Voyage of the Fox Rider (6 page)

“Hmm. A crystal castle shouldn’t be difficult to find, if one exists, that is. But a black ship now, I would think there might be many. What kind of black ship is it?”

Alamar fished Jinnarin’s drawing from his pocket, handing it to Drienne. She squinted at it. “Lord, Alamar, who drew this tiny thing? A dragonfly rider?”

“A friend.”

Drienne looked at him in wonder, then back at the sketch. “A carrack or a galleon I would say. —A black one?” At a nod from Alamar, Drienne passed the small paper back to him and then opened a tome.

From the shadows Jinnarin watched as Drienne joined Alamar in skimming through the books. Long moments passed, the silence broken only by the sound of pages slowly turning. Occasionally one of the other people in the central area would get up and leave, and a person or two came up the steps to the same floor and entered the stacks, but they were on the opposite side of the room and Jinnarin and Rux remained where they were. Rux lay with his chin on his front paws, yet his eyes were open and his ears pricked, and Jinnarin knew that he was on guard against discovery. And so the Pysk made herself comfortable on a bottom shelf among musty tomes and waited…and dozed. “Here’s one”—Drienne’s voice brought Jinnarin awake—“Oh wait, it burned while in port at Arbalin. During the rebellion.” Drienne resumed leafing, her eyes fixed upon the pages, and Jinnarin settled once more, leaning back against an aslant book.

How long Jinnarin drowsed, she did not know, but the scrape of chairs brought her awake. Peering out, she saw that Alamar and Drienne were getting to their feet. Several tomes lay scattered on the table before them, and it was obvious that they had sought references in each. Alamar stretched, straightening his back, groaning, and Drienne said, “Love, you simply must cross over to Vadaria.”

“Not right now, Dree. Got to solve this dream first. A past obligation.”

“Stubborn as always,” Drienne muttered and began gathering up the books. But then she stopped and looked Alamar directly in the eye, her gaze filled with entreaty and unshed tears. “Heed me: don’t overcast, Alamar. I want you alive and young; not old and dead.”

Alamar took her glorious face in his hands and kissed her gently. “I’m going now, Dree. But I promise as soon as I have this dream business resolved, I’ll cross over. Then I’ll come back and we’ll—where will I find you?”

“Try here, first, Alamar, here in the City of Bells. You see, I’m Regent of the Academy at the moment.”

“The Grand Dame?”

Drienne nodded, smiling.

“What will the apprentices say when I whisk you off to—”

“What they’ve always said, I shouldn’t wonder.”

Alamar stood in thought a moment. At last he said, “I may be gone awhile. Should it take long, then where?”

“If not here,” answered Drienne, “then on the Lady’s island, there in my cottage of the wood.”

“Faro,” breathed Alamar, then he smiled and took her hands and squeezed them gently. “I must go.”

Drienne kissed him on the cheek and released him, and Alamar turned and headed for the stairs, a bit of a spring in his step. And among the stacks Jinnarin swung aboard Rux, and the fox made his way through the shadows and reached the landing just as the elder started down. Urging Rux forward, Jinnarin followed the Mage. Yet ere they had gone halfway down, from behind, the Pysk heard a gasp. Jinnarin turned and glanced back, and at the head of the stairs stood Drienne, her eyes wide in wonderment. Jinnarin smiled and waved, then gathered darkness unto herself and urged Rux forward, the shadow-wrapped fox darting down in the gloom.

“Nothing? You discovered nothing?” They stood in the dimness beyond all the buildings, Jinnarin looking at the Mage in consternation.

“Right,” snapped Alamar, irritated.

“But you said that this was the finest library—”

“I said that it was
one
of the finest,” grated the Mage.

“Don’t quibble!” flared Jinnarin.

“I’m not quibbling!” shouted Alamar.

Silence fell between them. Then in a more subdued tone Alamar said, “We may
never
discover where lies a pale green sea or a crystal castle or where sails a black ship. Did I not say that dream visions are often not what they seem? And, after all, it
is
nought but a stupid
dream
—”

“Sending!” gritted Jinnarin.

Alamar sighed.

Neither uttered aught for a while, then Jinnarin said, “Let us not argue, Alamar. Instead, what can we do now? Where can we go and who can we see to find a clue, a lead? Who knows about ships and seas and islands—?”

“Sailors!” declared Alamar. “Ships’ captains. Navigators. Cartographers. Mariners all.”

“All right then,” said Jinnarin, “let us go see these—these mariners. But if they know not, then who shall we ask?”

Alamar stood in silence a moment, twisting the bracelet on his wrist. At last he said, “Well, my tiny Pysk, if they know not, then will we seek the Children of the Sea.”

Jinnarin and Rux waited, shadow in shadow, while nearby the River Kairn thundered down into the waters of the Weston Ocean, the river at last coming to the lip of the headland to plunge a hundred feet or more to the brine below. Across a narrow street stood the Sloppy Pig, a cliff-edge tavern frequented by apprentice and mariner both, or so Alamar had said. The Mage himself was inside hoisting a tankard or two, speaking with members of ships’ crews, captains and sailors alike. The Pig was the third such public house that Alamar had visited on the bluffs above the docks, having previously called upon the Dropped Anchor and the Foaming Wake.

Jinnarin was just beginning to suspect that Alamar had forgotten her when the Mage lurched out the door.
“Pysk, Pysk,”
he loudly hissed. “
Psst!
Where are you, Jinner—Jinn—Pysk?”

Reeling across the street, his eyes searching, the Mage stumbled among the bushes of the riverside grounds, one hand held high, a blue light glowing from his fingertips.
“Pysk—!”

“Hush, Alamar!” snapped Jinnarin. “And put out that light!”

“Oh
there
you are, Jin-Jin. I was beginning to think—”

“Alamar, you are drunk!”

The Mage drew himself up in indignation and thickly protested, “Me? Drunk? Why, I’ll have you know—”

“Alamar, I said put out that light.”

Alamar bleared at his glowing hand, muttered a few words, and watched in amazement as it grew brighter. He muttered more words. Nothing happened. Finally he stuffed his hand into his cloak, wrapping cloth about it. “Never mind the cursed light. We’ve got to hurry. I’ve booked us passage on a ship. We’re bound for Arbalin tonight.”

“Ship? Arbalin? Tonight? Why?”

Alamar took his hand from the cloak and looked at it. It still glowed. He wrapped it up again. “Because, Jin-Jin, that’s where we’ll find Aravan, him and his Elvenship. If
anyone
knows where lies the pale green castle, the crystal ship, or the black sea, it’ll be Aravan.”

“Oh, Alamar, you are in no state to make such decisions. How can we—how can
I
be certain that this is the right thing to do? I mean, I’ve heard of Aravan of course—he’s a Friend, after all…saved Tarquin’s life—but to go traipsing off to Arbalin, well—”

“Cer-certainly it’s the right thing, Jin-Jin,” averred Alamar. “And we’ve got to hurry. The
Flying Flish
, the
Filing Frish
, the blasted ship sails on the night tide. Besides, how else are we going to find Farr—Pysk—Rix, the boar killer?”

With grave misgivings, at last Jinnarin nodded.
How else indeed?

It was with some wonderment that the crew of the
Flying Fish
watched as the old Man lurched up the gangplank, dragging behind a most unwilling fox on a long tether fixed on its harness, the animal snarling at the elder and snapping at the rope and jerking back against it, at times lying down and being dragged on its side. “’Smy familiar Ruxie,” slurred the old Man.

When elder and fox were safely ensconced in their cabin, one crew member turned to another and asked, “‘Don’s blood, did you see that?”

“Right, mate,” answered the other, “take my grog but that fox were wild.”

“No, no, you booby, the fox ain’t what I were driving at!”

“Well then, wot?”

“It were his hand.”

“His hand?”

“Yar! Bleed me but I do believe his hand were on fire!”

Asea

Early to Mid Spring, 1E9574

[Five Months Past]

A
lamar reeled into the cabin, dragging Rux behind, the fox struggling against the leash. As the door closed, the Mage dropped his rucksack to the planking—
“Ow!”
came a muffled cry from within. Paying no heed, the elder flopped down onto his bunk and lay on his back contemplating his glowing digits. “Out, damn light!” he thickly commanded.
“Exi, Lumen! Exstingue! Fiat lux!
Oops!”—once again the light grew stronger—
“Peri—perite—perde lumen
…” Nothing seemed to work. While on the floor the knapsack began to wriggle and thump and emit muted curses dire, a tiny hand emerging to unfasten the bindings, Rux whining and licking at the wee fingers, while the Mage on the bunk mumbled. At last the sack was open and out struggled Jinnarin, the Pysk fuming, fire in her eyes.

“Alamar!” she shrieked. “You ale-fuddled old sot!—”

A snore answered her.

Alamar had passed out.

But his hand no longer glowed.

“Unh,”
groaned the Mage, opening his eyes, blearily peering about. “Where—oh my head.”

No one answered him, yet he could hear the creak of wood and a distant plash of water. Bright daylight poured in through a roundish window, and the room seemed to be slowly rocking to and fro. He held up the
fingers of his right hand and stared at them, as if trying to remember something—what, he did not know. Wincing, Alamar struggled to a sitting position.

On the floor across the room glaring at him sat Jinnarin, leaning back against sleeping Rux.

Smacking his lips and tasting his own tongue, Alamar’s face screwed up into a horrid mask.
“Gahh!”

“Serves you right,” gritted Jinnarin.

“Wh-where are we?”