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Journal entry 214

5th of Sun, 1799 S.C.

Approaching Shadowmere


Since leaving Tlulanxu, I have avoided this journal.

Well, not entirely. I kept track of the ports we passed through, and the notable events and weather that occasioned our passage. But that is merely a dry chronicle of our voyage, during which there was little worthy of remark.

But still, Ahearn is correct; I was reluctant to sit down and make a more detailed report. The simple truth is that I did not want to spend even more time dwelling upon the endless refrain that has dominated my thoughts since leaving Tlulanxu: Where is my adoptive uncle, Varcaxtan? And where is Tharêdæath’s ship?

That ship, a hired Uershaeli brigantine, was the one that was supposed to have carried us to Shadowmere. But unforeseen events in Tlulanxu, the city of my youth, made nonsense of those plans.

Tharêdæath told us that the ship would cast off at dawn, but in the middle of the night, we were awakened by the sound of hasty yet stealthy feet thumping about on the deck. Going above, we discovered that the lines were already away even though it was the darkest hour of the night. The pilot was calling hoarse orders for the sail-handlers to reset the fore-and-aft rigged mizzenmast to bring us sharply away from our berth in the foreigner’s quarter.

Rereading that last sentence, I can hardly believe having written the words “foreigner’s quarter.” For as long as I lived in Tlulanxu, it was simply known as the “trade quarter.” But the change of nomenclature is just one dire sign of the changing times that I encountered upon my final return.

And those are still more words that I can hardly believe I wrote: “my final return.” Because it is. Concerns that would not have merited mention five years ago became grounds for a protest by the temples which forced the Propretoriate to consent to my exile. My worst fear when I entered that closed hearing was that I might lose my status as one of Dunarra’s Outriders; I never dreamed I would lose my citizenship.

My guardians of old were caught up in the same net of suspicion and xenophobia. Indeed, Shaananca was already under the equivalent of house arrest when I arrived. And Varcaxtan himself was concerned that he might soon be sought to answer questions, since my responses had left several temples’ hierarchies unsettled and anxious.

How word of the latter reached Tharêdæath I never did discover. I sought him out to ask that he wait for my uncle, but he cut off my entreaties with a raised hand. “We act now that we may have the leisure to discuss it later.” He spoke with that strange blend of abruptness and regret that I have come to associate with Uulamantre embarked upon urgent—or perilous—business.

We later learned that Tharêdæath had no choice but to leave before dawn. Whatever message he received included a warning that the authorities would soon close the harbor: an almost unprecedented event that was yet another sad sign of the times. I doubt they would have taken such action had we been on an Iavarain hull; that would have been so provocative a step that I doubt the Propretorium would have relented to the pressure from the temples. However, since their action would only indirectly concern the freedom of a single Uulamantre on a leased Uershaeli hull, the secular authorities were apparently unwilling to risk an incident and yet again relented to the pressure exerted by their sacrist counterparts. Actually, given their dismal treatment of him when he appeared at my hearing, I am quite convinced that the hieroxi would have been happy to have Tharêdæath depart with all haste had they not also known or suspected that Varcaxtan meant to be aboard when he left.

Should the reader of these pages be unfamiliar with the traditional relationship between the secular and sacred authorities in Dunarra, it bears mention that such friction and differences are several orders of magnitude greater than any others recorded across twenty centuries (or more, depending upon the date one accepts as the “beginning” of Dunarra). The most orthodox of the hieroxi attributed the strife to my discoveries. Their more moderate peers, along with the propretors and the Uulamantre, all opined differently. Some obliquely suggested that I was simply a convenient casus belli for other, emerging divisions between them. Those observations did not improve the relations between the parties.

So, after we fled (rather than merely departed) Dunarra, we made swift progress down the southeastern coast of Ar Navir. Upon reaching Cape Joshad, we bent slightly east and seaward, thereby giving Caottalura a wide berth; as earlier entries in this journal recount, we became targets of that nation’s Sanslovan mantics and assassins. The reasons for that enmity remain unclear.

Once beyond those hostile shores, we turned west to parallel the southern coast of Ar Navir as we neared Alriadex. This was when Tharêdæath informed us of his intent to part ways. He was determined to swing back north to Dunarra in the hope that he could assist Varcaxtan—and possibly Shaananca—should they wish to leave their homeland.

Surprisingly, we found berthing at Ereolant, the busiest port along the continent’s southeastern coast. This was either the result of great good fortune or the silent influence of friendly parties. Lest that sound unduly mysterious, it is worth noting that Alriadex is the only nation which is a codominium between humans and Iavarain. Unlike countries such as Irrylain (where aeostu such as S’ythreni inhabit an autonomous border region), they have an equal share in governing—and supporting—the state. As such, it is the site of a large population of every kind of Iavarain, second only to Mirroskye itself. Naturally, we presumed that Tharêdæath’s presence aboard had something to do with the “serendipity” of immediately finding a spot along Ereolant’s main wharf. However, we never asked him and he never spoke of it.

He enjoyed an equally suspicious measure of fortuity when, within hours, he engaged an Alriadexan ship departing for Dunarra on the very next day. He transferred his contract with the Uershaeli ship to us, making us its de facto lessees. However, I had several pressing questions, held in abeyance since we’d sailed from Tlulanxu. He’d spent most of that time closeted with his Iavarain entourage, considering contingency plans for whatever situation they might discover upon returning. But now, with time running out, I pressed him for a few minutes in private.

He was as gracious as always. Before I could get the first ritual honorific past my lips, he waved me to a seat. “We are beyond that, Druadaen. We have travelled and faced challenges together. As I said at the outset, you remind me of Dunarrans as they used to be; there shall be no formalities between us.” When he’d found his own seat, he fixed me with a steady gaze. “You wish to know what I hope to achieve by returning to Tlulanxu.”

I simply nodded.

He frowned. “There are times when one does not know enough to formulate a clear plan, yet can foresee a place where their help may be needed in the near future. This is such a time.” He released the first sigh I ever heard from him. “You know my life and memories reach back past the beginning of the Consentium. Bear that in mind as I tell you this: I have seen Dunarra evolve and transform itself in various ways. Some were beneficial, some detrimental, and most—as is true of most things—proved to be a mixture of both. But I have never witnessed the internecine tensions nor the suspicious bigotry that suffused several of the hieroxi during your hearing.

“I hoped that it was an aberration of individual personalities, that my withdrawal from contact—along with Mirroskye’s—would start a current in the opposite direction, lead toward rapprochement.” He shook his head. “Instead, it emboldened the most antagonistic of the hieroxi.”

“So, do you think that the temples intend to—?”

Tharêdæath held up a taper-fingered hand. “No. You and I must keep our speculations separate, which is why I refrained from contact during our journey here. You are well aware that if questioned, our veracity—or lack thereof—can be established.” He allowed himself a small smile. “Of course, you may constitute an exception. You might prove no more susceptible to truth-checking mancery than other kinds.” He nodded in response to my surprised blink. “Your companions are neither subtle nor silent people. In recounting tales of your travels, they have made it quite clear that manas finds no purchase upon you. Indeed, surmising from what has been overheard, mantic constructs unravel when they come into contact with your person.”

I simply nodded and did not expand on the sometimes alarming extent to which that was true. “So you are returning to render help to help my mentors?”

“Among others. If they need it.” Tharêdæath may have suppressed a second sigh. “Alas, my worry reaches beyond individuals in this situation. It is such a profound departure from what I have seen and experienced in Dunarra, that I am unable to distinguish which developments are trivial from those which are portentous—and dire.” He frowned. “One of the oldest Uulamantrene axioms is this: Only when one beholds the novel, may further illumination occur. But at that same moment, one could also be teetering on the edge of chaos because, being unfamiliar, mortal threats may not be discerned soon enough to ameliorate—or avoid—them.”

I discovered I was nodding. “So, all you may do is keep moving: to stay near enough to help, yet far enough to dodge an unexpected blow.”

Tharêdæath’s smile was pleased. “I shall miss traveling with you. And since we must part, I would offer you one word of advice.”

I sat forward on my chair.

“You must keep moving, as well.” He saw my puzzlement. “I am not speaking of keeping distance from Dunarra. Such concerns are properly behind you. I am speaking of your lengthy detours to archives or libraries. You should put those behind you, also. At least for the present.”

I smiled. “That is very like what the dragon said to me, just before we parted.”

Tharêdæath shook his head slightly. “The words are the same, but my meaning is different. The dragon was counseling you not to put too great a measure of trust in the writings of antiquity, that they are often every bit as suspect as modern ones.” He leaned toward me. “I mean: do not stop moving at all. Be always in motion—because it is harder to hit a moving target.”

My entire body felt like it was coated in fine snow. “You believe I am a… a target?”

“I believe it is possible. Given the questions you feel compelled to ask, you will come to the attention of those who do not wish such inquiries to be made. Some may warn you to desist, but others may adopt the simpler expedient of silencing you before you can ask them in a public forum.” He leaned back. “I am afraid that, at least for now, you must concentrate on being a survivor rather than a scholar.”

“With respect, I mean to be both.”

“For the nonce, I fear that could be the end of you and your journeys after the truth of the world.”

There it was again; that crushing term both he and the dragon had used to refer to my investigations. I opened my mouth to object—

Tharêdæath jabbed a finger at me. “Even if you were not at risk, answer me this: Do you mean to punctuate every new discovery by shackling yourself to some ancient desk in some equally ancient reading room? Do you believe that by meticulously researching and recording its every detail, it will somehow be remembered a day longer than you? Is that how your discoveries will most benefit your Consentium, perhaps all your kindred species? Or will it be by following each new revelation to the next, until you may return with knowledge and truths that shall, by their nature, be both the catalysts and agents of long-needed change?”

I struggled to separate those weighty words from the ones I heard echoing behind them: among the last my father ever uttered. “How can anyone, even Uulamantre, assert outcomes with such certainty? Do you presume I am some creature of fate?”

He smiled. “No. None of us are. But like every drop in the sea, our lives are borne upon the currents and confluences of prior events.” His smile seemed to sadden. “And I have sailed upon those seas for a very long time.” He rose. “Which is not only a metaphor but a reminder; I must transfer to the waiting ship.” He took me by the shoulders. I was too startled to react; I was not even aware that Uulamantre touched humans. “Do not doubt the voice that urges you onward, because wherever you find yourself—”

“There should you be,” I murmured, completing the best-known Uulamantrene aphorism.

He smiled again. “I do indeed regret that our currents carry us to different destinations. Travel in safety, young Druadaen u’Tarthenex.”

That was a bit over five moonphases ago. Our ship left Ereolant two days later, keeping to its westerly course until it arrived at its home port: Ruros, first city of Uershael. We had been resigned to biding our time there as she was refitted for passage across the Great Western Ocean to Far Amitryea and Shadowmere, but the first mate sought us at our lodgings on the second day, charged to deliver news that was sure to disappoint: “refitting” had become “repair.” In plying the warmer waters off the southern coast of Ar Navir, the hull had become infested with tropical rotworms; dozens of strakes needed replacing, a task that required several weeks of labor while the ship was careened.

It seemed that our already long journey was sure to become longer and more costly. Which might seem a quibble, given how fortune had shone upon us in the year leading up to our journey. But like any prudent travelers, we had put the great balance of that wealth in trustworthy hands, safe from the vicissitudes of travel and mishap. In my case, those hands were in Dunarra and might well have been (and still be) in shackles. It is a strange pass of events, to have adequate resources elsewhere but to be on the brink of penury in one’s current location.

However, just as fate sees fit to close one door, it often opens another. Two days later, a familiar ship hove into Ruros: the Atremoënse, fresh from having copper hull plates replaced in Marshakerra. She was the Corrovani ship we had encountered just prior to debarking at Treve, the endpoint of our first voyage to Far Amitryea. It happened that she was bound there again, after completing a circuit of the ports that line Pelfarras Bay. Captain Nolus received us with the solemn grace typical of his people and was kind enough to offer us passage in exchange for protecting his ship.

While this may sound like yet more serendipity, it is not so implausible as one might think. Contrary to the common fancy which imagines ships roving boldly about the waves from one exotic destination to the next, the reality is that most follow a largely consistent (not to say monotonously repetitive) circuit between a limited number of ports. In this way, not only is there some predictability of service between different centers of commerce, but captains and crews become intimately familiar with hazards particular to those waters: shallows, reefs, and the seasonal caprice of their winds and weather.

So with little delay we were on our way once again and experienced another largely dull crossing. We dined with the captain on several occasions and apprised him of the fate of the fellow Corrovani that had traveled with us last year: Padrajisse, a congenial (if occasionally cantankerous) sacrist who was treacherously poisoned during an ambush upriver from Marshakerra. He knew her name—and reputation—and nodded sadly, wishing her troubled soul more peace wandering the creedlands of her deity Thyeru than she had known walking and sailing upon the surface of Arrdanc.

During our five moonphases a-sea, we occupied ourselves according to our interests and merits, training with our weapons, lending a hand with (or learning) the daily operations of the ship, and trading knowledge of languages we know. Elweyr was often absent from our impromptu forays into different tongues; he dedicated himself to poring over the seminal treatises on thaumancy we unearthed from the lost library in the isles of Imvish’al.

I kept myself busy with our many activities, but try as I might, I could not keep my thoughts from wandering back across the ocean to Tlulanxu and the “family” I had left there: Shaananca and Varcaxtan. I frequently found myself staring at the velene-as-bracer on my wrist, wondering (and irritated) at its dormancy. Visions such as the ones it formerly shared of far-off conversations were as absent from my chaotic dreams as was its toy-dragon manifestations in the waking world. And so I passed much of the voyage in worried distraction.

Five days ago, we neared the end of the Earthrift Channel and so, neared the end of our journey. All that remained was to traverse the Sea of Marthanlar. The maintopwoman cried down that it was shrouded in mist. None of us considered that particularly newsworthy. Marthanlar is known for such weather and we’d experienced it on our first trip to Far Amitryea, so we were quite sure it held no surprises or novelty for us.

As it often does, the natural world demonstrated that human surety is close kin to delusion.

This time, the Sea of Marthanlar was not merely misty; it was blanketed by a fog so thick that it was easy to imagine we had sailed out of the world and into a gray limbo. Whatever might have been of interest on either coast was blocked from view. The water itself—renowned for a surface so still that it perfectly mirrored the sky above—was only occasionally visible when we peered over the gunwale. A fine, intermittent rain persisted for almost the entirety of that seventy-league journey. Consequently, when we sailed out of that weather, the sudden change amplified the sensation of emerging into another realm of existence.

The coastlines both to the north and the south began to pinch closer to us, those to the north checkered with farmlands. At night, the lights of small fishing hamlets marked the contours of the shores of Sazzax first, and then A’Querlaan. To the south were rolling woodlands which were far more sparsely inhabited, judging from the paucity of lights: the northern shore of Crimatha, which was nowhere near so well developed as the southern parts through which we had traveled.

Another day brought us to a fork in the narrowing channel. One arm continued west, the other bent sharply to the south. Each was speckled with white sails of ships of all sizes. The northern branch, the Passwater, is used by almost all maritime commerce to and from Far Amitryea due to the two cities that sit astride it: Moonfleet, capital of A’Querlaan on the northern coast and Shadowmere on the south.

Captain Nolus took it upon himself to characterize Shadowmere for us first-time visitors, sententiously explaining that while it was not the largest city on Arrdanc, nor the most grand, nor even the most powerful, it was unquestionably the most famous. It had had many names over the millennia, and it had risen and fallen so many times that no two scholars could agree on a complete list of them, nor even a tally.

Looking out the porthole before me, I can see its towers of varied design and age. And although the captain’s remarks were self-consciously portentous, they were in no way exaggerations. As one of the few cities which existed before the Cataclysm, Shadowmere is indeed steeped in the legend, lore, and enigmatic legacies that have accumulated over centuries of constant tumult and intrigue. Small wonder that so many of the great figures in Arrdanc’s history have learned, lived, and repeated the enduring truth of the place: that all great journeys will eventually pass through Shadowmere.

As we stand off its northern slips, barely a mile out, I tell myself—for the twentieth time—that I will not romanticize the city. I have seen many ports over the course of my years as a Courier. Many rise higher, spread wider, are more humming hubs of commerce and power. And yet, here I sit, either feeling or imagining that Shadowmere simultaneously broods and beckons. Or maybe that is just one more trick being played by the back of my brain, the part that also wonders, and worries:

What has become of Shaananca? And where is Varcaxtan?


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