At first Bynthos followed her finger surreptitiously, but within a few phrases, he leaned forward. His gaze locked upon the page, his whole body intent.
“Can you see this letter here?” Tsorreh said softly. “It begins both ‘rain’ and ‘rope.’ When I was a child, I always thought it looked like a spiked head of grain. In Meklavar, we call it
ran
, but the Gelonian word is
reth
.”
“
Reth
.”
“Yes, like the ancient word for barley. They each have names, these letters, and once you know the sounds, they tell you the words.”
“
Reth
,” he repeated. Then, bending once more over the book, he pointed. “It is here, and here…and here. Show me another.”
Smiling to herself, Tsorreh went on. “Here is
lam
, like the neck of a camel. And here, this little mark that is almost no mark at all, it is
aph
, the indrawn breath before you speak.”
In Tsorreh’s memory, her mother held her close as they traced the letters together. Even so had she herself read to Zevaron. Candles had burned in a many-branched holder, their light sweet and warm. Beyond the walls of the house, night had lain like a velvet cloak over the city. A cat mewed plaintively, bells jingling from its collar. Someone played a lullaby on a wooden flute.
“Here is the first breath, and the last, and all between,”
Tsorreh’s mother had said. “
Here is love and hatred, folly and understanding. Here is the story of Khored, and how his magic saved the world, that we might remember and honor him.”
They went on in this manner for some hours, letter by letter, until the lantern burned low. Menelaia roused, the reading lesson came to an end, and Bynthos took his leave. Menelaia made a pallet for herself on the floor from a folded blanket they discovered in the compartment beneath the bed. Tsorreh extinguished the lantern and went to sleep.
The next day passed very much as before, a day of confinement in the tiny cabin, of monotony broken only by the arrival of food and water, the unending rise and fall of the ship, the smells of salt air and fish. Again the ship came into harbor as the sun fell. When Bynthos brought dinner, Tsorreh asked him why they spent each night near land and not at sea.
“It is the custom, whenever possible, and Lord Mortan has ordered it. Perhaps he believes that the monsters who roam these waters attack at night. More likely, it is to keep us out of the way of pirates. And then, it is more difficult to navigate out of sight of land when the stars cannot be seen.”
Tsorreh mulled over the implications of his words. Lawless seamen, many of them Denariyan, were said to ply these waters. She had not considered the difficulty of staying on course when surrounded by waves in every direction.
The strange sense of disorientation returned, along with the image of floating on a vast sea. She felt adrift, even here, even at anchor.
Monsters.
Something beyond the motion of the ship that made her ill. She imagined lightless depths and strange beasts rising from them, moving slowly, inexorably. The room slipped sideways.
She stood on a cliff above an ocean. Waves rose at her call…no, not her call but that of the great king. From deep in the shadows beneath the waters, power stirred and took form: a great head, eyes huge and pale as pearls, mane like tangled seaweed, horns of polished coral.
“My lady?” Menelaia stepped to her side, touched her arm. “Is anything amiss?”
Tsorreh blinked. The cabin, now familiar in the light of the lantern, filled her vision, blotting out the image of the sea beast.
“I’m quite well,” she said quickly. “I was just thinking.” She turned to Bynthos. “Captain, you sound as if you do not share these fears.”
“I’m not Gelon-born, for all that I now sail under her command,” Bynthos said. “I’d just brought a cargo into Gatacinne when the invasion began. With Gelon barricading the harbor, the only way any of us leaves is at their bidding. One cargo’s as good as another, it’s said.”
“What cargo?” Tsorreh asked.
“Loot from the city, whatever they could pile together as prizes for the Ar-King.” He did not add that she herself was booty.
“Where are we bound?”
“First to Verenzza and then across to the mainland. That’s as far as the
Silver Gull
can sail. You’ll go upriver by barge to Aidon.”
“Have you been there? What is it like? What sort of man is the Ar-King?”
Besides an arrogant, power-hungry tyrant?
“Aye, I’ve visited Aidon once or twice,” Bynthos said. “A marvel it is, that city, with wide streets and gardens everywhere, and palaces of white marble shining in the sun. I’ve
heard it called the Crossroads of the World, the Pearl of Gelon.”
Tsorreh found herself smiling. This sea captain was a poet! After that, they walked on deck together and he showed her the various parts of the ship. They watched the waves, slightly luminescent along the curve of beach and the black line of the headland. Points of light glimmered through a rent in the clouds. On the following nights, Tsorreh continued the reading lessons, this time from the Gelonian histories.
As Bynthos had said, they came eventually to Verenzza, formed from massive jagged peaks that thrust upward from the ocean. The harbor was deep, its wharves built out from the narrow rocky beaches. Tsorreh had learned from her reading that the island was an important center for Gelonian naval power. The attack on Gatacinne had been launched from here. Even as she had sensed a deep, brooding intelligence below the waves, so now something reached out to her from the dark volcanic peaks, a wordless elemental power, long slumbering, beyond human comprehension. She felt it even in the confines of the cabin.
At Verenzza, they rested for a few days while the ship was reprovisioned. Tsorreh glimpsed wharves of weather-bleached wood, ships with square or triangular sails, white sails, red sails, black sails, prows carved with dragons and sea beasts, all crowded in between smaller vessels, boats laden with fish and sponges, and coracles paddled by half-naked boys who shouted and held out strings of shells for sale. The smells of fish and salt water, of refuse and seaweed, filled the air. Seabirds wheeled overhead, emitting shrill cries. Once or twice, Tsorreh caught sight of a sleek-headed creature keeping pace with their boat. It was not a dolphin, but she could not think what else it might be.
She and Menelaia were not allowed to go ashore, but sufficient fresh water was brought onboard for them to wash themselves and their clothes. By this time, Menelaia had recovered from her seasickness. She took charge, hanging the clean garments from ropes strung across the deck.
To Tsorreh, even the abbreviated bath in a small tub of cold water with a knob of strong smelling soap was a relief. The soap stung her skin as she scrubbed away the grime. She lathered her hair three times and used the last of the water to rinse it. At home, she remembered with a pang, the last rinse would have been scented with chamomile or citron to leave her hair silky and sweet-smelling. Since there was no oil, either, her hair dried rough and knotted. She made no sound as Menelaia yanked the bone comb through her tangles.
They set to sea again. At night, Tsorreh emerged from the cabin to walk the
Silver Gull’s
deck. The moon, almost full, swept the sky with glimmering light. Brightness reflected off the waves. She could see her own wavering shadow on the deck. The ship stood at sea-anchor, moving rhythmically with the gentle surge and pull of the water. The
te-alvar
in her breast had gone quiescent, as if the peace of the evening had laid all past sorrow and present fears to rest.
In two or three days, they would reach the mainland and she must bid farewell to the
Silver Gull.
For the journey to Aidon by barge, Mortan would undoubtedly order her chained. Bynthos came to stand beside her. He held something in his hands. He waited until she had noticed him, and then held out a book. She held it up to the moonlight to read the title.
It was the
Odes
. A lump rose in her throat for all the things that meant, for the beauty of the words, the solace of their sharing, the heartache that the author had penned into those words.
She shook her head. “I cannot accept this. It is too rich a gift.”
“I will find another copy.”
And someday I will be able to read it.
For an instant, her fingers closed over the worn leather. Even in Meklavar, such a book would be a treasure. But she was not in Meklavar, nor was she
te-ravah
or even the daughter of an Isarran princess. She was a captive of war
and, in all likelihood, a slave. Nothing she owned from now on would be hers.
“The offer is gift enough,” she said, and this time she pressed it back into his hands. “If you would have it be more, then remember me whenever you read it.”
“Aye, that I’ll do.” He glanced away, and she read in his movement that if either of them said more, the perfect grace of the moment would shatter, gone beyond recall.
In silence, they watched the first pale light seep into the east.
H
ALFWAY to the mainland, a storm came up. Tsorreh heard a clatter and running feet outside the cabin. The ship heaved under her, timbers groaning. She felt the rigging vibrate through the wooden planks. The ship tilted alarmingly. Menelaia, losing her balance, let out a shriek that pierced the sound of the wind.
Tsorreh went out on deck. She could hardly see through the downpour. Day had turned almost as dark as night. Waves surged over the decks. Wind whipped the water to a froth. Flying spray drenched her.
In snatches, she heard men’s voices, shouted orders, and cries of alarm. Water, bone-chillingly cold, engulfed the deck. She clung to the railing. Behind her, in the cabin, Menelaia shrieked again.
Tsorreh was no sailor, and only a fragile craft stood between everyone aboard and the long cold plummet into darkness. If the ship split apart or crashed on the jagged rocky shore, she would drown and what she carried would be lost.
Between her breasts, she felt the steady pulse of the
te-alvar
. With it, Khored of Blessed Memory had conjured Fire and Ice, had raised mountains from meadows, and caused the very bowels of the earth to open. She pressed
both hands over the living gem and tried to imagine its power flowing into her, into the sea, the waves calming to green and slate-blue instead of wind-whipped gray, the wind softening, a warm breeze stirring the clouds, blue sky above glassy swells.
Almost,
almost
she felt an answer.
The ship lurched under her like a great beast rising to its feet, then seemed to catch its balance. The clamor of the gale hushed, and the voices of the sailors rose like a fractured chorus.
Deep beneath the waters, something moved. She sensed a shifting of dark upon dark, of cold within cold. Strands of pearls, sea-jade, and coral glinted in the abyss.
“Rocks to port!” a man’s voice rang out, his next words swallowed by the rising wind.
Through a gap in the seething gray, Tsorreh looked where the seaman had pointed. A promontory jutted from the sea, its black stones drenched and gleaming.
Bynthos shouted out orders. Men leaped to their ropes.
Slowly, the
Silver Gull
turned. The rocks disappeared in a swirl of flying spray as the ship pulled away. Then the storm closed in on them once again, and Tsorreh sagged against the railing. She felt utterly drained, caught between astonishment and terror.
Hands closed around her arms. She turned to see the hard, set features of the Gelonian officer, Lord Mortan. Yet there was nothing of cruelty in the way he guided her back to the cabin, only the disciplined focus of his purpose. In all probability, he’d been afraid she would seize the moment to throw herself overboard, and he would lose his prize.
Two steps further, and she fell into Menelaia’s waiting arms. Sobbing, the maid took her to the bed, sat her down, and stripped off her sodden clothing. In her brief exposure, Tsorreh’s skin had gone numb with cold. Menelaia found a length of cloth to rub her dry, then wrapped her in blankets.
As Tsorreh sank back on the bed, bone-deep shivers rippled through her. There was nothing hot to drink, and no fire with which to prepare it. She would have to trust the
resilience of her body, even as she relied on the skill of the sailors.
She felt Menelaia’s weight beside her, the arms enfolding her, heard the little wordless cries. Reaching up with one hand, she felt the girl’s fingers, knotted in the blanket. Gradually, warmth seeped into her muscles. Her shivering faded, replaced by a heavy lassitude. She felt drained in spirit as well as body.
Lying cradled by the young Isarran woman, Tsorreh tried to sleep. Images continued to flare and dance behind her closed lids. She saw again—was it
seeing?
—the beast in the shadowed deep, trailing strands of benthic gems.
Almost,
almost
it had answered her call.
* * *
Two oxen, their horns sawed off near their shaggy, white-and-gray spotted heads, drew the barge. The barge itself was large and flat-bottomed, topped by an open-sided shed. Flaps of canvas, heavy and stiff, could be rolled up during the day for fresh air or dropped for privacy. As Tsorreh had expected, Mortan attached her chains to a ring set in the deck.
Once away from the port, the air turned dense and sticky. The heat drained Tsorreh’s strength, so that she felt no desire to move about the barge, even if she were free to do so. The occasional breeze was delicious beyond words.
Enervated as she was by the unaccustomed climate, Tsorreh watched the passing countryside. The histories she had studied had given her little idea of what the land and ordinary people of Gelon were like. The pastures and farms, the rivers teeming with fish and waterfowl, presented a panorama of fertility. Green plants grew everywhere, trees, vines, bushes, hedges, waterweeds, and reeds. The Gelonian guards, as well as the people she saw working in the fields, astonished her with their discipline and energy. On first glance, she had thought the land so naturally bountiful that its inhabitants must be fat and lazy. Quickly, she modified her opinion. The lush green and gold, the plentiful water
and crops, covered an iron core, a ruthless determination. Gelon was not a weak and idle land.