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JOURNAL Entry Three

South of Uershael, entering the Medvir Bight


I enjoy reading well enough, but I am not much for writing. I remember my Da saying that taking pen in hand was “too much like work.” Like work? I don’t know what the hells he was talking about; it is work. And thankless, too.

But blast that Druadaen if he wasn’t right to point out that someone needs to record the tale of our travels, if for no other reason than to keep the days from all running into one another the way memories do. So I suppose I’d best repent my jibes about his incessant scribbling, particularly inasmuch as I was one of those who flatly refused to lend him a hand. Because now that I’m the keeper of our story, I see that it helps keep the lot of us from becoming just so many pieces of flotsam and jetsam bouncing around the world and against each other. We are a company only because we have a story. Strange to think that I always presumed it was the other way around.

Another thing I have discovered is that the true labor of the writing is not recording the dangers and deeds but the dull dross of daily life. Because there’s been little else since we weighed anchor and left Shadowmere almost five moonphases ago. At the outset, there wasn’t even any interesting scenery. After all, we’d already seen the length of the Earthrift Channel three times, so our passage back to the Great Western Ocean seemed that much longer.

Of course, that’s where the real boredom set in. Waves and swells and risers; again and again and again. It’s a puzzlement that mariners do not lose their minds from the boredom of it. When a few sea gulls trailed us in hope of scraps it became a bloody event that drew an audience. And not one sea monster—not even a tiny one—had the common decency of troubling our ship. And the sai’niin ring remained as lively as a stone at the bottom of a sinkhole. So I had little to do but observe and learn a little bit more about our newest companions.

Varcaxtan is quite amiable and, for a Dunarran of his age and experience, surprisingly chummy—but never reveals much. Early on, I meant to nudge him toward a more serious chat, but then I saw his eyes when even the banter of the crew set him to thinking on the fate of his lady-wife. So I held my peace, watching and waiting for a moment when there was no possibility any words of mine would quicken that pain. And I’m still waiting.

Lacking his sage advice about this mad journey, I turned to the other member of our company who seems versed in the hidden ways of this old world: the dragon. He certainly has the knowing of many strange things. Unfortunately, what’s stranger still are his explanations of them. By whatever soul I might have, I swear that his rhetoric and reasoning is even more brain-breaking than Druadaen’s—so much so that the Dunarran now seems to have been a model of clarity. And brevity.

I do wish I conned more of the damn wyrm’s recitations about the cosmic madness that are osmotiums—or osmotia, or Shimmers, or whatever the bleeding things are called. I suspect he takes secret pleasure in making the whole sodding mess just that much more confusing by insisting that they are not just different words for the same thing, but they are, in fact, different things. At my wits ends, I’ve objected that, since they’re all gateways into different worlds, what could be more similar? That’s the moment when the old serpent rolls his dying avatar’s yellowing eyes, blows out a long suffering sigh, and explains the distinctions yet again. And with words even more confounding than the ones with which he began. I tell you true: they say that a dragon is most deadly because of the flame it spews from its mouth, or the eyes that can read your mind, but this one’s got a more fatal weapon than either of those. It’s his unending gush of highfalutin palaver that can do you in, certain to bore any and all listeners until they’re as stiff as stone.

A week ago, a bit of interest finally returned to our lives. Tharêdæath appeared in our quarters with word that our return to Ar Navir would not follow the course we had taken last time. Instead of rounding the south edge of Corrovane, we would slip north of that land and make for the Tashqend Straits. They separate the mainland from the canal-severed Corro Peninsula.

Entering them a day later, we had the grace of fair winds and still seas. Never more than twelve leagues in width yet never less than eight, the Straits are a deepwater passage that ends in a southeast bend which carried us into the oddly named Channel of Glass. That canal—or so it appeared—took us past the Channel Cities—Rhuutun and Asak-Cor. They’re said to be hotbeds of strife and intrigue between the proxies and agents of Corrovane and Kar Krathau, so I suppose it was best that we didn’t port in either one. Our business with the shore was carried out by cargo lighters and advice skiffs, after which we carried on into the body of water known as Onel’s Pool.

There, captains prefer to stay in easy reach of land, but the Iavarain crew steered as if meaning to draw a line across the widest part of that strange, still circle of water which separated Corro from the mainland. Whispers say the tall, ragged ruins we could see on the north coast—Ladsomar—are dangerous, even deadly, to approach. Never have been able to find a body that could tell me why. Or perhaps those with the knowing of it are not at ease with the sharing of it.

We emerged from Onel’s Pool heading due south and hugging close by the mainland where we watched the familiar coastlines of Vallishar and Tavnolithar roll past as we made for the southern headland of Uershael.

Or rather, that’s how our journey should have unfolded. We were laying over at Tavnolithar’s capital—Herres—when Tharêdæath got word that a messenger was waiting at his house. He hadn’t intended on debarking; it was a near surety that if he so much as put foot on land, he’d get snared in the affairs of the place. So when we watched him stride down the gangway, we were busy making bets on how long it would be before we’d see him again: a day, a week, a moonphase, or more.

To our surprise (and the ruination of all our bets!) he was back within the hour, but with troublesome news. Just a day earlier, a packet from Rhuutun had put in with word that several Iavu had gone missing there. Tempers were high between the two Channel Cities, which had already been rubbed raw by the threat of a tariff war by Kar Krathau. Not to put too fine a point on it, the region was on edge and the Iavu might have stuck their fine, straight noses where they didn’t belong. So Tharêdæath was duty bound to find them, hopefully with their noses still attached. Because his name and influence are known thereabouts, he could count on polite cooperation where others would have had doors shut in their faces. Even so, it was by no means a certainty that he’d be told the truth once behind those doors. From the tone of his voice, I’d say he doubted it.

Without missing a beat, he gave us to understand that it wasn’t he who would be leaving the ship, but us. Frankly, none of us expected any different; this hull is fast and strong and her crew are not only accomplished as mariners but also as armsfolk. Just what might be wanted if his business in the Channel Cities become lively. Happily, he’d already arranged new passage for the last leg of our journey: a small merchant brig with which he’d had prior dealings and that mostly plied the seas between Herres and the Ballashan lands south of the Medvir Bight.

He finished by asking Cerven to find several hands who would move our kit to the other ship. As soon as the young fellow was gone, he handed me a letter that Talshane had put in his trust before leaving Shadowmere. Tharêdæath had meant to keep it until we all reached Eslêntecrë, but since we’d get there ahead of him, he felt obliged to put it in our hands now. He advised us not to make hasty judgments based on its contents and bid us farewell.

I waited until his footsteps faded, then cocked my head toward S’ythreni. Her ears shifted a bit before she nodded; since she couldn’t hear him, he was well and gone. Keeping my voice low, I pointed out that since our new ship might have fewer—or no—places where we might read the letter in private, we’d best do so now.

The only answer was S’ythreni’s testy retort that I should have already been reading the letter aloud.

Talshane began with courtesies celebrating our second meeting and gratitudes for our willingness to take Cerven along with us. The lot of us exchanged stares after those words came out of my mouth. “Perhaps,” I wondered aloud, “Talshane didn’t notice that we weren’t turning happy handsprings over becoming the warders of his wayward pup of an adjutant.”

“More like he didn’t want to notice,” S’ythreni groused.

Varcaxtan’s brow rose slightly; none of us could meet his “patient uncle” gaze. Talshane had never been aught but a friend to us, and the lad, while callow, had proven a fine shipmate, hard worker, and capable in every task to which he’d put a hand. I raised the letter to my eyes—if only to avoid Varcaxtan’s.

Alas, but Talshane’s next line was not only just as dubious, but even more audacious: “In the person of Cerven, you have the best assistance I can render for your journey in search of Druadaen.”

I looked up again. The faces around me reflected the doubt that was surely on my own. “I can’t wit how this lad might help us,” was the most charitable comment I could offer. I also suspect they, too, were thinking what I’d not added: “Unless the lad has been in few scrapes of his own, he’s more likely to be a millstone ’round our necks.”

I continued reading. “Cerven has been trained by powers that are among the Consentium’s oldest and truest friends on Far Amitryea. He is their trusted intermediary to the Outrider Expeditionary Cohort, the Lady of the Mirror, as well as several concealed communities which share ancient roots with Dunarra itself.”

All eyes turned toward Varcaxtan. I tapped the line on the sheet I was holding. “Now what do you suppose he meant by that?”

“I can’t be sure.”

S’ythreni leaned forward, a bit testy. “Then how about a guess?”

When his only answer was a smile and a shrug, I glanced at the old wyrm. “How about you, then? You were around in ancient times.”

“Yes, and in the course of those long years, I have become wise enough not to speculate upon or reveal other beings’ business. You might take a page from that book.”

“And so I might, if this was a casual matter. But as it so happens, knowing as much as we can about this lad, and those who reared him, could bear upon our survival as well as his.”

But it was Elweyr who piped up loud at my elbow. “I think I’ve heard of those concealed communities.”

You? How?”

His look of halfhearted disdain suggested I wasn’t worth a full measure of it. “Tell me, Ahearn: how much do you really know about me?”

“More than enough, after all these years!” But even as I said it, I knew that was more codswallop than cleverness. Elweyr was not given to idle chatter and I—well, being orphaned at a young age, I presumed that since his parents still lived, he’d grown up happy, or at least safe. But now, something in his eyes told me otherwise.

“I suspect Talshane is referring to the Old Amitryeans,” Elweyr murmured.

“A dead race, by all accounts.”

Elweyr’s smile was more mockery than humor. “‘By all accounts’? If that phrase was worth the air it takes to say, Druadaen wouldn’t have any reason to go seeking ‘the truth of the world,’ would he?”

I cast about for a retort—not because I disagreed with the damned mantic, but because I hate giving up without a fight. All I could muster was, “So how is it that these Old Amitryeans are related to Dunarrans?”

Elweyr glanced at Varcaxtan, who showed no willingness to join the discussion. “As Talshane said, they share ancestors. Or so it is said.”

The dragon stirred, but settled back immediately.

“Nothing to add, wyrm?”

“No, merely an aside.”

“Which is?”

“Which is, if you keep addressing me as ‘worm,’ what’s left of you shall be referred to as ‘worm-meat.’”

I laughed, looking at his ghoulish avatar. “I think you’ll need to return to your actual body to make good on that threat.”

“I am nothing if not patient. After all, I have endured your ‘witticisms’ for weeks on end, now. But enough of this talk of ancient times and peoples; what else did Talshane reveal about the youth?”

I read out the rest of the letter. Shortly before we arrived in Shadowmere, Cerven had been in the nearby city of Moonfleet, finishing an apprenticeship. He’d also been tending to his mysterious mentors’ interests, which was noticed by their equally mysterious enemies. There was no account of what had attracted their ire, or what nastiness might have followed, but those charged with his safety bundled him over the Passwater to Talshane’s little fort. There, and possibly in the Lady’s Tower, able hands were able to finish Cerven’s tutelage. Talshane closed by assuring us that his skills and learning would no doubt “be quite useful to you.”

When it dawned on the others that my silence marked the end of the letter, Umkhira shook her head and let fly an exasperated cry that got the rest of them nodding: “Well, can Cerven help us find Druadaen or not?”

We never got the chance to suss that out. A rumble of feet coming down the companionway heralded the return of Cerven and the moving crew—each of whom looked younger than me but were probably older and more capable than any of us. Except the bloody damned dragon, of course.

An hour later, we were on the new ship. There, life did what it seems to do best: toss out one bothersome bit of business after another. It’s ever thus settling in on a new hull: learning your way around her decks, meeting the captain and crew, repacking stores, and making oneself useful however one might.

And now, here we are, crossing the wide mouth of the Medvir Bight. Once we’re in sight of its southern coast, we’ll follow it east to Eslêntecrë. So if we mean to learn why Talshane is so impressed with Cerven’s skills, we’d best do it before we have need of them. Which could be very soon. There’s heavy weather coming down on us from the northwest: a coast-following storm from Pelfarras Bay. Like as not, by dinner it will be all hands busy manning the pumps, hauling the lines, and keeping down dinner. Which means we might have just enough time to sit the lad down and find out what’s what.


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