Oathen (23 page)

~~~

Meena came up on deck one morning toward the
end of their voyage to see Sanych practicing with her signal flags,
enjoying the fresh air and the relatively stable deck beneath her
feet.

“I think I’m getting a real feel for this,”
she said in Shanallese, smiling and wiping her brow with a sleeve
as Meena drew near.

“Good,” Meena smiled, and then sobered. “I
have something I need to tell you before we go ashore.”

“What is it?”

“Why you’re the one I need with me, out of
everyone here.”

A small frown of concentration marred her
forehead, and she turned to give Meena her full attention. “I’m
listening.”

But Meena shook her head. “Come up into the
rigging with me. This part of the plan is for your ears only.
Everyone who knows this secret is a threat to the Cult of Dzur
i’Oth, and they’ll be looking for you. The Circuit may still
protect you from their probes once we enter the caldera, but it
won’t protect the crew from the cult’s attacks once we part
ways.”

~~~

The fleet sighted land two evenings later: a
rocky spur silhouetted against the burning sunset. As they sailed
closer, it became apparent that the spur was no mere jetty; it
towered over them by many hundreds of feet and boasted an entire
windswept forest on its basaltic crest. The ships dropped anchor
for the night in a protected, uninhabited cove near the end of the
arm of land; the slender arc of stone bent away into the darkness
of the northern horizon.

Rhona sat on her swaying bed in the dark. When
dawn came, she would have to leave the
Princeling
and her
other four ships in the hands of her second mate, Siela. The
capable pirate would take the Clan vessels westward toward the
trade lands and get in some well-earned raiding, while Rhona and
Ruel rowed ashore with the Seamother, Salvor, Kemsil, Sanych and
Geret.

Geret. He didn’t want to join Agonbloom, had
his own silly rules about creating heirs, and hadn’t fallen even
the slightest bit in love with her. The knowledge that she’d
entirely failed to paint herself as a sympathetic character, let
alone a fascinating one, wormed painfully in her heart, yet she
couldn’t figure out what she’d done wrong, what better heading she
should have sailed.
Should I have been more like Sanych, who’s
already familiar to him? No!
She rejected the thought
immediately.
I won’t ever stoop to impersonating a dirtwalker
for a mere man.

Even if it leaves me alone, with nothing to
show for weeks and weeks of effort?
She shuddered in the cool
dimness of her cabin. Overhead, the constant thuds of feet on the
deck, accompanied by a few reed pipes, small drums and a sitar,
told her the crew was enjoying being at anchor.

I’m so alone. No one understands
me. Is this how the Prime feels? Is this all I’m destined to have?
Power, without love?

A tear spilled over her cheek. “Oh, gods
above. Now I’m crying over a man. Scuttle that.”

Rhona swung off the bed and rummaged around in
the back of her bottom cupboard until she found the bottle she
sought. Then she opened her cabin door and hollered for her cabin
girl.

~~~

Geret tapped on Rhona’s cabin door. Beneath
his clean white shirt, his heart hammered against his heavy
medallion. On the morrow, he could drop this farce with her, but
tonight, she was still a Clan captain aboard her own vessel. And
she still had a favor to call in.

Rhona opened the door and ushered him inside.
The table was lit by candles, and a light meal for two was set on
one of its corners. The red silk curtains were closed.

He swallowed and met her eyes. “Good evening,
Captain m’Kora.”

“Good evening, Prince Geret. I’m calling in my
favor: help me celebrate the end of things as they never were.” She
lifted one side of her mouth in a mocking smile.

He sensed her honesty, let his guard down.
“Aye, Cap’n. I can do that.”

They sat and ate, talking easily. When the
meal was done, Rhona touched his arm. “I’ve got a special treat for
you tonight,” she said, rising from the table and stepping through
the red silk curtains. “Wait here.”

Geret gulped, but the pirate returned in a
moment, carrying a long, slender green bottle with a glass bulb at
the top.

“What is it?”

“A rare spirit from the Sacred Reefs.” She
unwound a length of thin cord from the seal at the bottle’s neck,
then twisted the glass bulb, which popped free with a crack of wax.
“The merchant I stole it from told me it’s highly sought after in
Bermah by High Celebrants and common druids alike. Few bottles are
allowed to leave the reaches of the Jade Sea. It’s one of my most
prized possessions, and I wanted to share it with you before… Well,
let’s just say that going ashore traditionally holds more dangers
for me than for you. Even here, in Shanal.”

She poured a small amount of the liquor into
their glasses, then replaced the bulbous stopper. Geret picked up
his goblet and swirled the light green liquid around, smelling its
sweet, spicy scent.

“To victory,” Rhona murmured, clinking her
glass against his.

He sipped at the green liquor; it felt like
warm silk, slipping down as if eager to reach his stomach. “That’s
superb. I know you’ve been generous with your swag,” he waggled his
hand, heavy with rings, “but I’m honored you shared this rare
treasure with me.”

“Oh, it gets better.” Rhona leaned
forward.

Geret blinked, then leaned forward as well,
feeling a lazy warmth curling around his insides. “Do
tell.”

She lowered her lashes. “I’ve been going about
this all wrong, and I apologize. I’ve been trying to force you into
Clan ways, but it’s clear to me now that there’s nothing holding
you to us. Why should you stay with us? We’re not your people, and
you have prior obligations to Vint. I understand that now, and I
never did before. I was blinded by what I wanted from
you.”

Geret absorbed that for a moment. “Well,
thank—”

“So I want to come with you
instead.”

“What?”

“Think of the political advantage it would
bring if Vint had a peaceable alliance with the greatest Clan in
the Southern Sea.”

“I’m not sure my uncle will be willing to
engage me to a pirate princess, even if it is for the good of the
realm.”

Rhona poured more of the green liquor into his
glass. “Shouldn’t he be the one to decide that? I heard you turned
down the chance to control Vint.”

He sampled the drink again. It was even better
the second time; he could feel colors dancing along his tongue.
“So, you’re not insisting on coming to Vint as my consort or
anything?”

“Not at all. If we’re to have any sort of
relations, I need to take Vinten mores and customs into account.
After all, it was my ignorance of them that caused us both such
problems these last few weeks. Don’t you agree?”

“Well, yes.” Geret’s mind flooded with
relief.

She smiled broadly at him, reaching again for
the green bottle. “Shiny. We have an accord.” They both drank
again.

A sudden bout of vertigo made Geret wince, and
he felt as if a wall he’d never known was inside him had suddenly
cracked. Pupils wide, he blinked at Rhona, who smiled dazzlingly at
him. Her twin cordage braids whispered secrets. His consciousness
flowed out into the darkness beyond the splinters of his control,
and the room went hazy with a transcendental bouquet of
irresistible sounds and scents.

“What…?” he asked in wonderment.

“There’s a reason people seek the sacred
spirit, Geret,” Rhona breathed, watching her finger as it brushed
along his lower lip. “It opens the mind to so many wonderful
possibilities.”

~~~

Sanych clung tightly to a wad of her blanket,
unable to manage more than a doze due to the sloshing sensation in
her stomach. She tried to lull herself to sleep by tracking the
rolling of the ship at anchor as the tide shifted, idly wondering
whether she’d get any proper sleep before dawn broke.

Soon, a new set of sounds reached her ears.
That’s not from the party on deck
, she thought muzzily. A
distinct giggle passed through the wall next to her head, and she
froze, upset stomach clenching tightly, as she realized with a
shock what she was hearing.

Two thoughts shot through Sanych’s mind at the
same time:
These walls are thinner than should be allowed in
ship construction
, and
How could I misjudge his character so
terribly?
Geret was just piping me a tune all this time!
Unable to help itself, her mind conjured images to match the
sounds. A sob forced its way through her teeth, and she curled into
a ball of numerous agonies. She pressed her hands over her ears in
denial; a tear dripped across the bridge of her nose and ran into
her other eye.

A low-pitched voice, raised in pleasure, was
too much for Sanych to bear; she threw herself from her bunk with a
sob and stumbled out of the cabin, fleeing blindly. She stumbled
down the narrow corridor, tears filling her eyes. She blindly pawed
for the stairwell that led up to the top deck, managing to miss the
open door to Geret and Salvor’s cabin.

Once on deck, she staggered across the planks,
shoving her way through dancing circles of sailors, until she found
a secluded corner next to the castle wall. Tumbling to her knees at
the rail, she dug her fingernails into the weathered wood and
soaked it with her tears.

Betrayed again, by the only other
Vinten for thousands of miles! Folly must be laughing her arse off
at me. Along with Geret and Rhona. This quest is horrible. I want
to go home.

Then Meena was at her side, smoothing her
hair. Sanych couldn’t hear her words over her own hiccupping sobs.
The Shanallar pressed a cup of ale into her hands, and she drained
it.

Handing it back, she muttered, “I can’t do
this, Meena. I can’t.”

“You can and you will.”

Sanych raised her head, glaring.

A smile of sympathy crossed Meena’s features.
“Not because I say so, but because you’re stronger than your most
crippling weakness. You’re tougher than your most painful moments.
You’re smarter than your own broken heart.”

“But I just—”

“I don’t need Geret to help me complete this
quest. So you don’t either. The magical talent you possess sets you
apart. You have different goals and responsibilities in Shanal than
anyone else except me. You know I’ve been planning this for a very
long time. And of everyone on this ship, you’re the only one I
need. The only one I’ve ever needed. You’ve never been just a quest
recorder. You’re the entire purpose for my journey, Sanych. Without
you, I can’t win. With you by my side, I can’t fail.” Meena paused,
pursed her lips and tipped her head. “Allowing for a few steps in
between, of course.”

Sanych wiped her eyes. “Like what?”

Meena grinned. “None of my stories are just
stories.”

“That’s it? That’s my hint? You’ve told me a
hundred and thirty-seven different stories since we started this
quest. Some heroine you are!” Sanych exclaimed,
exasperated.

Meena only laughed and took her by the hand,
helping her stand. “Come dance. There’s pain and death enough on
the morn’s horizon. Forget your sadness, embrace your power, and
take a twirl with my great-great-grandson.”

Sanych looked over her shoulder and saw Ruel
hovering at a respectful distance. She met Meena’s eyes again and
raised her chin. “I may do just that.”

With a grin, Sanych let Ruel take her hand and
spin her into the whirling circle of dancers, and she gave herself
over to the thrumming rhythm of the drums, letting it replace the
dying beat of her broken heart.

“
What do you mean, Geret’s not with them?”
thundered Beret Branbrey, Lord High Magister of Vint.

“I’m afraid I wasn’t entirely clear, sire,”
Imorlar said, remaining unruffled. “The returning Vinten expedition
consists of exactly one Vinten and one foreigner. Count Runcan has
a woman with him. They’re being escorted to your private offices
now.” The slender man gave his liege a bow, then retreated from the
room.

Beret sighed and looked over at his son,
Addan. The teenager, incurious, ignored Imorlar’s leaving as
thoroughly as he had his arrival, instead thumbing the wheel on a
bright toy wagon he held.

“I’m sorry, Addan, but I have to go. There may
be news of Geret. I’ll return later, though, and we can play
again.” He rose and nodded to the day nurse, who stepped forward
with a curtsey and slid into the chair next to the prince, picking
up one of the other toy wagons from the table.

As he slipped out the door, closing it
quietly, he took a moment, as always, to set aside the pain his
son’s mysterious condition brought him, lest it distract him at a
critical moment. Once he’d mentally traded fatherhood for monarchy,
he turned and strode down the hallway. He’d done this hundreds,
perhaps thousands of times over the years. He never hated himself
any less.