Tales of Noreela 04: The Island (19 page)

“What are they doing?” Mell asked.

“Perhaps they’re—” But an explosion stole Namior’s words away. A blazing light rose on a column of smoke from the emissary’s boat, powering high into the sky, exploding in a shower of green sparks that continued burning as they started a slow float back down.

Kel gasped, looking around at those distracted from their search once more. While they stared up at the guttering explosion, he looked past the mole to the island that was even then being sent a sign.
So here it comes
, he thought.
Aid, or invasion. We’ll know soon enough
.

The weight of the communicators in his jacket pocket was a comfort, and a terror.

MELL GAVE THEM
both a hug and went back toward Drakeman’s Hill. She needed to return to her parents, she said, and tell them what had happened with Emissary Kashoomie. Though exhausted by what the night and day had brought, there was an enthusiasm to her voice that troubled Kel greatly. Mell was never quick to judge, and trust came slow to her, perhaps the result of being born and brought up in such a small place. It had taken her a long time to take to Kel. But here she was, keen to spread the words of the visitor to her loved ones, and apparently willing to accept what Kashoomie had said.

Kel told her to take care, and she nodded with a soft smile. “You too, wood-carver.”

Namior was almost asleep standing up. Her hands were as cold as winter storms, and Kel pressed them together and covered them with his own.

“Kel,” she said, “I need to see my family.”

He nodded and hugged her tight. Every instinct told him that he should stay and help; though some people were drifting away, many more were still searching and digging, working beneath the bluish glow of floating fireballs raised by the visitors. Machines flowed here and there, both Noreelan and Komadian, and he saw Mygrette the doubter still directing her own machine against a mound of rubble, dirt and seaweed.

But he was one man with only two hands, while back with Namior’s mother and great-grandmother, perhaps he could find out more about what was happening. They must have been in their home all day, aiding wounded who were brought by, and her mother attempting to scry for what might come. And while he had doubts about the magic of their land, the fact that the visitors seemed lacking in that magic hopefully put Pavmouth Breaks at an advantage. He would grasp that advantage and make sure he was prepared for whatever might happen next.

They’ll sail in, help us rebuild and we’ll live peacefully forevermore
, he thought.
That would be nice. That’s what everyone wants
.

“Then let’s go back over,” he said, starting to lead Namior toward the damaged bridge. He could see that the visitors had already repaired it adequately enough to make it safe, and two of them were still there, their machines venting steam at the dusk.

“I’m not sleeping yet, though,” Namior said. “When we get there, you need to show me what’s under the blanket.”

“A gift for you.” But it felt so pointless, so indulgent, in the face of what had happened.
Can I still ask her to wed me, after all this?

“That’s nice,” she said, sounding unconvinced. “And after that, you need to tell me why you have a sword on your belt and other things hidden away beneath your jacket.” Her voice went quieter, and when she looked up at him her eyes were as
sharp as ever. “I’m not
sure
what they are. But I
think
they’re weapons.”

They started for the bridge, and Namior led the way.

NAMIOR WAS BEYOND
exhaustion. She had practiced her healing more that day than ever before, struggling with a temperamental magic; and the emotional impact of what had happened to her village was circling and waiting to strike. She was wary of that, and she was wary of Kel Boon as well.
I still love him
, she thought.
But I no longer know him
. Piled on to the changes wrought over Pavmouth Breaks, the changes in him were almost unbearable.

She talked briefly to the raven-haired Komadian who was still repairing the bridge. One of the floating machines had moved on, but the restored span was easily negotiable now that shaped blocks had been laid across the metal struts. She sensed Kel’s unease when she talked to the visitor. She wanted to ask about the machines, exactly how they worked, what the steam meant, what powered them, and the metal the visitors had used to bridge the washed-out gap. Where it was visible beside the stone blocks, the dusky light colored it gray, not the blue she had seen earlier. But tiredness made her vision hazy and dulled her senses, and the desire to see her family was stronger than ever. Perhaps it was familiarity she needed most.

They crossed the bridge and walked up toward her home, avoiding the route through the Moon Temple gardens. Neither of them had any wish to see the dead again.

Namior stumbled as they approached her home, and Kel’s arms were around her, steadying and enfolding her with a warmth she could not help welcoming.

“Come inside,” she said.

“You’re sure?”

“Of course. I want to know what my gift might be.” She
smiled at him, shocked at the way the rising life moon reflected in his eyes. He held a deep sadness that she had never noticed before. “What is it, Kel?”

“I’m lost,” he said. “Lost and confused.”

She touched his face and felt stubble, grit and tears. “Come inside.”

Namior went first, opening the door and sighing as the usual smells of cooking washed over her. Her mother was at the rear of the main room, stirring several pots where they hung over the fire pit. When she turned and saw Namior, her smile was wide and welcoming.

“Namior!” she said. “Been a busy girl, so I hear.”

“So many hurt,” Namior said, and she thought to add,
So many dead
. But it did not need to be said. “How’s great-grandmother?”

Her mother’s smile slipped a little, and she nodded at the door leading to the staircase. “Up there. She’s very tired. I’ve not seen her this bad since …”

“Ever,” Namior said.

“Yes.” Her mother sighed. “This craze is a strong one, and she picks at her eye, rubs her ear. As if she’s trying to blind and deafen herself against what’s happening.”

“She’ll come through. She’s strong. But Mother, can I smell fishtail bakkett? Can Kel stay for some?”

“Assumed he would. Enough for everyone.”

“Thank you,” Kel said. The woman looked at him and offered a brief smile.

“What else is wrong?” Namior asked.

Her mother waved one hand as though at a worrisome fly, but this time she did not turn away from her cooking. “Hard day. Lots of pain around today, plenty of grief, and the wraiths of people we know waiting to be chanted down. Many died in their sleep … don’t know they’re dead.”

“That’s not fair,” Namior said. She sat on a large cushion, and Kel knelt beside her, leaning in until their shoulders touched.

“We’ll lead Mourner Kanthia to them, once she’s chanted down the ones she knows about.”

“And what else?” Kel asked. “What did the groundstone show you today?”

“Taking an interest in our old magic now, Kel?”

“The visitors have told us their version of where they came from, what’s happened to them, why they’re here. I’m just curious if it’s the truth.”

“Curious.” She stopped stirring and looked Kel in the eye. “Just curious?”

“It’s a terrible day,” he said.

“And why would I know the truth or lie of it?” She sounded suddenly defensive, and Namior started to rise. Her mother sighed and waved her down. “Rest, girl. It was difficult to scry today, that’s all. Hazed. Lots of interference.”

“You think maybe the visitors—?”

“The land’s suffered an injury. That island …”

“They call it Komadia,” Namior said.

“Whatever they name it, it’s bruised our land, wounded it. And it’ll take time for it to recover.”

“You talk as though it’s a living thing,” Kel said.

Namior touched his arm and squeezed, and her mother glared at him. “You think it isn’t, wood-carver? You cut the limbs from trees and make fancies from them, and you tell me the land isn’t alive?”

Kel did not respond, and for that Namior was grateful. She was too tired to witness an argument.

The woman stirred her fish stew, testing it and dropping in a minute pinch of some herb or spice from a pouch on the wall. “So, we’ve had visitors all day long, and we’ve seen and heard much of what’s happening. Did you see any more boats coming in as you came home?”

“No,” Namior said, though in truth she could not even recall looking out to sea. The cobbled streets, the moss-covered stone walls, the undamaged buildings and herb-filled gardens
had been so familiar that she had barely taken her eyes from them. Normality had struck her, warm and safe, and she had not wished to lose it again that evening.

“Hmm. They’ll wait ’til morning, probably. Look too suspicious coming in through the night.”

The conversation cooled, and they sat in silence as the stew cooked. Namior looked at the groundstone, smoothed by generations of her family’s hands, and she resisted the temptation to touch it. She was tired, and the land was wounded. She needed food and rest if she was to face the morning strong and ready to begin healing once again.

“I need to wash and change,” she said. “Will you call up to us when the food is ready?”

Her mother glanced from Namior to Kel, and back again. She nodded. “But I used the last of the hot water to clean the fish.”

Namior stood, reached out for Kel and led him upstairs.

The stairs creaked slightly, but the house had been built strong many centuries ago, and they walked silently along the landing. Her great-grandmother’s door was open a crack and Namior glanced in, keen to see the old mother’s face one time before resting for the night. She lay on the bed with her hands twisted on her chest, her mouth slightly open. She mumbled in her sleep. A rush of love hit Namior, and a familiar sense of the fragility of things. So many people in Pavmouth Breaks could not look at their loved ones’ faces tonight, and there were many mothers whose children were dead. But she was too tired to cry.

She led the way up the narrow staircase to her attic room, and once inside she closed the door, lit the oil lamp and sat gently on the bed. Its creaks were familiar to her, and many times she and Kel had stirred those creaks together. But that suddenly seemed so very long ago.

He stood inside the door, awkward, and her sadness deepened at the realization that he too felt this new distance.

“So what have you made me, Kel Boon?”

The wood-carver sat on a chair in the corner of her room, placed the gift on the floor and pulled the blanket from it.

Namior gasped.
Beautiful
, she thought, and for a moment the cliff hawk seemed to shift. She glanced at the oil lamp to see if the flame was steady, and when she looked back the carving was motionless again. She blinked, but there were no tears.
Tiredness is fooling me
.

“Wellburr wood,” Kel said, obviously keen to fill the silence. “It cuts cleanly, and the sap stays fresh for many moons after it’s taken. It feeds itself. It likes the chisel and the knife. If you look at it in just the right light …” He picked up the carving and stood beside the oil lamp, turning it this way and that. “Can you see the shadows? The depth?”

“Beautiful,” Namior said. “Very beautiful.”

Kel shrugged. He’d always been embarrassed when she complimented him on his carvings even though he took great pride in them. “It’s not finished. The beak’s not quite right, the claws are thicker than they should be. The wing tips need to be more pronounced. I had a couple of evenings’ work to do on it, but… today seemed like the right time.”

“It did?”

Kel really stared at her then, and she could tell from his eyes that he was fighting with something inside. He clenched his jaw, then came to her and handed her the carving.

She took it, surprised at how heavy it was, and how cool. Maybe that was the sap, still fresh. She turned it this way and that, trying to take it all in, but Kel stood over her and blocked out most of the light.
Whatever he has to say, maybe he needs a little nudge
.

Namior looked up between the cliff hawk’s spread wings. “So tell me who you really are.”

Kel sighed, and all the tension seemed to drain from him. He backed up a couple of steps and sat heavily into the corner chair again, resting his head back against the wall. He seemed to be staring at the ceiling, and Namior saw the flicker of light
and shadow play over the cracked paintwork. She and Kel would be seeing completely different shapes.

Kel popped the buttons on his jacket and opened it. He touched the handles of weapons she did not know, not threateningly, but so that she saw. Then he closed his eyes and took several deep breaths.

After a few beats, with his eyes still closed, Namior thought he’d gone to sleep. She put the carving gently on the floor and touched the hawk’s head, running her fingers across the wonderfully realized bone crest across its skull. It was used to crack the shells of large molluscs, and each crest was unique, a distinct mark of identity.
This is a hawk that never was
, she thought.

When she looked up again, Kel was staring at her.

“I’m Kel Boon,” he said. “I’m the man you met five years ago in the Blue Ray Tavern, carving a set of wine tankards for the landlord. You watched me all night, as I carved and drank ale. I saw you watching, and you knew that I saw, but we played the game of not noticing. I wanted you to come closer, and you were fascinated by what I was doing. Seabed Kine… a strange wood, that should never be able to grow beneath the waves. But it does, and it’s the hardest wood there is to carve. Almost as hard as stone. And it has the remnants of things long dead set in it, as if they died and the wood grew around them, way down at the bottom of the sea. So each tankard is unique and has the polished sections of dead things cast into it.”

Namior remembered that night, and she flushed with embarrassment. She hoped it would not show in the lamplight.