how to make good wine.

The cupbearer, a gaunt, fish-eyed lad of eight or nine, trickled a mouthful of deep red wine into a silver goblet and offered it to the king with a bow. The king gulped the liquid down, smacked his mouth, handed the goblet back, and declared: Not the best vintage but will do for the likes of him.

Toren ignored the insult. One would’ve expected some measure of manners of a king, but he had realized the very heartbeat he had laid his eye on this monarch for the first time, it would be foolish to hope for such. Waldhark Rofinnar the Sixth, the ruler and protector of the kingdom of Girania, had greeted him in a slow, loud manner in which some people spoke to the deaf and ill-witted and marvelled openly as he had replied most courteously in all but flawless Westang.

The captain claimed that you’re from the north! the king had exclaimed. A Son of... What was that brotherhood of yours called again?

The Sons of Stryader if it pleases Your Highness.

Yes, that. It is said, you men are true to your vows. Does this hold true?

There’re a few bad eggs in every nest, but most of us are men of honour. Your Highness.

Very well. Be seated, then, and we’ll see what kind of an egg you are.

Toren had seated himself into a high-backed chair which the king had pointed to him at the round, lacquered table, and peered about the small blue and gold study while Waldhark had bullied his cupbearer. The king raised his silver goblet to him half an inch. He returned the gesture, equally niggardly, before lifting the goblet to his lips and taking a ginger sip. The wine was thick, dark, and savoury, and he nodded his approval as the king seemed to be expecting it.

King Waldhark seemed pleased, drank deep from his goblet, and asked: Now then, do you know why you are here?

Toren’s coal-black eyebrows wanted to jump to his widow’s peak, but he kept his face straight and said: I applied for the post as a personal guard, Your Highness. Whom I am to protect, Captain Aelefnar did not clarify.

You are to guard the princess. King Waldhark wrinkled his straight, sharp-pointed nose, far too delicate to his broad, drooping face. I betrothed the girl to an elven count last year, and the assassins have been on her heels ever since. Her old guard, a knight long outdated, died a moons’ turn ago and...

A gentle knock on the door cut the king off. He whirled in his seat and bellowed: Yes, enter! Have you forgotten how to read the time, old man?

The door was pushed open, and a tiny, bald, ancient man in loose, royal blue robes, a queer device of glass and leather on his eyes, limped inside. He shoved the door shut behind him and granted a stiff bow to the king: My apologies, Your Highness, but a message came...

From whom? The king drew up in his chair, and what little colour the wine had brought onto his face drained out. What about?

Your Highness, I’d rather not...

You, out! the king cut him off, pointing at Toren.

The old man lifted his frail, liver-spotted hand, soothing him: It's not urgent, Your Highness, I assure you. Keeping Lady Miona safe is more important at the moment. So, this is the man of Artemas’ choice?

He peered at Toren through the thick, round pieces of clear glass covering his eyes, making them look like the eyes of some nocturnal animal, all black pupils. Toren rose to bow to him: My lord.

I am no lord, sir, only a sage, said the old man with a hint of a smile. My name is Otmar. And you are?

Toren Eddesen. And I am no knight, but a mere sellsword.

The sage's hairless eyebrows arched: Truly? Well, I got in the habit of trusting Captain Aelefnar's judgment, and if he thinks you are the man for the job, I can but accept his decision.

He’s from Aenerhjelm, the king cut in. One of those famous Sons of Sty-Syt...

Stryader? The sage looked surprised. Why, in that case, we should count ourselves lucky! The reputation of your brotherhood has reached even our ears, duirn.

Toren flashed a scant smile to the old sage, pointing out: With all due respect, sage, you're higher in rank than me, so addressing me as a duirn isn’t necessary. You may call me by my given name.

Yes, of course. The old man seemed embarrassed. I ought to be ashamed of myself for not remembering even the rudiments of your habits. Very well, Toren. As I said, I trust the captain's judgment and welcome you to the court on my behalf.

King Waldhark tapped his goblet with one delicate finger, his thin, golden eyebrows furrowing deep. The goblet had the crown's crest, three white leaping deer on a royal blue background, enamelled into its side. He turned the cup in his hands, small for a man of his size, frowned even deeper, and asked suddenly: Do you like women, Toren?

As much as any man, Your Highness. Toren was honest.

The king grunted, looking displeased: And might you be as inept in keeping your hands off them as most of your kind?

No, Your Highness. I’m worse.

I know when to keep my hands to myself, Your Highness.

The king grunted again and slammed his goblet to the desk. The wine splashed all over his hand. He didn’t seem to notice it but declared: What more could be expected of the likes of you? You’ll get the job...

He spun to his cupbearer and held out his small, manicured hand, snapping: The gold!

The boy dug a pouch of soft, royal blue suede from the pocket of his white doublet and handed it to his liege with a stiff bow. The king tossed it straight to Toren.

Your Highness, I require no prepayment, he objected, but King Waldhark waved off his refusal with an impatient flick of a finger.

You take what's given and do as you're told! he snapped, his many jaws wobbling. And now you may be off to prepare for your duties. Guard!

The door flung open before his last word had absorbed into the golden and royal blue velvet lining the walls, and a young guard in blue and white rushed in: Your Highness?

Take the sellsword to his chambers and see that he knows where to go in the morning, the king commanded.

At once, Your Highness.

No, I meant at some point in the next bloody decade! The king rolled his bright, sky-blue eyes like a peevish little boy and went on: What have I ever done to deserve such a bunch of blockheads fluttering about me? Now, off with you two! Otmar, the message!

The ancient granted Toren a tiny, apologetic grimace as they passed. Toren shrugged ever so slightly and followed the guard out of the study.

The guard was scarcely a man grown, tall for a Giranian, with tawny hair and cool, steel-grey eyes. His face remained a mask of stone until they reached a wide, winding staircase at the end of the arcade. At the foot of the stairs, he stopped and glanced over at Toren, making a face: His Royal Wobbliness is ever so courteous...

The kings do not need to be polite, I reckon. Toren held on to the diplomacy. Whereas for the likes of me, the courtesy serves better than any armour on many an occasion.

The young guard’s grimace morphed into a grin: You’ll do brilliantly in this court, sir.

I got in the habit of getting on, Toren admitted. And I am no sir. You may call me...

I know your name, sir, the lad cut him off, starting up the stairs. Everyone talks about you in the barracks. You’ve made yourself a living legend in less than a quarter of an hour.

Why, that must be my personal record! Toren chortled. May I inquire, what did I do to gain such a reputation in such a short time?

Besides beating three of Captain Artemas’ best swordsmen? You tell me, I wasn’t there.

Oh, yes, that... Well, if those were the best swordsmen there are, I should advise your king to take off his crown right now and go crawling before Daeryik to beg for a truce.

Aloud Toren pointed out: I do have a sword twice as big as any of you.

The young guard eyed him from head to heel and allowed, amusement glinting in his grey eyes: I should believe you do, sir.

Toren snorted, tapping the black hilt of his twohanded greatsword, which he carried across his back: This one here is what I meant, young man.

What do you think I was talking about then? the guard countered, his eyes so wide and innocent that Toren couldn’t help but laugh.

A lad to his liking, certainly...

May I ask your name? he inquired after half a turn upwards.

Mikyr Novryek, sir.

A Vadaskian? I should’ve guessed as much by his height and colouring, though.

How come you’re here in this situation? Toren asked.

I belong to the Crown’s Guard. Mikyr shrugged. The king wanted to send me home after Daeryik declared the war, but the Robes advised him otherwise. No one has said it aloud, but I'm a hostage as much as a member of the Guard. My father is King Daeryik's third cousin from the mother's side, and these chumps believe I might have some value to Daeryik.

Toren knew the ruler of Vadaskia well enough to be sure that he wouldn't spare half a thought for the son of his third cousin. If the Robes, whoever they were, counsellors of the king as likely as not, thought they could use the boy to pressure Daeryik, they were fools, indeed, just as Mikyr claimed. Daeryik would laugh at such threats and offer to sever the boy’s head himself to spare Waldhark the trouble.

Are there more of your countrymen here?

A couple of younger boys who served as squires. They’re sons of even lesser chieftains than my father is. They’ve been made wards after the war started.

Yet, you were allowed to keep your place in the Guard...

I’ve pledged fealty to the Crown of Girania, Mikyr explained. I’ve dwelt here for the most of my life. To be honest, I scarcely remember home. I was four when I arrived here and have been training with the king’s men ever since. I'm not saying that King Daeryik doesn't have an excuse for his actions, but he could've at least tried to negotiate before hoisting up his axe.

What angered him in the first place? Toren inquired. I heard as many reasons for the war as there were people to tell the tale along the way but am not sure whether any of the stories has even a kernel of truth to them.

Mikyr nudged his head toward a ball-shaped lantern glowing white light on the pale-green stone wall at their left: Aureen. Girania holds the isles from where it’s mined, but Waldhark has granted slices of them as dowries to both King Daeryik and King Hamar of Erephonia. As it happens, Hamar got a fatter chunk, and when Daeryik found out about that, he demanded to be given as big a share. Waldhark didn’t consent, because Daeryik married his second daughter and asked for her hand himself, besides. Daeryik threatened to send his fleet to besiege the isles and hold them until Waldhark yielded to his demand. I'm not sure whether it was Waldhark's folly or his Council's. Either way, he declared that whoever sends their fleet to help him defend the isles gets Lady Miona’s hand in marriage and twice as big a share of the aureen mines as King Daeryik or even King Hamar possesses.

Small wonder, Daeryik went up the wall, Toren snorted.

Exactly. The Robes tried their best to patch things up, but Daeryik, ever an image of anger management, had already called up the chieftains. He sent the herald's body back to us in a gilded chest, the letter of conciliation stuffed up into his ass. Or so I've heard but might be the story has bilged somewhat along the way.

I wouldn't be too surprised even if it weren't, Toren stated. That's exactly the kind of thing Daeryik might do. Oh, are we here already?

Mikyr pushed open a lonely wooden door with handsome carvings on a small landing and grinned at his caustic remark: You'll find yourself in excellent shape after half of the moons in the Octower. This place is all about stairs and endless bloody corridors. Lady Miona's chambers are half a floor above, the door to your right. The nearest privy is up there as well, the door at the left.

Thank you, Mikyr.

My pleasure, sir. Have a good night.

Good night to you, too. Toren stepped into the dark chambers. A flicker of light wouldn’t do any harm...

There should be a lantern just beside the door. Mikyr leaned in beside him, groped the wall at his right, found the hem of a heavy cloth, and gave it a sharp yank.

The white light stabbed Toren’s eye. He turned his head away, grimacing. Mikyr handed the thick, black cloth to him, regretting: Sorry... It takes some time to get used to the aureen light. Cover the lanterns for the night but remember to take the cloths off for the days and open the curtains so that the stone might absorb the sunlight.

Is that how it works? Toren was astonished. I’ve always thought it just glows in the dark.

Well, you haven't been wrong, but the stone needs to be kept in the sunlight to glow, Mikyr explained. But if you want to know more, ask Otmar. I am no expert on the matter.

I will when I see him again.

That’ll be as soon as tomorrow morning. Lady Miona takes her lessons with him. But now you must excuse me, sir. His Wobbliness might need me, and the things being the way they are, I wouldn't want to keep him waiting. If you need anything, just ring this bell, and someone will come.

He touched a brass chain just outside Toren’s door to clank a large brass bell at the edge of the painted ceiling. Toren thanked him again. The young guard granted him a courteous bow: I hope you’ll find time to join us in the training yard now and then, sir.

As do I, Mikyr.

The guard whirled about and hurried back down the stairs, his royal blue cloak buckled on one shoulder to tumble down his back in soft folds, streaming behind him. Toren closed the door and glanced about the chamber. A servant, or most likely a slave, had piled his baggage beside the door. He gave the saddlebags a haphazard rummage-through to make sure everything was there. He had nothing much to steal if one wasn't in dire need of flint or a much-used razor. His most valuable belongings were his weapons and those he kept about his person, as well as his purse though it had been empty save for a few balls of lint when he had ridden through the palace’s gates earlier today.

The lack of coin had brought him to Octower. He had seen the royal declaration nailed on the door of a tavern where he had eaten and drunk his last coppers, and as he would’ve needed to take up a charge anyway, he had decided on seeking the place as a bodyguard in the court.

Twenty golden deer was a hefty reward for a few quarters of idling under a royal roof. Such an amount of gold was more than enough for a guy like him to roam through the continent from east to west and south to north, turning as many stones as needed to find his brother. Of course, spending two moons' turns in King Waldhark's court would put his search on hold, but at least he was where Adan had intended to travel.

The augur had told Dan to go as far west as the west goes. For all Toren knew, the Conqueror’s Cape was the westmost point of Braenduir. Initially, the city was built by the Elves, who had reigned the western parts of the continent for thousands of years before the first humans set foot on its shores, but it had been much smaller back then. The city had taken over the island and the best part of the headland during the three centuries of the Westerners’ regime. What once had been but four nested grindles masoned of pale green stone had swollen into a cramped maze of timber and clay buildings and narrow, shadowy ginnels. Though the Elves were long gone from the capitol, retreated to the southern counties of their kin beyond Willowflux, their memory lingered in the delicate ceiling paintings and other masterly details of the palace.

The Elves had never been friends with Toren's people, but he couldn't help feeling forlorn as he thought about all that was lost during the Era of the Conquests. His people fell first. They surrendered themselves to the Islanders, who came across the northern sea to drown the Jotuni into khorim and gems.

Their peaceful invasion was as destructive as the one the Westerners executed a couple of generations later with swords and fire, Toren thought gloomily as he unsheathed his black blade. His sword was forged of a mixture of iron and khorim, the black, liquid metal mined in the isles of Eidenmyr in the middle of the cold, northern sea and brought to Aenerhjelm, his motherland, by the Myrian whose descendants most of his countrymen were nowadays.

Khorim was challenging to work. The steel made with it needed to be forged and reforged dozens of times, preferably with magic, to harden the liquid metal. When done properly, a khorim blade was insuperable. It held its edge longer than any other steel and never broke unless it clashed with another khorim weapon. One could cut through almost anything with a khorim sword. Iron was like wood to it and wood was like butter. Toren had never tried to split stone with his greatsword but suspected that the weapon might survive even that.

He had gotten his two-handed sword as a boy when he was shorter than the blade. It was gifted to him when he left Uanneach to join the brotherhood. It was a handsome thing, five feet of rippled black steel with a rune-engraved cross guard, leather-draped grip, and an onyx pommel the shape of a wolf's head. He realised it was also utterly useless in the closed spaces as he ran the oiled cloth along the blade, gentle as a lover. He grimaced and pushed the sword back into its black leather scabbard. He could afford to buy two dozen new blades if he wanted to, thanks to King Waldhark's lavish prepayment, but would he need a short sword once this charge was over?

He made a tiny fire of kindles into the hearth masoned of the same pale green stone as all the structures of the palace and lit a couple of candles from it before covering the aureen lantern with the dense, black cloth. I’ll worry about the sword tomorrow, he decided, peeling off his uniform. He dropped the clothes where he stood on the multicoloured silk rug, eased himself into the luxurious feather bed, pulled an embroidered royal blue blanket to his navel, and fell asleep in a few heartbeats.

CHAPTER THREE

An Adventure to Catch

THE HARBOUR WAS EMPTY, save for a plump galleass. Her black sails flagged and slammed, fighting free of the ropes binding them to the masts though the air was dead calm.

Arron Grethsen moseyed along the long pier, which looked almost as dark in the lightless, non-directional light as the ship’s black hull. The galleass was all-black save for the name ‘Breeze Bitch’ bolted on its port side with high, slanting brass letters that glimmered in the dreamy light.

He saw movement behind the wheel and raised his hand to greet the vessel’s captain. Katrina Reushammer, whose short, golden hair shone like a beacon in the murkiness, returned the greeting with a lazy wave of her hand, flashing a wide, white smile as he got on board. Other crewmembers bustling on the decks greeted him with nods, and stubby, bald First Mate Eweret Lingryn said: Here again, are you?

It’s that pretty face of yours that keeps drawing me back, Arron grinned.

The old man winked at him before heading to the forecastle, shouting orders to the younger sailors. His pegleg clunked against the decks.

Arron climbed the steps to the wheel two at a time and kissed the captain on both cheeks: A pleasure as always, Lady Reushammer.

It’s Trina to you, too, Mister Grethsen, as I’ve told you a hundred times, snapped the captain, trying to sound frustrated.

Arron flashed a disarming grin, and a whisper of a smile glinted in Katrina’s hard, pale green eyes. They shone as bright as the tear-shaped emerald hanging from her left ear. He brushed the gem with a fingertip: This is a new one. Lovely. Does much more to you than that skull.

The captain grimaced, yanking the earring testily. Her pouty lips curled as she snapped: It was my favourite, damn it!

Was?

I lost it.

A pity. Somewhere here, on the ship?

I doubt that. But who cares? The world’s made of jewellery! She waved her hand in a careless arch, flashing a smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes. Where would you like to sail this time, Mister Grethsen?

On this vessel, with you guiding her, anywhere.

Katrina Reushammer wrinkled her tiny, pointy nose, pulling a round, brass object slightly smaller than her palm out of the pocket of her short, black leather vest. Arron never got bored watching the instrument she called the Star Compass. It was no thicker than half an inch but under the glass arched the whole night sky with thousands and thousands of stars and both moons.

At the moment, Beletolhemos and Avelelatos were only thin crescents, barely visible among the stars. Their sharp points would almost touch when they met at the zenith on their endless journey across the sky from south to north and north to south.

The captain spun the compass slowly in her hand, making the countless stars inside it twinkle and glint and dance.

One day, you’ll tell me where you want to be taken, she muttered, focusing on the compass like she was talking to it rather than to Arron.

How could I tell you something I don’t know myself? Arron asked as he had dozens of times before.

They had the same conversation every time he sailed on Breeze Bitch, and every time it was equally short and fruitless. Katrina snorted, turning a little knob on the side of the Star Compass once, twice, and yet half a turn. In the western sky, a constellation named Sea Serpent started to shine brighter than any other star.

Hmm, she muttered. Hm-hmm... Is that so? Would such be wise? Be that as it may, we sail where the stars lead us, as always. Oi, Lingryn! We’re heading west!

West? Eweret Lingryn sounded puzzled.

He had sneaked to them unnoticed despite his wooden leg: Are you serious?

See for yourself. Katrina handed the compass to him.

Sure enough! scuffed the first mate. So be it, we’ll sail west. Oi, men! Prow towards the western horizon!

Arron leaned against the railing, watching in amazement again as a dozen pairs of massive, brass oars were pushed out from the galleass’ hull, and the oarsmen started to row her to the open sea with strong, steady pulls. The sea was dark and calm, and the leaf-shaped oars broke the surface with a gentle splash. Soon, Breeze Bitch flew forth, the black waters churning at her rear. Arron had never seen the rowers, but judging by the speed they could gain, there must be quite a bunch of them.

Oars in, wings out! roared First Mate Lingryn, and the oars were pulled back inside as silently as they had slid out.

At the sides of the galleass, two sets of enormous, black, brass-framed dragon wings opened, and she started her slow, graceful climb up in the air.

The captain rested her lean hand on the wheel, smiling at the marvel and joy glowing on the young soldier’s face. The draft tousled his dark, wavy shock of a hair, and the wild delight gleaming in his amethyst-coloured eyes brushed Trina’s heart, too, bursting out as a short ring of laughter.

She left the wheel to Eweret and went to lean against the gunnel beside Arron. He draped his arm about her waist. She let it stay there, huddling softly against him, raised her jewelled spyglass, and peered to the silver-flecked darkness ahead. Breeze Bitch spiralled towards the inky sky, towards the twinkling, swirling stars, swift as a skylark. Far in the west, the Sea Serpent glittered in bright, tight coils among the dimmer stars.

Nameless anxiety twitched Katrina’s stomach. She pursed her lips, folding the spyglass, and raised her left hand to caress the nape of the young man’s neck. Arron gave her a surprised sidelong glance but squeezed her closer, smiling, more with his eyes than his lips. She couldn’t hold back a wistful sigh. Had Arron Grethsen been even a sliver more graceful, he’d be too fair to be a male. His features were proportionate, his eyes like amethysts or gathering thunderclouds, lilac and purplish, lucid, and deep as the sea below. His expression was earnest yet flaked with the tiniest hint of undefined wistfulness.

If you told me what you’re seeking, it would be much easier for me to help you find it, Katrina prompted, rolling a short lock of his tar-brown hair around her forefinger.

But I seek nothing, he claimed.

Of course, you do! she snapped. You wouldn’t be here if you didn’t.

You’re mistaken. I don’t look for anything. I come here because I like it on board this ship. And because I enjoy your company, Lady Reushammer.

Trina.

As you wish, m’diarn.

Katrina let out an impatient huff, giving his hair a brisk tug. He just grinned and ruffled her bristly, red-golden hair, which she kept short-cropped for practical reasons. His fingertips brushed her earlobe, making her spine prickle. This can’t go on, she half-heartedly scolded herself, pulling away from him. He’s not for me to meddle with. Whatever the reason he keeps getting on board, it must be found out before I... Katrina shook her head, banishing the framing thought like an irritating fly buzzing by the ear, and marched back to the wheel, shooing the first mate on his way.

The galleass rushed across the sky like an enormous, black, and brass swan. Her figurehead, a wooden harpy wearing a malicious grin on her sharp-featured face, cleaved the motionless air with her outstretched arms. The onyxes she bore as eyes, flashed ominously. The old first mate rested his hands on the railing, gazing at the star-dappled darkness in silence for a long while.

To the west, eh? he finally prompted in his thoughtful manner. What’s there for you, lad?

How should I know? Katrina’s compass guides us there, not me, Arron pointed out.

The Compass guides where the Seeker needs to go, said Eweret. So far, it hasn’t pointed either here or there, but now it finally showed us a direction.

I still don’t understand; why do you all seem to think I’m seeking anything, anywhere.

You wouldn’t get onboard Bitch if you weren’t seeking something or in mortal peril, and apparently, the latter is not the case.

No, Arron admitted. But I never come here on purpose. I just find you on a coincidence.

Coincidences don’t happen with this vessel, laddie. Breeze Bitch finds those who seek, not the other way around.

Then maybe she knows what I’m supposed to be looking for because I haven’t got the faintest idea! Arron snapped, unable to keep the irritation off his voice.

Eweret ignored his sharp tone and continued observing the horizon with his amber eyes, which had the same queer gleam as in his captain’s pale-green ones though much softer and warmer. When Eweret Lingryn smiled, the smile wrinkled the corners of his eyes and lit them up like little, tawny lanterns. His smiles were rare and curt, but his chapped, squarish face was gentle, and the corners of his thin mouth curved upwards in a hint of an ever-smile. His pegleg, shaped like a goat’s hoof, clattered against the wide deck planks when he turned to Arron.

Are you completely happy with your life, truly? Isn’t there anything missing? he prompted. Haven’t you ever lost anything you’d wish to retrieve?

Don’t say there’s not, or you haven’t, he continued when the stubborn lines appeared around Arron’s mouth. No life’s perfect. There’s always something missing. Even if it was nothing more than a pair of new mittens.

He rubbed his darned, bark-brown mittens together and added: And everyone has lost something or someone at some point. Even if it was nothing but a tiny skull-shaped earring.

Maybe I’m looking for an adventure. The young man shrugged after a short silence. My life could certainly be more eventful.

An adventure, eh? Eweret mused. Why, that might even be it! Quite an unusual reason to get on board this vessel, but... Why not? May I give you a piece of advice, though?

Fire away.

An adventure is ever a double-edged blade, said the first mate to the darkness ahead. And in most cases, an adventure tends to find us rather than the other way around. Usually, when we least expect and wish for it.

He fell silent. Arron waited for a while to hear his promised advice, but Eweret remained speechless, studying the stars with his queer, lantern-like eyes.

So, what’s your advice? Arron prompted.

I already gave it to you, the old man declared. Now, tell me, where do you think we are right now?

Arron glared at him, puzzled by the sudden change of the subject: How should I know? I’ve never sailed these seas... Flown above these seas, I mean. Or any seas, for that matter.

The first mate sighed: Let me reform the question for you. In which world do you think we are?

Arron stared at him for a good many heartbeats, speechless. He glanced about to see if there was anyone else around to give him a hand should the old man’s lunacy turn out to be the dangerous kind. For all Arron knew, in the next heartbeat, he might start imagining he was a seagull and jump over the railing into the black nothingness below...

Arron cleared his throat slightly and inquired, aiming for an indifferent tone: Are there worlds, then?

Many? the First Mate of Breeze Bitch snorted. There’re countless worlds, laddie! But the question was, in which one do you think we are currently?

Um... Arron yanked a hand through his wind-ruffled hair.

He had never stopped to think about all the peculiarities of this place nor even how he got here time after another. Now that he did, though, he realized he didn’t know how he had gotten to the harbour.

Every time he just found himself walking along the pier, and every time, Breeze Bitch was there, waiting for him, her sails flapping in the non-existent wind. Every time they took wing to find something unnamed and undefined, he was supposed to be looking for...

There are no flying galleasses! Such don’t exist. Not anywhere, save for maybe in a...

Dream! he scuffed the last word aloud in a gust of laughter. But of course! This is a dream!

Indeed, it is. A meek smile curved Eweret Lingryn’s lips. The world itself is called Bruadduir, in the old tongue once spoken in Braenduir. Do you know Faerang, lad?

Arron shook his head: No... No one in Aenerhjelm speaks it any longer, save for those schooled in Uanneach.

Hmm... hummed the first mate, his expression growing wistful. That’s the way of the world, I guess. Evolution rolls on, and many good things are forgotten, buried under the ashes of time. Languages, legends, gods...

Brooding over the past again, are you, old man? Katrina Reushammer’s cheerful voice interrupted.

She had given the wheel to the ship mage and strode to them with a dazzling smile upon her pretty face. She elbowed between them and looped a sinewy arm about Arron’s waist: We’re almost there. Look, there’s the coastline.

She pointed at the blackness below. Arron squinted, but all he could see was darkness. The captain leaned back, pulling him with her as the galleass tilted into a steep dive towards the gleaming, onyx sea. The water reflected the stars so clearly that, for a moment, the world seemed to have flipped upside-down.

The galleass landed soundless and graceful as some colossal sea bird. The wings were folded, and the oars pushed out again. The first mate returned to his duties, and Captain Reushammer dug the Star Compass out of her pocket.

Inside of it, the stars seemed to have fallen closer. There were just a couple of twinkling constellations visible now. Brighter than any other, almost blindingly white, glowed the Sea Serpent curling across the western sky. Both inside the compass and on the sky above, it shone at the starboard side of the ship, and at the port side, Arron thought he glimpsed dim, jagged shapes poking up from the water like darkness condensing from the darkness. The western coastline of the Torn Continent.

Would there indeed be an adventure waiting for him there? Why not? In a dream, anything was possible. Arron squeezed the captain closer as the ship took a swift turn towards the dark mass that was the coast.

They sailed towards a city. Towards a harbour from where dozens of long, wide piers protruded to the open sea. They looked similar to the one Bitch usually docked in but were crowded with people, trunks, sacks, and tiny, pointy-eared ship dogs yipping and yapping among the mob. The people bustled back and forth, breaking bulks from ships and boats.

The sight of the dogs made Katrina gasp: How cute are those! How come we don’t have one aboard, Eweret? Eweret!

Because you’ve told us not to take an animal on board, captain, reminded the gruff, rasping voice of the mage. You say that cleaning its droppings would befall your burden no matter how solemn promises the crew would give of taking care of it.

Katrina made an annoyed face but sighed: As it would. See that no one brings a dog on board!

As you command, promised the mage. For as long as you won’t threaten to walk me up the cloud plank when I tell you not to do so yourself either.

The captain’s language was harsh enough to make even Arron’s ears burn though he spent his days among the other soldiers who certainly didn’t bother to bridle their tongues. The mage ignored her rudeness and turned his attention back to steering the galleass to the docks.

Arron could feel his onyx eyes, deep and emotionless like two abysmal wells, drilling holes into the nape of his neck as he turned about to face the captain. The ship mage had made him feel somewhat uneasy since his first visit to Breeze Bitch, and the feeling didn’t seem to abate.

He forgot about the man, however, as the captain pushed him at arm’s length and eyed him from head to heel, the disapproval wrinkling her face: Is this an outfit fit for the Market?

Why’s my garb suddenly bothering you? Arron was confused. And what market are you talking about?

The Spring Market, of course! That’s where we’re heading. And for that, you need something, um, more suitable to wear. Come.

I wasn’t aware of such an event. And what’s wrong with my clothes?

Why else come here if not for the Market? If you’re seeking anything at all at these parts of the continent, the best place to start is the Spring Market, Katrina claimed. And there’s nothing wrong with your garb. It just isn’t fitted for the occasion. Come on! The sooner we get there, the faster you’ll find what you’re looking for.

Listen, Trina...

The captain whirled at him, making him jump half a step back. Katrina Reushammer was even in the three-inch heels of her maroon, over-the-knee boots more than a foot and a half shorter than him and had to fold her neck almost double to look him in the eye. Nevertheless, she smiled, and for the first time, the expression met her eyes, enlightening her gaze like a spring sun peeking through the new leaves.

Finally! she tinged. I had given up hope, you’d ever call me anything but ‘captain’ or ‘lady’! Though now I’m afraid I owe some coppers to Mister Lingryn...

Have you two been betting on that? Arron snorted.

He proposed it after you visited us the last time. Trina’s grin was defensive. He was convinced you’d give up being formal the next time you got on board, but I said it would still take you a couple of moons’ turns.

I’m sorry to let you down, Arron chuckled. How much will my loose tongue cost you?

Never mind that! I’m just glad that the time of formality is finally over.

She took Arron by the hand and walked him into the cabin. Arron felt the onyx-eyed mage’s venomous glare drilling his forehead but kept his own eyes cast down. So far, Katrina and Eweret had been the only members of Breeze Bitch’s crew he had had anything more to do with, but now he had an ominous feeling that it might change sooner than he had hoped, and not in a way, he would’ve preferred.

Your mage seems to dislike me for some reason, he said in an indifferent tone when Katrina closed the door of her luxurious cabin behind them.

Grimwryth? Don’t let him ruin your day. The man is the essence of dislike, she grimaced, yanking open the lid of a huge, wooden trunk patterned with bright-coloured birds. "The truth is, I’d have left him ashore ages ago unless we needed him so desperately... Ah,