Scar Felice (The Fourth Age of Shanakan Book 3) (6 page)

“Felice!”

She turned, and could see Pelorus. He was tied to the great wheel and even as she watched he fought it, keeping the ship at least partly headed into the wind. He vanished as water poured over the deck again, and emerged from the foam as it subsided, shaking water from his head and salt from his eyes.

She studied the ropes on the deck, and seeing a way she began to crawl across the deck towards the stern, watching every moment for the next wave, wrapping the rope around her arm when she saw it coming. Eventually she reached the broken rail that stood just before the raised deck. The captain was only a few yards away.

“Can you swim?” he shouted.

“In this?” She could not believe the question.

“Can you swim?” he repeated, louder, almost angry.

“A little. Not well,” she shouted.

Pelorus cursed, and another wave swept the ship. He struggled grimly with the wheel.

“The shore!” he called, gesturing with his head.

Then she heard it, a deep hammering sound that had been lost in the noise of the ship, booming like thunder, and raising her body from the deck she could see through the curtains of rain and spray the dark line of land, and the white fury that was the sea beating upon it. Swim? She would need to be able to fly to get past that.

She shook her head at Pelorus. “No!” she shouted.

“Thirty minutes,” the captain shouted back. “The ship will be on those rocks. We have lost the boats, couldn’t have launched them in this anyway.”

She looked again at the shore, and she understood. When the ship hit, the rocks would chew it up. The whole magnificent structure would become a mass of splitting, twisting timber and iron, dying beneath the hammer of the surf. Alone in the sea a strong swimmer might have a small chance, might be cast over the rocks by the waves themselves.

So they were all going to die.

Fear was suddenly gone, and she was filled again by the anger that she had felt before, the rage that gave her strength. She pulled on the ropes, dragging herself away from the captain and towards the bows, towards the wind and the sea that beat mercilessly on the ship. As she fought her way to the bow the rage grew into a towering fury, a white hot fire that burned all else from her mind. Her father had always accused her of having a temper, but it was a rare thing, and like lightning it burned away and passed in an instant. Now it did not pass, but grew and grew. It fed on her outrage and helplessness. She felt as if the entire world had turned against her.

She stood, eventually, in the bow of the ship. The rail here was intact and she gripped it with white knuckles, staring into the waves that broke against her and the wind that tore at her wet clothes.

“I’m not afraid of you!” she shouted at the ocean. It answered with a wave that slapped her face, pushed her back, but she did not let go of the rail. “You are nothing!” she shouted. “I drink you, I bathe in you, you are nothing but a dog that obeys its master, a weak thing, a servant!”

Another wave crashed over the bow and she swallowed water, but it only made her angrier.

“And you,” she spat into the gale. “The mighty wind. It is you that drives the water, lifts up the sea, but you are no more than a tool, a whip to beat the dog. There is no power in you but the hand that holds you. I cool myself with you on a hot day. I breathe you, and my hand passes through you! You are nothing!”

Still the wind howled and the sea rose once more and tried to beat her from the rail, but she held on.

“You!” she shouted, now staring upwards through the storm to the faintest hint of lighter sky. “You are the hand that holds the whip. You are the fire, the sun, the light. It is you that calls the storm, beats the sea, and yet you hide behind clouds. What do you want? What?” She paused, gasping for breath. In spite of the cold sea and the wild wind she felt hot, her anger flowing through her like molten rock through a violent mountain. The water struck at her again, and the roaring of the surf grew in her ears. She felt none of it.

“You want my burden?” she demanded. “I give it to you! Go to Samara. Hunt down the creature that killed my brother. Kill him for me!”

Nothing changed. The surf roared still upon the rocks and the wind ripped across the deck.

“No?” she shouted mockingly into the face of the wind. “You do not want it?” She dipped her head for a moment, catching her breath, gathering her strength. “Then leave me alone! Stop this! Go away!” All her hate and anger gathered in her throat and came out as one explosive scream. “Be gone!”

There was nothing left. The cold could no longer touch her, and she barely felt the wind and rain. The sky seemed to darken and her knees felt like water. Raising her head one last time she looked up into the sun’s hiding place, and then the world went black.

*              *              *              *

Pelorus saw her fall. In only seconds another wave would sweep the deck, carrying her from the larboard bow over the starboard rail, or the place where the rail had been. He knew, too, that there was no way he could reach her in time. Even had he not been tied to the wheel it was just too far in too short a time.

“Catch her!” he roared over the sound of the wind, but even as the words were formed he felt the ship plunging down again, saw the wave into which the bow was about to disappear. At the same moment the figure of a sailor hurled across the deck from somewhere close to her, and he was faster than the wave. He crashed into the rails beside her, and Pelorus saw one hand wind into the rails while the other encircled her waist. It was only a moment before the wave came, and he waited for anxious seconds while the white water surged over them all.

When it cleared she was still there, held in place by the bold sailor who had made the saving leap across the wild deck. But what now? He looked across to where Yan, the mate, was roped to the rail.

“We have to abandon the ship,” he called. Yan nodded, looked out towards the shore with an appraising eye.

“We have time,” he replied. “I will go below and check.” He began to undo the ropes, struggling with sea-chilled fingers.

The movement of the ship changed. It was slight, but both the men sensed it, and a look passed between them. It was the wind. For a moment it was less. The moment became longer and Pelorus was sure that he felt it shifting to the north as it dropped. He put more energy into turning the wheel again, and for the first time in hours he felt the Sea Swift respond, ever so slightly, to the helm’s command. He looked up and saw Yan staring at him.

“Do we have anything that will carry sail?” he shouted.

“It was her,” the mate responded, ignoring his question. “It was the girl that stopped the storm. You saw her.”

“I saw her collapse. I saw nothing else, and the storm hasn’t stopped.” But the wind continued to weaken and back round to the north. “Can we carry sail?” The shore was very close now, and even though the wind was dropping the waves continued to pound the rocks fiercely.

“We can get a spar up on the foremast,” the mate said.

“Now, Yan. Do it now.” The masts themselves were unbroken, and even with no sail the wind tugged at them, providing the smallest amount of steerage. The shore was coming no closer, and although the ship still dashed into the sea the water no longer broke so much over the bow. It was beginning to turn with the wind.

We are going to make it, he thought, allowing himself to believe for the first time. I’ll see Pek again. I’ll see Helena.

Men scattered about the deck, and he saw the sailor who had saved Felice carrying her across the steps and back down to her cabin. It truth he could not allow himself to think the way Yan did. He had seen what he had seen, but she was just a girl, and this was just a ship, and the storm was just a storm.

Felice dreamed that the storm was gone, that the ship was saved. She smelled the dry, clean sheets of her bunk on the Sea Swift. She felt the gentle motion of the sea. It was as though the storm had never happened, but it was only a dream. It came and went.

She felt the sun. There were sounds that she had never heard before. Voices spoke nearby, and their accent was strange. The meaning of their words passed her by. The motion of the ship changed, too, and she felt jostled and jolted. There was a sense of motion, and a face above her, like the sun looking down, but not happy. It spoke words to her, and the tone was friendly, but she understood nothing. New smells came to her, and new sounds. She thought there were horses, but she was puzzled where the horses could have come from on a ship.

Nothing touched her. There was no heat and no cold, no pain and no pleasure, and yet she could not stay focussed on anything for more than a few seconds. The world slipped out from under her scrutiny like a greased pig at a town fair. She drifted. Sometimes it was night, and sometimes it was day.

She remembered rain and wind, and it distressed her, she thought the storm had returned. She cried out and voices spoke soothing words. Something cool was laid across her brow and she felt safe again. So time passed.

She opened her eyes.

There was light, but no form to it. The world was seen as though through a veil of thin cotton. There was light in one place and shade in another, but no lines between them.

“The wanderer returns.” The voice that spoke was a woman’s. It was kind, and gentle. It spoke with the familiar Scar accent and she did not feel afraid.

She turned her head and saw a shape beside her, a shadow that could have been a person.

“Where am I?” she asked.

“In bed. You have been travelling the borders of death, but that country could not hold you. Now you are returning to life.”

“I remember nothing. Who am I?”

“Scar Felice,” the woman answered. “You were born and raised in the Scar. You are scarred on the outside, you are scarred on the inside, and to the Scar you will return.”

“Prophecy?”

“Common sense. Scar folk…”

“…Are better in the Scar. I don’t like the name. Who are you?”

The woman laughed. There was no malice in the laughter, just a sort of tired delight.

“Am I dreaming?”

The woman hesitated. “Yes,” she said. “Dreaming.”

“Will I remember when I wake up?”

“Your life? Yes. It will all come back. This? Some of it. You will remember three things that I tell you.”

“What things?”

“When you look in the mirror you do not see what others see.”

“I don’t understand.”

“That is not required. The second thing is that the Shan know that you are coming.”

“The creatures that see truth?”

“The same.”

“This also I do not understand. What do the Shan want with me?”

“The third thing is the most important. Do not seek vengeance. Seek justice. Vengeance will cost you more than you can imagine.”

The shape moved beside the bed, began to fade as though drawing away.

“Who are you?” she asked again, and again there was laughter.

“Felice,” the voice was distant, faint. “Don’t you recognise your own voice?”

She opened her eyes.

Everything seemed sharp, and nothing was familiar. She was clearly not on the Sea Swift. The ceiling above her was plaster, painted white, and it was a long way above her, perhaps twelve feet. The white plaster was brightly lit by the sun, which streamed across from her right. It was warm, and a cool breeze touched her, scented with flowers that seemed exotic and yet familiar. Everything seemed clean and new.

She turned her head and saw that she was in a room, lying on a bed. A tall window was beside her and she could see the tops of trees waving gently beyond it, and a blue sky beyond them. Beside the window was a chair, and in the chair sat a young girl. She watched the girl for a while. She was about ten years old, at a guess, and sat with her face turned towards the sun with her eyes half closed. She was too small for the chair, and her feet swung a few inches above the floor. She wore a simple white dress, and her pale hair was loose, but cut short, framing a brown, pretty face, with brown eyes and clear, unmarked skin. She was singing quietly to herself in a clear, tuneful voice.

Something, some small sound, must have alerted the child, for she turned her face towards Felice.

“Are you awake?”

“I don’t know,” she replied. “I think so, but so much has seemed a dream lately. Where am I?”

“My house,” the child replied, and with a shock that chilled her, Felice realised that the girl was blind. Her eyes didn’t focus, and looked vaguely in her direction, flicking from side to side in a useless, questing dance. “I’ll go and tell father,” she said, and before Felice could think of anything more to say she was gone, running from the room with a light step, as though not at all hindered by her ruined eyes.

She tried to sit up, and her arms gave way. She was weak, probably weaker than the child who had just left. With an effort she managed to lever herself higher against the bed head and gained a better view out of the window.

She could see the sea. It was only a thin strip of blue joining two clumps of trees, but she could see it, and now that she could its voice came to her as well. It was a gentle noise, a rush and a sigh, a pause, then another rush, another sigh. It was like a giant breathing.

“Felice!”

She looked and saw Pelorus, but it was a different man from the one she had known in Yasu. Now he was respectable, dressed in a white tunic and trousers, hair trimmed, beard shaved clean. He looked concerned and happy at the same time.

“Where am I?” she asked.

“A spare room,” he said. “My house. Pek.”

She closed her eyes for a moment. This was safety. They had survived the storm.

“How long have I been here?” she asked.

“Ten days. We thought we were going to lose you for a while. You had a fever. The doctor said it was the cut. Infected.”

She put her hand up to her face and felt the ugly furrow of the scar, tracing it with a finger tip. It felt clean and dry. There was no pain. She did feel a sense of urgency, though. Ten days was a long time to be stranded in Pek.

“I am in your debt, Captain.”

“I would have done the same for anyone,” he said. “How could I have done else?”

“As you say, but thanks anyway. Now I must continue my journey. Can you arrange passage for me to Samara?”

“Not yet,” he said. “The doctors have said that you will need at least a week to regain your strength.”

“I’m sure I’m fine,” she said. She tried to swing her legs over the side of the bed, but found herself almost immediately tired. Everything felt so heavy.

“You’ve lost a third of your weight,” Pelorus said. “You’re as weak as a kitten, and I doubt you could make it to the front door, never mind the docks.”

She lay back in the bed, feeling the truth of his words. “I am hungry,” she said.

He smiled and turned to the door.

“Helena!”

The blind girl appeared again. She must have been standing only a few feet away.

“Father?”

“Go down to the kitchens and tell Netra that we need food. Nothing healthy, mind. Lots of meat and cheese.”

The child ran off, and Pelorus helped Felice to sit up in the bed. He was gentle, and fussed around her like a sick child. It made her wonder.

“Your wife…?” she asked.

“Dead,” he said, but it was an old wound. She could see that by the look in his eyes; a little sadness, but no pain. “She died when Helena was born.” He glanced out of the door the way the child had gone. “She was born blind,” he said. “And her hand does not work as it should.”

“I’m sorry.”

“We have grown used to it,” he said. There was a sigh in his voice. “I blame myself, really,” he said. “She could have been cured.”

“How so?” Felice had never heard of a doctor who could cure such things. They were beyond skill.

“I used to take her with me when I went to sea. She was a mascot to the crew, and she loved ships, loved being with her father the captain. They were good times even before we had the Sea Swift. I had a smaller ship then, just ten crew, and we used to ply a trade between here and Samara, small cargoes, small profits. She was with me when the Saratans attacked Pek, and then with me when Borbonil came.”

“The Faer Karani?”

“The same. He was sent here by Serhan after the defeat of the Saratans at Samara, told to heal the people and fix the city. If she had been here she would have been healed. Others were.”

“You should not reproach yourself, Captain. You acted to protect her. Nobody could have known what was to happen. Those were wild times.”

“Yes, I know that you are right, but every time I see her eyes I remember.” He straightened his back and turned his head to the sun, shaking off the past. “Anyway,” he went on, “you must stop calling me
captain
. It’s proper on the Swift, but here you may call me Jem.”

She nodded, and searched for something to say that would not add to the melancholy of the moment, but Helena saved them, pushing through the door with a tray piled high with food. The smell of it filled the room, and Felice realised just how hungry she was.

Pelorus excused himself and took Helena with him, leaving her to eat in private. There was too much food, of course, and she was soon full, her starved stomach resisting her desire to clear the tray. She leaned back and looked out of the window at the strip of blue sea and the green trees. Perhaps it was the place, or the weakness that she felt, or even the passing of the fever, but now the fire of hatred was gone.

Had she been insane on the ship? She remembered howling at the wind and the sea, cursing the sun itself. The fever, perhaps, she thought. Her mind was already tortured by grief, and with the fever on top of that, reason had deserted her. She wished that she had not come. She should have gone back to East Scar with Kendric and the drovers.

She felt tears on her cheek, and she wept again for Todric.

I will do what I set out to do. I will see justice done, but no more than that. She remembered something from a dream about the price of vengeance, and it was a sharp, clear memory.

I will have justice, just that. No more. No less.

*              *              *              *

During her time in the captain’s house she grew fond of Jem Pelorus and his blind daughter. The girl lacked all bitterness. She knew that she lacked sight, but having been blind from birth she did not know what it was. She did not seem to miss it.

Jem enforced a strict rule in the house that no piece of furniture, no rug or ornament was to be relocated, and this gave Helena a substitute for sight. She ran through the rooms guided by memory, swerved around chairs, raced though doors, confident and happy in her stationary world. The gardens, too, were unchanging.

Felice was astonished, when she was eventually able to make her way around the house, by its size. It was on two storeys, arranged in a square around a central courtyard that boasted a pool of clear water that was home to many large golden fish and broad leaved plants with white, waxy flowers. More plants stood like sentries at all the entrances to the courtyard, two to a door, and their blooms filled the space with a pleasing scent. She enjoyed sitting by the pool, watching the smooth creatures in the water glide about their business without seeming to expend any effort at all.

The girl made a habit of coming to her while she sat in the courtyard, reading. Felice had discovered Jem’s library, which spoke to her of a great urge to collect. There were dozens of volumes, and she became accustomed to picking one out and sitting in the sun while she read. Helena would come to her and ask her to read aloud, and so she did. The child did not ask questions, but sat quietly, leaning her body against Felice, listening to the words.

She did not neglect the need for exercise. There was an orchard next to the house, and each day she would walk around it. At first one circuit of the small space would tire her, but she persevered, and soon could walk round it many times. Her strength was returning. She walked many times each day.

In Yasu she had thought of Pelorus as a sea captain, a trader, but now she saw him as a merchant prince, if there was such a thing in this new world. As well as the Sea Swift he owned his older, smaller boat, the Free Spirit. He had two warehouses – one by the dock and the other on the landward side of Pek. Numerous wagons, which he owned, were driven constantly on trading trips by the dozens of men that he employed. She thought that he must be the richest man in the city.

When she was strong enough she walked to the docks. They were not distant from the house, just down a shallow hill, a hill adorned with houses on the same scale as Jem’s, and through a park filled with green trees and lush open spaces. Pek, of course, was a lot bigger than Yasu, and the docks were bigger, too. In all she counted seventeen ships moored along the piers, and there was room for many more.