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god. I’ll spare you, though it’s the only time I’ve had an excuse to make a really good rhyme for “scarf.” Finally, after some prodding, I turned from my newfound muse and settled down on the deck near Tress. She would have preferred to work with me belowdecks, out of sight, but I had been stubborn. I’d wanted to watch the moon barf. As one does. “We need to break the curse,” she said. “Ah yes,” I said. Then I leaned in close, speaking conspiratorially. “You know, I have one of those.” “A curse?” “Indeed.” “I know, Hoid.” “You do?” “Yes. It’s why we can talk about it. If I didn’t know, you couldn’t tell me.” “I can’t tell you something you don’t know, but only things you already know?” “Yes, because of the curse.” “Oh! A curse! I—” “—have one of those. I know. I need to break yours so you can lead me to the Sorceress. Nobody knows where in the Midnight Sea she can be found.” I fell silent. “Hoid?” she asked. “Do you understand?” “I think I understand. But, see, it’s hard.” I leaned in closer. “I can tell you…” “Yes?” “Something important…” “Yes?” “Socks with sandals,” I whispered. “The new fashion movement. Trust me. It will be all the rage.” She sighed with increasing exasperation. I’m accustomed to that reaction from people, but I prefer to be intentionally irritating. It’s against my professional ethics to frustrate people by accident. It’s like…a construction worker making a new road while sleepwalking. The foreman would have a fit. How in the world does one make a sleepwalker take a union-mandated break? Do you wake them up? “Look,” Tress said, “I have this paper here, see? And I’ve written down a lot of words that I think would have to do with curses. Are there any you can’t talk to me about? If so, that will give me a clue.” It was a workable idea. I would have been impressed, if I hadn’t been distracted by wondering whether anyone had made clothing out of napkins yet. Tress handed me the list of words. I studied them, cocked my head to the side, then nodded. “Anything?” she asked. “I,” I declared, “have apparently forgotten how to read.” Showing legendary patience, Tress took the list back and read the words to me. I repeated them. “Well?” she asked. “I definitely have heard some of those words before,” I said. “Now, I forgot the rules. Is this the game where I draw a picture of the word, or is it the game where I act them out?” She groaned and lay back on the deck, her head thumping the wood. “Could you maybe lead me to the Sorceress without getting your curse broken?” I fell silent. “Hoid?” I smiled at her. I’d blacked out one of my teeth to make it seem like it was missing, as I figured that must be quite fashionable. A number of the Dougs were sporting the look, after all. “Maybe I could say letters to you,” she said,
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“and you could think of the way to break your curse. I could ask you, ‘Is this letter in the word?’ Theoretically, you won’t be able to say yes if it were.” This one wouldn’t have worked. It was an easy enough workaround that the Sorceress had thought of it, and had basically “programmed” the curse to forbid the person from confirming words this way. In addition, in this specific instance…well… “Letters,” I said. “Spelling words. Reading…” “Right,” Tress said. “Right. You never answered my question, though. Could you lead me to the Sorceress? Even without being uncursed?” I fell silent. A part of me was hoping she’d notice how loud that silence was. “Wait,” she said, sitting up. “Every time I talk about sailing to see the Sorceress, you get quiet.” “Do I?” I asked. “Those are the only times when I’ve been around you that you haven’t had anything to say…” Her eyes widened. “Hoid, you can’t talk about the Sorceress or her island, right?” I, notably, was unable to answer. “Hoid,” she said, “can you talk about the king’s island?” “I’ve been there once!” I said. “Have you heard the story about the king’s tosher? I don’t really remember it, but it has poop in it, so it must be funny!” “Talking about visiting the king’s island didn’t make you shut up,” she said, “but talking about the Sorceress’s island did…” She stood up. “I need a map.” And there. After only a few days of trying, she’d discovered more about helping me than Ulaam had in our year together. That stupid shapeshifter was enjoying this. I swear, they’ve all been getting weirder ever since Sazed released them. Anyway, Salay was at her usual post, guiding the ship deeper into the Crimson. She didn’t have a map of the Midnight up there, but—upon Tress’s request—she sent a Doug to fetch one from her quarters. It wasn’t particularly detailed; none of the maps of the Midnight Sea are. Fortunately, the shape was roughly correct, since all of the seas are basically pentagons. Tress started pointing to places on the map and asking, “Hoid, I’d like you to guide us here. Could you do that?” Each time, I told her some terribly interesting fact about a place—such as having walked there wearing butter instead of shoes. Until she reached a specific point. When she asked about that one, I fell silent. When I stop talking, people often act happy. It’s a hazard of my profession. But this time it was different. Tress pulled the map to her chest, her eyes watering. She knew where the Sorceress’s island was. Near the border of the Midnight Sea and the Crimson Sea, perhaps half a day’s sail inward. It was the first concrete piece of information she’d found. The first real step toward rescuing Charlie. It was a beautiful moment that was ruined as a sudden line of rainfall appeared on the horizon—then shot straight for our ship. I know that sailors fear storms on your planet. It’s common among all seafaring cultures I’ve
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met. Interestingly, most also ascribe—or in their past used to ascribe—volition to storms. They never simply are. They want something. The weather patterns on Tress’s world aren’t specifically Invested—so they aren’t self-aware. But you wouldn’t have known that from the way the rain came straight toward the Crow’s Song. Tress stared at it, growing numb, the joy of her grand discovery fading. It could all end right here, couldn’t it? All her struggles, her preparations…it could simply end. The Crow’s Song could vanish in the rain, speared through at a hundred different angles, then pulled into the deep. And Tress was powerless to do anything about it. Moments like these bring wind and rain to life. We need purpose; it’s the spiritual conjunction that glues together human existence and human volition. Purpose is so integral to us that we see it everywhere. Sky gods, making thunder with their shouts or causing lightning to fall with their steps. Winds named and granted different intentions and motives, depending on the direction they blow. Rains withheld, granted, or sent to destroy, depending on the turning of celestial moods. A storm is not an object like a box or a tree. Even to the more scientifically-minded, storms are more notion than numbers. When does a drizzle become a downpour, and when does a downpour become a storm? There’s no firm line. It’s about how you feel. A storm is an idea. It’s much more powerful that way. Watching the rain bear down on her—crimson spikes marching behind it like the crossed spears of royal guards—Tress wanted it to be a deliberate act of the moons. She didn’t want her death to be meaningless. The ship lurched to the side, making Tress stumble. She cried out and grabbed the rail, then quickly snatched the map of the Midnight Sea before it could blow away. Another lurch of the ship sent her stumbling the other direction. It seemed random to her, but Salay was calling orders nearby, and the Dougs obeyed, managing the sails. Salay didn’t particularly care if her death was meaningless or deliberate. Provided it was a long time coming. As I mentioned, on your planet, you may be accustomed to the helm position on the ship being relatively unimportant. Not so on the spore seas. The ship lurched again, wood groaning, canvas rattling. A sailing ship isn’t like most vehicles; it takes time and effort to change its momentum. Tress hung on, eyes wide, as Captain Crow caught a dropped rope and pulled it tight. Even she obeyed Salay’s orders in this moment. Nearby, three Dougs rushed to the wheel, helping Salay heave to the side, bending hundreds of tons of wood to her will. The Crow’s Song veered right to the side of the line of rain, skirting so close to the wall of aether that a few of the crimson spears scraped the hull. Salay called for the sailors to steady and slow, for a reason Tress didn’t understand—until she saw that the giant snarls of interlocking spikes were sinking. The aethers emerging
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from their spores had set the sea rippling, and their retreat doubled that, making it billow and quake. You don’t normally get true waves on the spore seas—not like you do on liquid oceans—but when you do, they’re extremely dangerous. The Crow’s Song shook like the ice in a good cocktail, then tipped to the side like the person who’s enjoyed too many. Tress immediately felt sick to her stomach, then panicked at the thought of what vomit would do on a deck in the middle of the spores. She managed to find a bucket, her first job on the ship proving useful in an unexpected way. Through it all, Salay kept shouting orders. It was almost as if she kept the ship from capsizing through sheer force of will. She moved the vessel at times against the waves, but at others she spun the wheel to flow with the pattern. In those few moments, the ship was a giant musical instrument, and she played it as a master, steering us to safety. Unfortunately, right at the end, one final wave broke against the side of the ship. This spilled spores across the deck. Violent. Scarlet. Thirsty. Enough to overwhelm the silver protections for a few seconds. And Tress wasn’t the only one who had been ill. It happened with a burst of red on red. A flash of spikes on the main deck, near the steps up to the quarterdeck. In the blink of an eye, one of the Dougs had been nailed to the wood outside the captain’s cabin. I’ll leave off crass comparisons to pincushions and just say this: I’ve never seen a man bleed out so quickly. But I’ve also never seen a man with so many places for the blood to escape. Everyone stared at the terrible scene, and Tress groaned, turning back to her bucket for a second unmealing. Then the Dougs—remembering their training—scrambled for the emergency towels to sop up the blood and prevent any from leaking over the side of the ship. In the Verdant, a stream of blood over the side could have immobilized them. Here it would rip the ship to pieces. Fortunately, ships on the spore seas are built to prevent this, with all seams pitched and sealed. The silver eventually did its job—and everyone walked across dead grey spores, grinding them against the wood. In the midst of this dreary scene, the ship ground to a halt. The stilling had arrived. I’ll admit to feeling uneasy, even now, about those days crossing the Crimson. I know the cosmology and arcanum of Tress’s planet quite well, and I’m confident that no entity directs its storms. And yet. Knowing is not always believing. The two dozen of us on deck turned, as one, to watch the rains veer and inexplicably bear down on us again. Relentless. Water in front leading a charge of violent aethers behind, wide as three ships beside one another. A storm is a living thing, even when not specifically Invested. Because “life,” as a concept, is a human
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construct. We define it. Nature doesn’t care; it sees everything as a chemical process. It couldn’t care in the slightest that a bunch of carbon, hydrogen, and oxygen one day decided it would really prefer to sit on a sofa rather than a bench. Therefore, something lives if we decide it does. To us on that ship, that day, the rains were alive. They had to be. And I know for a fact Tress was shaken not only physically, but emotionally as she looked up from her bucket to see the rain coming again. Captain Crow was powerless to do anything. Not even Salay could save the ship during the stilling. The line of water missed us by a few hundred yards. What had seemed, in our horrified eyes, a direct attempt to kill us had instead been random chance. So we watched as the rain vanished into the distance, leaving a persistent wall of red thorns. They towered high, a barricade that would only sink once the seethe began again. The rain danced around in circles in the distance, then vanished. A capricious god taunting us? A natural process, given autonomy only by our brains as they searched for patterns, meaning, and volition? I know what I believed that day. I implied that I didn’t remember the names of the Dougs. That was a lie—I wanted to keep your focus on the main players of this particular story. But every person has a story, Dougs included. The one who died was named Pakson; both he and his sister were Dougs on the Crow’s Song. Pakson was tall and awkward on land—the type of man who seemed to have been born with legs a size too large for his torso. He was bald, despite his relative youth, and his neck kind of merged with his chin—to the point that after meeting him, you’d inexplicably get a hankering for a baguette. He was also unaccountably kind. He was the man who had kept checking on Tress as she clung to the side of the ship. He’d held the rope with several others as Fort pulled her up. He’d always laughed at meals and thanked Fort for the food, no matter how bad it had tasted. He loved music, but couldn’t play, and had always secretly regretted never learning. I wish I’d been in a state of mind to give him lessons. Now he had fallen. We gave his corpse to the spores and sailed onward. Tress felt responsible. Maybe if the ship had waited a few more months out in the Verdant, they wouldn’t have encountered the rains that day. She was terrified that Pakson wouldn’t be the only casualty of her recklessness. So she sought her room—and the distracting comfort of her spores. As always, Huck was there. Talking to her about life as a rat. His voice distracted her from her problems. The ratty tales were relaxing; even when he spoke of fears and challenges among the rat community, she found herself soothed. Because those events had happened far away. They
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were personal, yet somehow abstract at the same time.. “It’s really interesting,” he was telling her, “how much we can smell of the world that you don’t seem to be able to. Everyone’s shoes smell different. Did you know that?” “I’d have thought they all smelled the same.” “Not to a rat!” Huck said, sitting on the table next to where she was working. He launched into a story about how he’d been able to follow a human through a crowd by sniffing for the distinctive scent of his boots. Tress half listened, half worked. She was tinkering with the other flares for her augmented flare gun. In each, she adjusted the amounts of the various types of spores, then recorded them in a notebook so she could see which experiment worked the best. Up above, gulls called in the air. The Dougs, perhaps needing something to take their own minds off what had happened to Pakson, were fishing the air to catch meat for upcoming meals. Plus, birds were very rare on the Crimson, so you moved when you had the chance. Tress soon had four different flares alongside four different charges. Each flare would theoretically release verdant aether upon hitting, but how much each released was different, which would help her iterate the design. And the charges each had differing amounts of zephyr spores. She told herself this work would help the other crewmembers. The sooner she found a way to disable Crow, the sooner they could all point the prow out of the Crimson. Regrettably, this argument found a hostile audience, even though she made it only to herself. She was planning, after all, on trying to get the crew to sail the Midnight next—and it was said to be even more dangerous. How many lives was she willing to risk to save one man? At what point did the good of her crew outweigh that of Charlie? You might think this an unfair moral problem to force upon a simple window washer, but there’s a certain arrogance in that kind of reasoning. A window washer can think, same as anyone else, and their lives are no less complex. And as I’ve warned you, “simple” labor often leaves plenty of time for thought. Yes, intellectuals and scholars are paid to think deep thoughts—but those thoughts are often owned by others. It is a great irony that society tends to look down on those who sell their bodies, but not on those who lease out their minds. As Tress set the final flare in the row, Huck trailed off. “So…I guess now we have to test them,” he said. “Any thoughts on how to do that?” “Well,” she said, “the Dougs have mostly been staying on the upper deck lately. And the hold is empty of goods.” Huck nodded; it was the most obvious choice. She set him on her shoulder, then packed her flares, gun, and notebook in her bag. She went and explained to Laggart that she wanted to inspect the handiwork Ann had done patching the hull
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down below. It might, Tress explained, help her understand how to make better roseite patches in the future. It was an unremarkable lie, but if Laggart saw through it, he likely thought she was trying to make work to stay busy. The cannonmaster gave his permission and said he’d keep anyone from bothering her. The exchange was so relatively pleasant, Tress briefly wondered if something was wrong with him. On her way down, a Doug called from the rigging, pointing into the distance. Another rainline had been spotted. Tress’s breath caught, but the rain—this time—swerved away from the ship and vanished soon after. Tress tore her eyes away and hastened down to the ship’s cavernous hold. She latched the trap door at the top of the steps for a little extra security, then set out her three oil lamps—something denied to common sailors. It was unwise to leave too many things burning when you lived in what was essentially a giant dry, hollow piece of firewood. The hold was half empty, having disgorged its goods at the last stop before the Crimson. Foodstuffs and water supplies made up her audience as she loaded a charge, then a flare, into her weapon. She then turned and raised the gun toward the empty aft portion of the hold. Huck, to his credit, didn’t run, though he did cower a bit in her hair, which she left unbraided more often these days—in a tail or just unrestrained, waving free. She paid for that with the brush at nights, but it felt...liberating. At home, she’d always been embarrassed for how her hair behaved. But out here, there were so many more pressing things to worry about. Tress pulled the trigger—which caused the gun’s hammer to hit the flare with enough force to break the tiny glass vial in the charge. Zephyr spores exploded, releasing air, faintly blue. The flare popped out the front of the gun… …then flew approximately a foot before nose-diving into the floor. She probably should have used a tad more zephyr. Unfortunately for Tress, the rest of her work had been meticulous. She’d fundamentally grasped the nature of the mechanisms from the schematics. And so, her design functioned perfectly. When the flare hit the deck nose-first, the shock pushed the silver point inside into the sphere of roseite, releasing the water. Verdant vines exploded outward, seizing Tress and enwrapping her with dizzying speed. She felt an initial spike of fear and some discomfort as the vines constricted, lifting her up a good two feet. But there was no actual pain, and once it was over she felt more humiliated than frightened. “Tress!” Huck said. “Oh, Tress! Are you all right?” He scampered off her shoulder and onto the vines. She wiggled her fingers, then started laughing. Tress’s laugh was a silly thing, involving snorts and hiccups. It was an honest laugh, validated by its ridiculous nature. In that moment, the last vestiges of Tress’s spore fear died away. She’d made a mistake, and she would be careful in future experiments. But today,
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her mistake had merely cost her a little dignity—traded away for the pleasure of knowing what it felt like to be a grape trellis. “In my bag,” Tress said, still chuckling. “Fetch me the silver knife.” As Huck scrambled to obey, Tress noticed the ends of the vines were still growing. As before, when she thought about them, they turned toward her. In this particular case, she didn’t want them to constrict her further, and so she thought of them pulling away. Remarkably, they did. It wasn’t perfect control. Plus, she couldn’t do anything about the already grown vines and had to use the knife to cut herself free. But it left her wondering how far her control could go. She carefully added more zephyr spores to each of her charges. The next experiments were less amusing. All three flew as she wanted, though one of the flares bounced free without releasing vines. The other two exploded with vines just as she’d hoped. During the last experiment, she tried thinking about the vines as they grew, willing them to not grab onto anything. This time, instead of taking hold of the wall and the ribs of the ship, the vines stretched toward her—then the entire mass fell to the floor. She spent the rest of the afternoon cutting the vines down and taking them up to dump out her window. She hid everything incriminating in her room with Huck—chastising herself for forgetting to lock the door on her way out earlier—and rushed to help Fort with the day’s dinner. He found her a distracted helper, as her mind was elsewhere. Why had one of her flares failed to release vines? What if she fired a dud when she was facing Crow? She’d need to do more testing before initiating a confrontation. But she finally had a weapon. A surprise. Crow was looking for someone who didn’t fear the spores. And that was just what she was going to get. The captain authorized opening a keg of something intoxicating after dinner, which Tress considered a nice gesture. It proved the captain wasn’t completely heartless. (Granted, that meant Crow did have a conscience, but ignored it most of the time. Which is verifiably worse.) Tress did not partake of the brew. She’d only been drunk once in her life, two years before at a holiday gathering when she hadn’t realized how much punch was in the punch. That day, she’d blathered endlessly about her favorite recipes. While Charlie had found it endearing, she worried a little alcoholic grease today might make her plans slip out as freely. Instead she gathered up a plate of the night’s meal: biscuits and a strong meaty gravy with vegetables. It was basically stew you ate with your fingers, but it at least gave the illusion of variety. There was only so much she could do with the ingredients at her disposal. The crew loved it anyway. After months of meals that bore an uncomfortable kinship with tile grout, one did not complain at a little repetition on a
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delicious theme. And—though one might not believe it after experiencing the variegated ways the Dougs could assault a language—the crew was not stupid. They saw that Tress was helping Fort. And suddenly their meals contained food rather than something merely—by the strictest definition of the word—edible. So when they cheered her as she left, it wasn’t only because they were mildly inebriated. She felt undeserving of this attention, particularly considering how her actions had put them all in such danger. So she hurried to Salay’s cabin with a plate of food. Salay hadn’t made an appearance at dinner, and Tress worried about her. Tress knew the right door only because of the number on it; she’d never visited Salay. Tress knocked hesitantly, and thought she heard someone blow their nose on the other side. A moment later, Salay opened the door, and though her darker skin tone masked things like a red nose and cheeks, her eyes made it clear she’d been crying. “Oh, Tress,” Salay said, her voice as clipped and stern as always. “Is something wrong?” “I brought you dinner,” Tress said, uncomfortable. She’d never seen Salay in anything other than her naval outfit, with stiff trousers and coat. It felt wrong somehow to be barging in on her when she was wearing a robe over a nightgown. Still, the woman gestured for Tress to enter and put the plate on the desk. Tress slipped in, shocked to discover how small the room was. It was barely half the size of her own quarters. As helmswoman, Salay was the ship’s third in command. Surely she deserved more space than this closet. “I appreciate the meal,” Salay said. “It was inefficient of me to make you bring it. I need to maintain my strength, of course. Today only proved that more…” She pushed past Tress and settled down at the desk, taking the plate. Tress wondered if she should go, but Salay kept speaking, so she lingered. “I keep thinking there has to be a way to avoid the rains,” Salay explained. She absently pushed the plate of food aside, then pointed at the unrolled chart on her desk. “There’s no pattern to them though. People have sailed the seas for centuries, and still there is no known safe passage through the Crimson. If it hasn’t been found by now…” Salay stopped, then looked back at Tress. “You know of one, don’t you? A way to protect the crew? You wouldn’t have brought us here if you hadn’t known of a method, right?” “I…” Tress said, then swallowed. “I’m sorry, Salay. For what happened to Pakson.” “It’s my job to do what the captain and first officer cannot,” Salay said. “Or…or will not. Someone has to look out for the crew.” She pounded the table, then put her hand to her head, staring at the chart. Tress settled down on the narrow bed beside the wall, sitting with her hands in her lap, feeling as if she were intruding. The room was remarkably bare of personalization. Some maps in tubes in
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a bin by the wall. Neat and organized chests for items under the bed. And a picture hanging above the porthole, lit by a flickering desk lamp. It was a drawing; these people hadn’t discovered photography yet. But it was a good one, drawn expertly but quickly by a street artist in the zephyr capital. It depicted a tall, smiling man and a young girl who bore a striking resemblance to Salay. “Your father?” Tress asked, pointing. Salay looked up, then nodded. “I promised him I’d pay his creditors. But when I returned, he was gone. Pressed into labor by the king’s collectors. By the time I caught up to the ship, they’d left him at a debtor’s prison at some port, but couldn’t remember which one.” “That’s awful.” “Trouble is, when royal ships need an extra hand, they can always press men from the debtor’s prisons onto their crews. So tracking him proved impossible. He must have bounced around the islands, being pressed and dropped off a dozen times. “I keep telling myself, and promising Mother via letter, that our only hope is for me to keep sailing. Keep visiting new ports and asking. He’s out there somewhere, Tress. Either that…or he died in one of the conflicts, forced onto the crew of a warship. If that’s the case, I guess I’m too late. I’ve already failed him, like I failed Pakson.” “Salay,” Tress said, “you mustn’t give up hope.” “Why not?” Salay asked, turning toward her. “Is it true? Do you have a way to get us out of this? Do you have a secret from the king that will let us survive the Crimson? Please. Please tell me you have a plan.” “I…” What could she say? Did she try again to protest she wasn’t what Salay thought? Now, when she’d just told the woman to keep hope? Hope in a lie—hope in me—is not true hope, Tress thought. Unless she could do something. Unless there was a way to help. Tress remembered with stark clarity watching the rains approach, knowing there was nothing she could do to stop them. Knowing her life was now subject to random chance. She’d almost begun feeling like she was in control. Like she could shape her own destiny. Then the rain had come, a hammer sent by the moons to deliver humility to her via a firm blow to the forehead. Salay turned away. “It’s not fair of me to ask you to protect them, is it? I don’t know your mission here, your true mission. It’s possible your duty was simply to get us out of the kingdom. We had become deadrunners, dangerous to all we encountered. I can’t blame you for steering us toward our deaths, to protect the innocent. I let it happen. I failed there too.” She smoothed the edges of her map of the Crimson Sea. “If only we knew where the captain was taking us. Then at least I could plan for how long we’d be in here.” “Oh,” Tress said. “Salay, I know that.” “You
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do?” “Yes. Er, I should probably have told you earlier. The captain is taking us to see the dragon.” “Xisis?” Salay said, spinning again in her seat. “Is he real?” “Ulaam says he is. And the captain has books that claim the legends are real.” “Well, Ulaam would probably know,” Salay said, rubbing her chin. “But why visit the dragon… Oh, she’s looking for a way out of her affliction, isn’t she? I had assumed Crow was so stubborn, she’d bullied the spores in her blood to submit. She’s lived longer than anyone should as a spore eater. But what would she trade…?” They locked eyes. “Oh,” Salay said. Then she laughed. “She thinks you’re going to let her trade you for her life? Ha!” “Yes, um, it’s very funny.” “Well, I suppose that’s one thing to look forward to,” Salay said. “It’s going to be rich watching her discover what you really are. But tell me. I know you can’t confirm or deny your true mission, but is there any hint you can give me for what to expect after Crow is dealt with?” “Well,” Tress said, “I will need your support. If I do deal with Crow—if—then I wouldn’t want the crew to free her. I would need to…um…take her to face justice, you see.” “Of course!” Salay said, looking hopeful for the first time today. “Yes, I can arrange that. Once you have her, we leave the Crimson, then?” “Yes,” Tress said. “Though…well, this is a little awkward…but I have business with the Sorceress in the Midnight Sea next. And I was hoping…” Salay’s eyes went wide. Then she laughed again. Her laugh was like a bell calling sailors to arms. Sharp, excited, yet somehow controlled. “Of course you do. Why was I worried? If you are going to sail the Midnight…well, dealing with the Crimson is nothing to someone like you.” Then her expression turned more serious. “But could you help me protect the crew? I know a bunch of pirates are worthless to the king, but nobody else is going to look out for them. Even their captain doesn’t care about them. Please, please don’t let us lose another friend.” In that moment, Tress felt like something Fort had cooked. Grimy, crusty, and barely able to fulfill its intended purpose. She shrank down before the weight of Salay’s hope. What could Tress do? She was a fake. A liar. A… Wait. A very strange, very desperate idea occurred to her. Probably nothing. Probably a useless whim. Notably, strange desperation is exactly the state that often leads to genius. “Be ready,” Tress told her. “There is something I can try.” Tress spent the next few days in a fervor of panicked studying and studious panicking. Her budding plan was far, far more dangerous than her work with the flares. And in this instance, she didn’t have anyone else’s schematics to lean upon. She spent much of that time experimenting with verdant spores. The fruit of the Emerald Sea itself, which she’d never understood in her youth. She wasn’t
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alone—nor was it surprising that the more she learned, the less afraid she had become. It is that way with most topics, as fear and knowledge often play on different sides of the net. There are obviously exceptions. Certain individual humans, like certain sausages, break this convention. While neither larger group is collectively terrifying, they contain remarkable individuals that absolutely should frighten you. The more you learn about these individuals, the more worried you should become. But for humans at large, knowledge usually equates to empathy, and empathy leads to understanding. Tress found verdant aether to be almost playful, eager to respond to her mental commands in exchange for water. Over the days of study, she grew proficient at making the vines grow in spirals, to stretch tall and strong, and even to grow slowly—holding back much of their strength. She could feel, as always, a sensation beyond the vines. Nothing so distinct as a mind. An impression. One that she thought might be the moon itself—or the always-growing maternal vines that lived upon it. Other than necessities like sleep, Tress only broke from her studies when she had to go help Fort prepare dinners. Each time, seeing the faces of the crewmembers made her more concerned. Three days after her meeting with Salay, she sat in her chambers, encouraging a few verdant vines to grow delicately around her fingers without squeezing too hard. The ship was currently tacking in such a way that she could see the sporefall out her porthole. The sporefall had grown bigger and bigger with each passing day, and it had become increasingly obvious that this was the captain’s destination. The dragon’s lair must be near it. Or perhaps inside it. It’s not immediately obvious in most of the seas, but at the lunagree, falling spores make a pile—like the sand on the bottom of an hourglass. The sea was actually a mountain the size of a kingdom, though the incline was incredibly shallow, and therefore imperceptible. But the closer they sailed, the higher they needed to go. Currently, items on Tress’s desk were in danger of sliding off, and everything felt askew compared to the horizon—as if we were seeing through the lens of a student who had just discovered experimental film. Huck periodically dripped more water onto the vines for her, using a small spoon and a cup of water (wooden, with a good smooth finish from long years of use) stuck to the desk with wax. “What if,” Tress said, “I learned to sail the ship myself.” “The entire ship?” Huck asked. “Maybe not this one. A smaller one. Surely there are sailboats that a single person can crew. I could take one of those into the Midnight Sea, so I don’t risk any other lives.” “And how long do you think it would take you to learn to sail on your own?” he asked. “Particularly in such dangerous seas? You could spend years.” “Maybe that’s what I need to do.” “Or maybe,” he said, “you need to acknowledge something far harder, Tress. That
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your friend is out of your reach. That you should give up on this quest and take care of yourself.” She didn’t respond, though the anger she felt at his words manifested in the vines tightening on her fingers—as if they too were frustrated. She forced herself to relax as Huck dribbled another spoonful of water on the vines. He was getting better at balancing on two legs as he assisted her—he’d needed to do that far more often with her than he had in his past. “Tress,” he said, “I don’t like to see you sad, but I’d hate to see you get hurt. What you’ve done here on the Crow’s Song is incredible, but it’s still leagues away from the dangers you’d face on the Midnight Sea.” “Is it? Nobody knows! I’ve asked Fort, Salay, and even Ulaam. They all tell me that the Midnight Sea is dangerous, but nobody can say why. They just know that the ‘Sorceress watches’ those spores. Ships that go there vanish. There’s maybe something about monsters? Nobody can say for certain.” Huck dribbled more water. Then he sighed softly. “Remember how I went ashore at the last port?” “How could I forget? You’ve told me six stories about it so far.” “I…left out the most important one.” Tress glanced up. The four vines curling around her fingers turned their tips, like heads, to regard Huck. “I went looking for the rat population,” Huck explained, setting down the spoon and wringing his paws. “There are some of us on most islands these days. Talking rats, I mean. With a little work, I found one who had visited the Sorceress’s island. Before you ask, he didn’t know the way. He simply happened to be on a ship that visited. But…he did relate to me the dangers they faced.” “And you weren’t going to tell me?” Tress said, her four vines growing upward with a sharp, sudden motion, like spikes. “I didn’t want to encourage you!” Huck said. “I’m worried about you, Tress. But maybe if you know the dangers, you’ll see how difficult it’s going to be.” (Fun tip: Being told “I kept you in the dark to protect you” is not only frustrating, but condescending as well. It’s a truly economical way to demean someone; if you’re looking to fit more denigration into an already busy schedule, give it a try.) Tress was able, with effort, to appreciate Huck’s sentiment. And fortunately—like the girl who asked the suddenly quiet room of people if they wanted to see her tattoo—he realized that there was no turning back now. “There are three trials one needs to face to reach the Sorceress,” Huck said. “I guess she likes things to be dramatic. Anyway, the first is the most obvious. You have to cross the Midnight Sea.” “Which we can do,” Tress said, “now that Hoid has pointed out the way for us to go.” “You know where to go, yes,” Huck said, “but Tress, don’t you understand? Rain falls in the Midnight Sea like everywhere else. The Sorceress
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has rigged up some way to continuously feed the creatures that pop out of the spores. They roam and rove the oceans—midnight monsters the size of ships. You remember that thing you created to watch Crow? You think you could fight a hundred of those attacking the ship?” That…did seem daunting. The vines on Tress’s fingers wriggled down, hiding behind her palm. “If you survive that,” Huck said, “you have to face the Sorceress’s guardians: a force of metal men that live on her island. They’re completely indestructible, impervious to all kinds of weapon fire, and are relentless. “They capture anyone who sets foot on the island, then imprison them. Captives don’t even get to meet the Sorceress—so don’t think that’s a way to get her attention. I’m told she thinks anyone foolish enough to get captured by the guardians is beneath her notice.” Huh. Getting captured on purpose had been one of the plans Tress was considering. “And if you somehow escape them,” Huck said, “you’ll never reach the Sorceress. She lives in a tower made of an indestructible metal. It is so slick it cannot be scaled, and nothing will stick to it. She stands atop it in the evenings to commune with the moons, but there are only two ways in. Through doors locked by mysterious means, or through the small window where her ravens travel in and out, doing her bidding. “Tress, if you attempt to go to that island, you’ll get eaten by Midnight Essence monsters. If by some miracle you survive and make it to the island, you’ll get locked away forever by the guardians. And even if you escape them, you’ll end up sitting in front of the tower and screaming to be heard until you lose your voice. There’s no way to accomplish what you want.” “Hoid did it,” she said. “He saw her. And so did Charlie.” “Charlie,” Huck said, “was specifically kidnapped because she hoped to be able to ransom him to the king! Who knows what happened with Hoid. It could have been the same thing.” She sat back, and to some extent Huck’s information did as he hoped. It revealed exactly how difficult her task was. Well, she couldn’t focus on it at the moment. She had other problems to deal with. She wouldn’t be around to get cursed by the Sorceress if she ended up imprisoned by a dragon first. And she’d never have a chance to be imprisoned by a dragon if she was killed by rainfall on the Crimson. So, Tress returned to her practice with the vines. The flare burst at Ulaam’s feet. A writhing, twisting mass of vines subsumed the surgeon, wrapping him all the way up to his neck. He tried to free himself, but the best he could achieve was a cross between a convulsion and a dry heave. “What do you think?” Tress said, hurrying through the hold to stand next to him. “Will it work to capture Crow?” Ulaam struggled to shrug. “From my understanding of her ailment and her powers,
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this should be sufficient. Her vines intercept physical danger, but they don’t care if she’s immobilized. Their needs and hers do not entirely align, hmmm? So long as she keeps living to provide them with water, they don’t care what happens to her.” “Do you think it’s overkill?” Tress asked. “If what you say is true, we could jump her in the night while she’s sleeping.” “Her vines would surely react to that,” Ulaam said. “The spores inside her have no way of judging your intent. They would assume the worst and fight you off. “The brilliance of this mechanism you’ve devised is that you don’t have to fire it directly at the captain. The vines will judge your shot off-target, and therefore might not respond. Once she’s wrapped tight, be certain not to make any threatening moves, and the spores should be satisfied.” “Thank you,” Tress said. “Oh! Let me get you out.” She reached for her silver knife. “No need,” Ulaam said. “This is quite pleasant. Tell me, where did you find those flares?” “I made them,” Tress said, digging through her bag—which was on the floor of the hold near where I was sitting. She’d taken the chance to explain her plan in detail to Ulaam and me. I had, of course, responded by asking what she thought of my mullet. Please stop trying to imagine that. It would be best for both of us. “You made them?” Ulaam said. “Yourself?” “I had some of Weev’s schematics, explaining how cannonballs worked,” she explained. “It wasn’t so hard to extrapolate.” “Remarkable. I say, young lady, I must have your brain. Once you are through with it, naturally. Hmmmm?” “I’m sorry, Ulaam,” she said as she hunted in her bag. Where had she put her notebook? She wanted to record that this design worked better than her previous one. Ten shots, and so far no duds. “Talk like that still makes me queasy.” “You haven’t the nerves of a pirate yet, I’m afraid.” “I know.” “I could insert some. It’s a thirty-five percent agony-free process!” “No thank you,” she said, pulling out the notebook and turning. She jumped as she found Ulaam standing next to her. The vines lay in a heap where he’d been standing. “How?” she asked. “I digested them,” he explained, “in a few key places.” “…Digested?” Tress asked. “He’s extra gross!” I said. “I envy him.” “As you should, my friend,” Ulaam said. “By definition, I can do anything a human can—plus more. I see you are taking notes on your experiments, Tress. Interesting, interesting. You know, I could certainly—” “My brain is not for sale,” Tress said. “I was going to ask about your hands this time. Such excellent penmanship. My, my.” He smiled, showing a literally inhuman number of teeth. He says he does it because he figures an extra big smile should be extra comforting to humans. I can never tell if he’s joking or not. “Hands,” she said. “Not for sale. Nor my knees. Or my ears. No body parts for sale, Ulaam.
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Ever.” “Well, that’s quite definitive,” he said. “You’ve grown rather forceful, hmmmm? I remember when you first arrived, and you seemed embarrassed to turn me down.” “I’m not any different now. I’m simply more desperate.” “More desperate than those first few days on the ship?” he asked. Tress hesitated, thinking back to those first awful days. Well, yes, she’d been desperate then too. She’d assumed herself to be as desperate as was possible. Perhaps it was like lifting weights—her capacity for desperation was increasing with time. And there just wasn’t room for other emotions, like embarrassment. “Regardless,” Ulaam said, “we shall move on. No more offers for now. Your plan with the captain. You’re certain the others will join you in this mutiny?” “Pretty sure,” Tress said. “I…may have led Salay and the other officers to think I am a King’s Mask…” “Oh my,” Ulaam said. “How did you manage that?” “Accidentally,” Tress said with a grimace. “Somehow I seem to be best at lying when I tell the truth.” “Wise words, wise words,” I said. “But tell me, have you heard my latest poem?” “Excuse me,” Ulaam said, “I’m disconnecting my ears for the next two minutes.” “What?” Tress said. Unfortunately, she was limited by her anatomy. She couldn’t disconnect her ears unless she wanted it to be permanent. “There once was a farmer with a tulip bulb,” I said. “Who had nowhere to plant it. He found a place to sit. He then threw a fit. And accidentally mashed it into pulp. The end.” Oh, gods. Oh, Shards within. What had I become? “That’s…nice,” Tress said. And for a girl who claimed she was bad at lying, she pulled that one off swimmingly. Ulaam returned to sensibility a short time later. “Ah!” he said. “You’re not bleeding from your ears, Tress? Remarkable. Is that all you’ll be needing from me today?” “I suppose,” Tress said. “But…are you sure you won’t help? In our mutiny?” “Alas,” Ulaam said. “I can offer only medical attention, should you require it. More interference would not be proper.” “If we don’t get out of the Crimson soon,” Tress said, “the ship could end up sinking. That would kill you too.” “Assumptions, assumptions,” Ulaam said, walking to the steps. “Hoid is immortal, and I am nearly so. While I don’t relish the idea of walking across the bottom of the spore sea to reach safety—particularly with him tagging along in his current state—that is not outside my abilities.” I stood up to go after him, as a part of me—that piece that was slightly self-aware—kept trying to ambush him with bad poems. I stopped next to Tress, however, who now sat with her flare gun in her lap. Staring at the floor. Outside, the soft hiss of spores rubbing along the hull was a steady companion. A reminder that we were moving inevitably toward the dragon’s lair. Captain Crow estimated it was only two days away. “I’m worried,” Tress said softly, looking up at me. “I’m…I’m terrified.” I put my hand on her shoulder and managed
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to keep myself from vomiting forth another poem. She must have seen something in my eyes, the fragment of lucidity I still possessed. “I’m terrified,” she repeated. “Not only for everyone else, though I do feel that. I’m scared for myself and what Crow is going to do to me. I can’t beat her. Deep down, I know it.” I raised my other hand, lifting a single finger. “You have,” I whispered, “everything you need, Tress.” “The flare gun? But what if I fail?” “You have everything you need.” I squeezed her on the arm, then started up after Ulaam. Then I slowed. Something was wrong, wasn’t it? Other than the fact that I wasn’t currently launching into an epic ode to the beauty of calluses? Oh. The hissing on the hull had stopped. The seethe had paused, and the ship was slowing. Well, nothing to worry about there. That happened all the time, and wasn’t dangerous. Unless rain was near. You can probably guess what happened next. I have nightmares. My unique state of being doesn’t prevent that, though I don’t need sleep nearly as much as ordinary humans do. My worst recurring nightmare—the one that grabs me by the throat and shakes me until I wake, raw and steaming in my own sweat—is not that I am being chased by a monster. It’s not that I’m lost, or that I’m unloved. No, my greatest nightmare is the one where I learn I’ve been repeating myself for years, telling the same tired jokes, the same stories—energetically wearing a path through people’s patience and fondness until even the weeds upon it are dead. So I’ll refrain from repeating my suspicions and fears regarding the rains upon the Crimson. But if ever there were proof that Fate herself had placed long odds against the Crow’s Song, it would be the fact that there were not one, but two separate rainlines heading straight for the ship. Two at once. With the ship dead on the slopes of the vast crimson mountain, prow pointed toward the column of particles streaming from the angry moon. When Tress reached the upper deck, she saw Salay standing on the quarterdeck, holding firm at her post in case the seethe began again and she had a chance to steer them to safety. The ship remained still, damningly so. All her skill, all her passion, meant nothing when the ship was sporelocked. She was helpless. Dougs shouted ideas at one another, several suggesting they run across the spores to safety. That was, of course, stupidity. If the ship were destroyed, they’d die the moment the seethe began again. There were two lifeboats, yes, but what would that offer? Slow death by dehydration. They were upon the Crimson. Few sailed here. With very, very good reason. Salay looked past the Dougs and met Tress’s eyes. It’s time, she mouthed. Please. Tress grabbed one of the Dougs, a lanky woman with her hair in a long tail. “Go to Salay!” Tress shouted at her. “Tell her I need two very long ropes
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and the barrel of water from the cannon station. Go! Go!” Tress went running for her room, shoving past Laggart on the steps. He bellowed after her, but she wasn’t of a mind to listen. She had minutes, maybe, until the rain arrived and their story ended. Unless Tress could add another chapter through sheer force of will. Heroism is a remarkable thing, oft misunderstood. We all think we understand it because we want to see its seed inside ourselves. That is part of the secret, really. If you gather together stories of heroes—those who have risked their lives for others, those who have stood against overwhelming odds, those who have barreled heedlessly into danger with the aplomb of a champion diver leaping from the highest platform—you find patterns. Two of them, in fact. The first is that heroes can be trained. Not by a government or a military, but by the people themselves. Heroes are the ones who have thought about what they’re going to do, and who have trained to do it. Heroism is often the seemingly spontaneous result of a lifetime of preparation. But if you ask these heroes why they risked their lives, don’t do it on a stand in front of a crowd while you give them their medal. Because the truth is, they likely didn’t do it for their country. Or even for their ideals. Consistently, across cultures, eras, and ideologies, war heroes report the same simple motivation. They did it for their friends. In the frenzied anarchy of destruction, loyalty to causes and kingdoms alike tends to fall to the chaos. But the bond between people, well, that’s stronger than steel. If you want to create heroes, don’t give them something to fight for. Give them someone to fight for. Tress unlocked the door to her quarters and slammed it open, sending Huck scrambling under the bed. She rushed to her desk, where she found a large ball of roseite, grown and shaped over the last few days. It was the size of a child’s head and was waxed on the outside, and it was filled with an enormous charge of verdant spores, colored faintly violet by the roseite around it. Tress barely had time to note that she’d apparently spilled a couple midnight spores on the desk, a sloppy move on her part. She heaved the roseite “cannonball” off the desk, then dashed out into the hallway. On the deck, the Dougs had gathered around Salay. Captain Crow was out of her cabin, standing on the quarterdeck and drinking from her canteen with an air of fatalism. She had hoped not to die here, of course, but she was already terminal. There was only so much a new form of demise could move the proverbial needle, once you’ve stared down your own mortality every day for over a year. Salay broke through the Dougs and gestured to the rope and the barrel of water. “We got it, Tress. What now?” “Tie one rope to the barrel,” Tress said, “and lower it carefully over the
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side to the spores.” She took a deep breath. “Then tie the other rope around me and do the same.” Everyone in the group turned, pointedly, and stared at her. Then Salay barked orders, and the crew saw it done. Ann personally lowered the barrel, while Fort and a few Dougs gingerly lowered Tress. She touched down, feeling again the soft scrunch of spores beneath her feet. Being so close to the Crimson, she felt as if she’d stumbled upon some mythological land where the ground had somehow rusted and the sky looked a strange cast of blue by contrast. Spores ground against wood in a familiar sound as the barrel touched down beside her. Ann waved from above, and dozens of eyes followed Tress as she untied the barrel and rolled it up next to the hull of the ship. Then she pried off the top—her hands trembling—and stared at the dark water. What she was about to do went against everything she’d ever been told. “The rain is almost here, Tress!” Salay shouted from above. “Oh, moons. It’s coming!” Tress could hear the crunching and clattering of the crimson spores as they grew in a frenzy. Like thousands of raised spears. Trembling, she reached into the pocket of her red coat and removed a spike, tipped with silver. With her other hand, she held the roseite cannonball. Grab hold, she thought. Just grab. Don’t destroy the barrel. Out, then grab. With the spike, she drilled a hole into the top of the sphere, revealing the green spores within. Then she dropped it into the barrel. Vines exploded forth, thick as arms, spiraling around one another. A small charge of verdant could create enough vines to entangle a person—and she’d packed this with many, many times that. Tentacles surged out of the barrel and slammed against the ship. Drinking eagerly of the water, the vines continued to grow, thicker, stronger. The twisting, fulminating mass shoved the Crow’s Song, tipping it and causing the crew to shout. Tress initially backed away, but no. No, she’d made this. She couldn’t run from it. She was part of it. She pressed both hands against the still-growing vines, feeling the taut verdant—like sinew—undulate beneath her fingers. Up, she thought. Please, PLEASE. UP. The ship rocked further. Then it began to rise into the air. The mass of verdant vines reoriented and lifted, like a many-fingered hand. Without the seethe, the ocean surface was a sturdy enough footing, so long as the vines—having fully burst from the barrel—spread out. The rising motion caught Tress, who was still tied around the chest by the rope. She spared a moment to hope that Fort wouldn’t let go of her, but kept most of her attention on the growing vines. For she could hear the rain getting closer, announcing itself with the sound of water pelting something hard: the snarls of crimson spines they created, then bathed. I’ve talked to many a sailor, and this—across dozens of worlds—was their nightmare. The sound of the rain, the howl of the
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wind, and the embrace of the abyss. On Tress’s world, it’s not the water below that is the danger, but the water above. However, the nightmare is the same, born of the sure knowledge that the very thing you sail, the very thing that carries you and gives your life meaning, will someday try to kill you. Twin streams of rain intersected at the Crow’s Song, washing the deck clean of dead spores, soaking the sailors—from the lowest cabin boy to the captain in her plumed hat. Nightmare manifest. A ship caught alone in a storm, rain making a thunder on the wood. In every story, warning, and song, this meant death. Except that day. On that ship. Crow waited for the awful moment—waited for the spikes to shred her ship from all sides, impaling her crew, snapping boards. It never happened. She only felt the rain, hitting like a thousand tiny punches. The water was colder than she’d imagined. Dougs crowded the side of the ship, and Crow pushed her way through, cursing for them to make room. What was going on? She’d seen Tress go over the side and had assumed she was running, though to where she had no idea. The ship had rocked, yes, but… She didn’t understand until she looked down and found a colossal tree had grown under the ship. That was the only word to properly define it: a tree made of interweaving vines. A spreading finger-fan of vine-roots braced it, and vine-branches had latched onto the Crow’s Song. The tree had lifted the ship some forty feet into the air—right above the thicket of spikes that had grown beneath. The spikes had pierced the trunk, but verdant vines were elastic. And besides, they had still been growing. If anything, the network of spikes helped stabilize the vines. Hanging over the side of the ship, dangling from the rope that Fort held firm, was a shivering, soaking-wet girl, her face hidden behind a mess of damp hair. It was then that, belatedly, the Dougs started cheering. I don’t blame their delayed reaction. They’d gone from certainly dead to very much alive, and that kind of existential whiplash requires a few heartbeats—thumping in your ears to tell you yes, this was real—to recover from. “Help us pull her up, you louts!” Salay said, grabbing the rope with Fort. He stood with one foot against the rail, holding the rope with hands that—though crooked—were as solid as bricks. His quick thinking—hauling Tress up a few feet as the vines grew—had saved the girl’s life. As it was, the tips of the crimson spikes had touched her shoes. Everyone helped haul Tress up, and doubtless many of them were thinking of how they’d done this once before—weeks ago when they’d first brought her on board. They cheered again as Fort lifted her gingerly onto the deck. Crow watched it all, silent. She didn’t dare say anything in the face of such a remarkable salvation. Indeed, the vines didn’t appear to have harmed the ship at all. With the
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silver-edged axes, the Dougs would be able to loosen the vessel, then cut them free once the seethe returned and the tree sank. They’d practiced it as a way to escape being tangled up during a cannon battle. So Crow wasn’t worried about the ship. Or about reaching the dragon, as the lair was very close now. She’d told everyone that their destination was two days away, as she didn’t want them to panic, thinking she’d take them into the sporefall itself. That wouldn’t be necessary. Today, Crow’s fear was of a completely different breed. For though she had spent her entire life instilling fear in her crew so they would obey her, she knew there was another emotion that made people even more loyal. Unfortunately, it was an emotion she had never truly understood. And if Crow had a nightmare, it was standing before her now. In the form of a small shivering girl who had somehow earned the love that Crow had never known. A few hours later, Tress sat in the quartermaster’s office with Fort, Salay, and Ann—who conversed in hushed tones. Tress said very little, instead holding a cup (her one with the butterfly) with tea from Fort’s personal store. It said a great deal that he hadn’t even mentioned a trade as he handed it to her. What Tress had done for them all had incurred a debt Fort feared he’d never pay off. He did intend to try nevertheless. We have to act quickly, he wrote. If what Tress says is true, and the captain is planning to trade her to the dragon, we haven’t much time. Crow said our destination was only two days away. “She said that this morning,” Ann agreed. “I can guess we ate up a good chunk of that today, before the rainfall.” Tress sipped the tea. She hadn’t stopped trembling since the event, and she actually liked that this tea was warm. It chased the chill from her soul. Outside, the calming sound of spores on wood had resumed. Though she’d feared her stunt would cause permanent damage to the ship, the crew had efficiently cut the vines free once the seethe returned. The trunk had been pulled into the depths by the spines of the many crimson aethers, leaving the Crow’s Song to float serenely onward. Was it odd that Tress felt guilty about using the aether tree, then abandoning it? Would the aethers be sad down there? What happened to the ones that sank, anyway? Perhaps instead of ruminating on such things, she should have been more worried about her looming date with a dragon. She just felt so bare, like a broom worn by good work down to its last few bristles. Following the tension of the day, she found it difficult to summon more fear. “Then we need to strike,” Salay said from beside the door. “Tomorrow morning. Are we agreed?” “Agreed,” Ann said. Yes,> Fort said, holding up his board. With a King’s Mask on our side, we cannot fail. They looked to Tress. She
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wished she could wither away before their expectations. They could use her flaking soul to brew some more tea. “Maybe we shouldn’t,” Tress said softly. “What?” Ann said. “Girl, she’s going to trade you.” “I’m not losing another crewmember,” Salay said. Fort studied her, thoughtful. “The crew is alive by a miracle,” Tress said. “I’m worried about what will happen to you if we try to fight Crow. She’s dangerous. I feel it.” So you’d let her trade you? Fort said. Willingly? “It’s not death to serve a dragon,” Tress said. “I don’t think so, at least. And maybe I can find a way to escape. Or…or buy my freedom…” She knew she wasn’t making much sense. She’d spent frantic days trying to devise a weapon against the captain. Tress did want to escape. And really, shouldn’t she feel excited? Optimistic? Her plan to save the Crow’s Song had worked, after all. But lies have a way of diluting a person. The longer you live them, the more you become a bucket of mixed paint, steadily veering toward generic brown. That has never stopped me, mind you, but I’m not the person Tress was. “We can’t lose to Crow,” Salay said, “as long as we have you, Tress. You’re a—” “I’m not, Salay,” Tress said, exhausted. “I’m not a King’s Mask. I didn’t even know what one was until you mentioned them to me.” She shook her head. “Please believe me.” They didn’t, of course. A boring truth will always have difficulty competing with an exciting lie. “Look, Tress,” Ann said, “you think our problems will go away once the cap’n has talked to the dragon? We’ll still be under her thumb.” “You’d be able to fight her,” Tress said. “She won’t have the spores to protect her. If you let her trade me, you have a much better chance of succeeding.” Fort rested his hand on hers, then tipped his sign toward her. But we’d have to live with it, Tress. Crow forced us into this life. We didn’t know she intended to kill. But if we don’t stand up to her now, we don’t get to use that excuse anymore. We know what she is now. Tress read the words through twice. And…though her first instinct was still to protest…something else was growing. She’d have called it arrogance, and it frightened her. But arrogance and self-worth are two sides to a coin, and it will spend either way. That day, she met Fort’s eyes and nodded. “All right.” “Mutiny,” Salay said. “Tomorrow morning. I’ll make certain the Dougs are with us.” “I’ll distract Laggart,” Ann said. “If I’m firing the cannon, he’ll come scold me again.” I have a key to the captain’s quarters, Fort said. She doesn’t know. We will go in while she’s asleep and take her captive. Then we sail for the Verdant Sea and turn her in to the king’s officials in exchange for our lives. Tress took a deep breath. “Capturing her won’t be that easy, Fort. The spores inside her will react to someone
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trying to restrain her. Fortunately, I’ve devised a weapon that might work. It…” What was that? “It…” Tress shivered. She felt something. A familiar itch, distinct as the scent of her mother’s bread. Without thinking, she reached to the side, into the shadows underneath the overhang of Fort’s counter. Some of the darkness there resisted her fingers. It felt like a filled waterskin. Midnight Essence. Tress felt another mind controlling it, but it was distant and she was near. Working by instinct, she seized control. Immediately her tongue felt dry. She coughed, and—panicking—somehow severed the connection completely. The Midnight Essence puffed away, becoming dark smoke. That other mind. That had been Crow. Crow had been listening to them with Midnight Essence. “Oh…oh moons,” Tress rasped. “Crow knows.” The ship’s bell rang a series of unceasing sharp notes. “All hands on deck,” Ann said. “How…how could she know, Tress?” “Spores,” Tress said. “It’s hard to explain.” The bell continued to ring, and each peal seemed a threat: Die. Die. Die. “What do we do?” Ann asked. “She’ll execute us, same as she did with Weev.” “We fight,” Salay said. “We were going to do it tomorrow. We’ll have to start early. Tress, you said you have a weapon we can use?” Though she wanted nothing more than to sleep, Tress nodded. They were committed now. She stood and threw open the door, intending to run down the hallway to her room to get the flare gun. However, as soon as she opened the door, she found a pistol leveled at her forehead. “Well now,” Laggart said, “captain wants to see you four most of all. How…convenient to find you all together.” Tress’s trembling returned, then redoubled, trying to make up for lost time. She stared down the barrel of that gun and found her mouth had gone dry again, for a different reason. She forced out some words anyway. “You can’t hurt me,” she said. “Captain needs me.” “True, I’m afraid,” Laggart said. Then he turned the gun and shot Salay in the thigh. Ann screamed and Fort lunged forward to try to grab Laggart—but he stopped short when he saw a second pistol pointed right at him. “Captain didn’t say anything about bringing the other three of you up alive,” Laggart said. “So now, Fort. Can you read what I’m saying, or does the gun speak loudly enough for you?” The large man froze, but Ann ignored the gun, kneeling and using her handkerchief to bind Salay’s wound. Tress felt helpless. Ann finished the binding, but then looked up, uncertain. They needed Ulaam. It was bleeding so much… “Up on deck,” Laggart said to them, backing away and gesturing toward the steps. A few gawking Dougs hurried past, feet thumping on the wood. “She’s bleeding!” Tress said. “Not as much as she would be with another hole in her,” Laggart said. “Up.” Fort gently pushed Ann to the side, then lifted Salay, who put her arms around his neck. She nodded to Tress, grimacing at the pain. Ann glared at Laggart, her
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hands bloody. He just smiled and wagged the pistol’s tip. Reluctantly, Tress led the way, and the five of them emerged on deck. The Crimson Moon hung ominous in the night sky, pouring spores down in a vast haze—like the misty sheet of rain you might get beneath clouds on another planet. Here, the bright moonlight made them shimmer like tiny drops of glistening blood. Crow stood framed beneath the moon, her shadow breaking the red light. Dougs gathered on either side of the deck, leaving an open space in the center for the captain—and the four mutineers. Fort settled Salay down, and she held a firm hand on her bound wound. The other three huddled around her. Laggart came up behind them, then climbed up onto the quarterdeck where he had a good view of—and line of sight on—all of them. “So,” Crow said, “you lot want to take my ship away from me, do you? Mutiny against your own?” None of the four responded. “Honestly,” Crow said, “I didn’t think you had it in you—considering how I had to force you lot into this life.” She waved, and a Doug hurried forward, setting a small table onto the deck between them. “I’m impressed,” Crow said, slipping a pistol out of her belt and setting it on the table. A second followed. Then a third. “Consider me a…proud parent. But it makes me wonder. How many on this ship truly respect their captain?” Fort was watching his board. He tapped a few words on the back. No one respects you, Crow. They do what you say because they fear the spores in your blood. “Now, I thought you were the smart one, Fort,” Crow said. “It’s not the spores they fear. It’s me. Isn’t that right, crew?” She scanned the Dougs, most of whom backed away beneath her glare. “I do have to hand it to you, Tress. I—” “Hand?” Dr. Ulaam said, perking up at the back of the crowd. “I have—” “Shut up, Ulaam,” Crow growled, not turning toward him. She kept Tress’s eyes. “I knew I’d eventually have to deal with Salay, maybe Fort. But you gave me all of them in a neat package, with proof of their treachery.” She gestured toward the table. “Well, let’s get on with it. An old-fashioned duel. Three pistols. The four of you—well, three, as I see Salay is grappling with the result of her arrogance—against me.” “Hardly fair,” Ann said. “Your spores will stop any bullets we fire at you.” “Don’t fire them at me then,” Crow said, gesturing toward the quarterdeck. “Kill Laggart before I deal with the three of you, and I’ll step down as captain.” “Captain?” Laggart said, stepping to the edge of the rail. “Put your pistol away, Laggart,” Crow shouted. “And stand there like a good target.” “But…” He trailed off as he realized that yes, she was that callous. He slowly put away his pistol. “Well?” Crow said. “This wasn’t a negotiation. I’m not making an offer. It’s an ultimatum.” Fort moved first, leaping
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for the guns. Crow kicked the leg out from the table—scattering the weapons to the deck—then surged forward and slammed her elbow into Fort’s face. Tress had never heard anything quite like the crunch that made. The sharp crack of breaking cinnamon sticks mixed with the dull thud of tenderizing a gull’s breast. The sound shocked her, made her acknowledge what was happening. She’d been in a daze, but now she leaped for the deck, trying to snatch one of the guns. In the chaos, she lost track of what was happening—though I had an excellent view. Crow vaulted over Fort as he held his face, then slapped Salay’s hand—she’d tried crawling to one of the guns. Crow snatched up that pistol, then nonchalantly tossed it overboard. She spun around and rammed her fist into Tress’s stomach, throwing her full weight and momentum into the swing. Tress’s breath, drive, and hope were rammed forcibly out her mouth as she crumpled around the fist. There’s no hands-off way to prepare to take a punch. No conceptual training, no schoolhouse theory. When you get hit, yes, a part of you panics. But a bigger part of you is dumbfounded. The mind cannot accept that such a thing could happen, for nothing in life has prepared it for such brutality. It’s hard to internalize the truth that someone was actually willing to hurt you—even murder you. That is an edge a person like Crow will always have over others. Her mind accepts these facts easily. She will hurt, and she will kill. She enjoys both. She was grinning madly as she grabbed the table and slammed it into Fort’s face. It didn’t break, like they sometimes do in stories of bar fights. It was good solid wood, and it thumped against his arms—which were sheltering his broken nose—and sent him sprawling. Crow tossed the second gun overboard, then looked for the third. It was in Ann’s hands, pointed at Laggart. Crow’s grin widened, then she gestured as if to say, “Be my guest.” Laggart started to back away. “Leave your post, Cannonmaster,” Crow said, “and I’ll shoot you myself. Think very carefully about which bullet you’d rather risk.” He remained in place. Ann’s arm started to shake. She looked at Crow and saw a woman with nothing to lose. In that moment Ann was the smart one, because she realized that no matter what she did—whether she hit or not—Crow wasn’t going to let herself lose this fight. She’d go back on her word if she had to. What were the Dougs going to do? Tell the king’s marshals? But at least if she shot Laggart, they would have one fewer enemy to worry about. Ann steadied her arm. She aimed. She fired. And she missed by at least half a boat length. Crow laughed, then shoved Ann aside. The scrappy woman came back up with a knife and death in her eyes. Crow chuckled and slipped something from her pocket. A stubby gun with a very wide barrel. Tress’s flare gun. Through the tears
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in her eyes—still stunned from the punch—Tress saw the captain fire it and hit Ann in the chest. The flare connected with a thump, and her body cushioned the trigger enough to prevent it from going off. So it fell to the deck, and there—hitting tip-down—it released its explosion of vines to wrap around Ann. “For cheating,” the captain said, tucking the flare gun away. She absently slammed her heel into Salay’s wounded leg, making the woman scream in pain. Crow checked on Fort last—his face was a mess of blood, and he still seemed dazed. After making sure he wasn’t going to come up swinging, Crow walked over to where he’d dropped his strange magical writing board. Her heel took this next, snapping it in half with a crunch. Fort cried out. It was the only time I’ve heard him speak, other than to laugh. It was a mournful cry full of primal human grief. He slumped forward, putting bloody hands to bloody face, heaving as he sobbed. Tress finally understood Crow’s purpose. Killing the four of them might have inspired rebellion among the Dougs; she’d learned from her execution of Weev. Death made martyrs. Humiliation made servants. The Dougs lowered their eyes when she scanned the deck. Fort’s sorrow turned silent and personal. The ship fell quiet—but it wasn’t the quiet of a night of falling snow. It was the quiet of a hospital room after a loved one died. Crow had defeated the four best officers on the ship, and hadn’t even needed her strange spore blood. Ulaam was surprised it hadn’t manifested, he told me later. Crow had better control of her ailment than any of us had realized. She’d purposefully kept the vines in, so no one would wonder later whether she was less dangerous without them. There would be no crossing the captain again after today. “Cannonmaster,” Crow barked. “Lower anchor.” “Captain?” Laggart said. “But you said we needed to keep sailing to reach the lair…” “We’ve arrived.” “But—” “A quick piece of advice, Laggart,” Crow said. “If you suspect mutiny, always tell people the trip will end a few days after it actually will. Human nature compels cowards to wait until the last possible moment before they try anything.” The anchor went down with a rattle of its chain. Crow wasn’t bluffing—we’d gotten close enough, though there wasn’t a precise location one needed to reach to get the dragon’s attention. You simply needed to be within the region he watched. Crow proved this by tossing a letter overboard, held in the traditional glass case, as her books instructed. Then she hauled Tress to her feet, restraining the girl by means of a death grip on her shoulder. “You,” Crow said, “are going to go with me quietly and willingly, or I’ll have Laggart start executing your friends. This is another ultimatum.” Tress nodded, because she still hadn’t gotten her breath back. Her first real fight, and she’d lasted exactly one punch. Her eyes were still watering, her stomach aching. She felt useless—at least until she
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saw Salay looking at her. Then Tress felt worthless instead. Salay was holding her thigh, where blood was seeping through the makeshift bandage. Through her pain, she was looking to Tress, pleadingly. Tress turned away. At that moment, Salay finally understood. She finally believed. “You were never one, were you?” “No,” Tress whispered. “I…tried to tell you…” Salay slumped to the deck, defeated. Beyond the ship, the spores began to undulate, then spin in a whirlpool as if draining from below. The Dougs and I rushed to the side, watching as a large tunnel appeared in the spores, the sides of it solid despite the seethe. It led down into darkness. Xisis had received the message. “Prepare the launch,” Crow shouted. Once the small rowboat was ready, hanging beside the deck, she forced Tress in. Crow climbed in next and nodded to Laggart, who held a pistol on Ann. “If we don’t come back in an hour,” Crow shouted, “kill one of them.” Tress slumped down into her seat. Then she felt a hand on her shoulder. She looked to see me reaching across the railing to her. “You still have,” I whispered, “everything you need.” I backed away at a bark from the captain, and the Dougs lowered the boat like a makeshift elevator to get them down to sea level. Crow pushed Tress in front as they stepped out onto the strangely firm spores, then started down into the tunnel. The spore seas aren’t that deep, relatively speaking. Compared, for example, to the depth of the Lilting Abyss on Threnody, the spore seas are practically ponds. But when you have to hike to the bottom—all the while being cuffed and shoved by an impatient pirate with a terminal disease—a few hundred yards can feel far, far longer. Nonetheless, it did beat the traditional method of reaching the bottom of an ocean. Crow carried a lantern, and the way the light glistened off the crimson tunnel made it seem as if they were climbing down the dragon’s own gullet. Tress wondered what would happen if the stiff walls were exposed to water. Would spikes grow out of them, or did the dragon’s strange power prevent the aether from expressing itself? It says more than I could ever explain about the changes in Tress that she briefly considered licking the wall, just to see. Eventually the tunnel leveled out, then opened into a vast chamber—also made completely out of solidified spores. Tress had been expecting to reach the bottom and find out what was down there. Was it stone, soil, or merely piles and piles of aether spines sunken from thousands of years of rain? She supposed she would have a lifetime down here to learn. That was when the true weight of it all hit her. She’d spend her life down here. She had failed Charlie. Equally bad, and somehow more terrifying in the moment, she might never see the moons again. The prospect of never again seeing the sky, never again feeling the sunlight, never being bathed in the Verdant
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Moon’s glow…it made her knees grow weak. Crow shoved her forward anyway, causing Tress to stumble into the vast crimson chamber, then fall to her knees. She choked back her emotions, as tears could be fatal if those spores could indeed express their aethers. But she couldn’t help curling up, trembling. For a time, she was insensate to Crow’s cursing, even her none-too-gentle kicks. It was all so very much to carry. The weight of the day’s emotions stacked upon Tress in a heap, heavy as the ocean itself. Had it only been earlier that afternoon when she’d felt vibrant, relieved, and triumphant as she was pulled up through the rain? Could a day contain too many moments? Yes, the hours and minutes had been the same today as every day, but each of the moments inside had been fat, like a wineskin filled to bursting. Tress felt as if she were going to leak it all out, vomit emotion all over the place—there wasn’t enough Tress to contain it. You still have everything you need… Did he mean the flare gun? Crow was carrying that, wasn’t she? But Tress could not best Crow in a physical contest; she had conclusive empirical evidence of that. “On your feet, girl,” Crow said, hauling her up, then shoving her forward. The chamber ahead of them appeared empty, save for enormous spore columns wrapped in black ribbons of cloth. Braziers burned at the corners—revealing a large corridor leading away to the right—but they didn’t completely dispel the chamber’s darkness. Indeed, shadow dominated, as if the lights existed only by its forbearance. “Dragon?” Crow called, her voice echoing. “I have come, as stipulated, with the proper sacrifice! Show yourself!” The word “dragon” has filtered its way into nearly every society I’ve visited, but unlike the name “Doug,” this wasn’t the result of natural linguistics. Rather, the dragons have made certain that they are known and remembered—a feat often accomplished by interacting with said societies during their formative years. Like a child learning her name, cultures learn to respect and fear the dragons. It’s a matter of convenience, really. Though the vast majority of the people in the cosmere will never meet a dragon—let alone see one in their natural form—dragons do like to interact with mortals. Like a grandmother tucking away that bit of string that wrapped her package, the dragons want to know they have a certain number of easily influenced cultures around, for the proverbial rainy day. All of this is to explain that when Tress and Crow saw the shadow moving down the large hall to the right, they kind of knew what to expect. Indeed, it had a sinuous neck, a reptilian body, and two vast wings, formed as if to block out the sky. Other details were unexpected. For instance, the mane of silvery hair that adorned the dragon’s head, continuing down under the neck and chin as a beard. Or the metallic silver ridges that split the dragon’s otherwise onyx hide, outlining his features. This silver ran down the sides
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of all six limbs, up the sides of the neck, and formed two burnished horns, accompanied by a line of spikes down the back—more subdued, the subjects to the regal majesty of those horns. There were other mortals in the dragon’s house, though they were not allowed in the entry hall when supplicants arrived. Xisis did not want his servants to be tainted by things like reminders of the world outside. They had important work to do, after all: serving him and his research into the complex ecosystem at the bottom of the spore seas. It is commonly presumed that dragons collect hoards of wealth, and I’ve often wondered if that tale began because of the otherworldly metal left behind on their corpses. I’ve never known a dragon to be fond of riches. Ideas though…those they do hoard, and in this area they are misers fit for legend. The dragon did not make the ground shake, despite his enormous size. (He was easily as tall as four humans standing on one another’s shoulders.) Indeed, he seemed to glide as he approached, flowing around columns, entering the shadows at the center of the room. Firelight reflected off his dragonsteel, making it seem like liquid metal as he loomed over the two women. Tress gasped; even Crow cringed back. When Xisis didn’t speak, Crow found her courage—it had only gotten a step or two away—and spoke. “Dragon Xisis, I have come to initiate your ancient pact of promise.” She gestured to Tress. “To this end, I have brought you this slave to work in your domain.” The dragon leaned down, his breath like burned hickory wood, and eyed Tress. She looked into those eyes, which were a shimmering mother-of-pearl, and thought she saw into infinity. Then, reflected, she saw herself. And Crow. You have everything you need… Tress’s courage had never gotten away, though it had been pounded flat by all the other emotions. As it began to shine through, a certain whimsy struck Tress. Crow had nothing to lose…but Tress had everything to lose. And in that moment, she bet it all on a desperate ploy. “Dragon Xisis,” Tress said, her voice ragged, “I have come to initiate your ancient pact of promise. To this end, I have brought you this slave to work in your domain.” Then Tress gestured to Crow. “…What?” the dragon said. “…What!” Crow said. “She will make a good slave,” Tress explained. “She’s very strong—I can show you the bruise on my stomach as proof. And she’s not in the least afraid of spores. She used midnight aether earlier tonight.” Crow grabbed Tress, reaching as if to forcibly shut her up. The dragon interrupted this by very deliberately moving his forearm forward, letting five silver claws—each as long as Crow’s leg—click against the crimson ground. “I will not have you harming one another in my house,” he said in a deep voice. “One of you shall be my servant, and I do not like damaged property.” Crow looked at her reflection in the dragonsteel claws, then let go
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of Tress. “Great dragon,” Crow said, “this girl is the servant brought to be your payment. I am the captain of the ship!” “So you’re saying you’re the more valuable prize,” Tress said, rubbing at her throat where Crow’s nails had scored her. “I do prefer my servants to be of a certain quality,” Xisis said. His voice was deep not in a musical sense, more in the way that the ground might vibrate with a profound resonance during a quake. “But you would also prefer a young servant, wouldn’t you?” Crow said, realizing that she would have to argue her case. “I am old and calcified, stubborn. She is young, easy to mold. Why, she hasn’t even been off her home island for a month yet!” The dragon settled down, folding his arms. To the horror of both women, he looked amused. “Go on,” he said to Tress. “You have a response to that?” “Um,” Tress said, “you seem like someone who enjoys a challenge. Which would be more interesting to train? A girl who knows nothing, or a vibrant sea captain, full of skills you could unlock?” “I prefer not to make too much effort in training my servants, girl,” the dragon said. “You argue against your interests.” “Yes,” Crow said, “and besides, she is more expert in spores. She has been building devices of ingenious make. She designed a kind of verdant bomb that raised our ship up high above the sea, so rains didn’t destroy us! And she made a gun that fires spores. This girl is some kind of spore prodigy. She will serve you well.” “Is it true?” the dragon asked Tress. “Did you make those things?” “I did,” Tress admitted. “I’m not very smart though. I merely took some designs I found and tweaked them.” “Humble too,” Crow noted. “Who wants an arrogant servant?” “Crow has experience leading people, sir,” Tress said. “She would make an excellent overseer for your servants.” “Ha!” Crow said. “Tell him honestly what my crew thinks of me! They hate me, don’t they, Tress? Admit it.” The dragon rested his head on his forearms, looking almost like a dog with its head on its paws, and grinned at the exchange. “Powerful Xisis,” Crow said, “this girl is beloved of the people of my ship. She’s earned their hearts after only a short time sailing with us. She is an excellent cook, and is nauseatingly selfless. When she heard her friends were going to mutiny to prevent me from trading her, she offered to go willingly, to save them from danger.” “Is this so?” the dragon asked Tress. “I…” Tress said. “Great dragon, Crow needs you to take her as a servant. She’s dying of the spores in her blood. Only by living with you could she be healed. It would be magnanimous and wise of you to take her.” “Ha!” Crow said, pointing at Tress. “He knows I’ll ask for healing in trade for you! I will live just fine after this.” “True,” the dragon said. “Child, you are losing
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ground quickly.” He gestured to Crow. “I cannot see a reason why I’d want this piece of filth in my domain when I could have someone even-tempered, well-liked, and skilled.” “You should have tried to be more awful, girl,” Crow said. “I warned you that this life was not for you.” “I…” Tress took a deep breath, looking up at the dragon. “I think I’d make a bad servant, great dragon. Because I really, really don’t want to be one.” “And I do?” Crow said. “I—” The dragon hushed her with a click of his claw. He narrowed iridescent eyes at Tress. “Tell me, why is it you do not wish to serve me? Contrary to what you might have been told, my servants are treated well. You shall know no disease while you are here. You shall have engaging work, regular meals, and books in your off hours to read at your leisure.” “But dragon, sir,” Tress said, “there is someone I must rescue. The man I love is held captive. I need to free him.” “I don’t care for the hearts of mortals,” the dragon said. “Except for how they taste. Do you have any other argument for why I shouldn’t take you right now and put you to work in the kitchens?” “Because…because…” The Tress she had been might have accepted her fate. The Tress she had been would have wanted to please him. That Tress was dead. She was now the Tress she had become. “Because I won’t stay,” Tress said. “No matter what you do. I will not give up what I want for you, dragon.” “No one has ever escaped my domain.” “Then I will be the first,” Tress said, growing louder as she continued. “Because I can promise you this, great dragon. You will never be able to trust me alone. I will dedicate everything I have—every thought, every moment, every waking breath—to escaping you! I will not calm down. I will not grow complacent! I will not lose my resolve! “I will find a way out. Even if I have to collapse your entire cave! Even if I have to walk through the spores! Even if it takes fifty years, I will never relent. And you, dragon, will eventually have to kill me to stop me. Because I will get to the Midnight Sea, and I will find the Sorceress, and I will save the man I love!” Her voice echoed in the cavernous room. The dragon let it fade, watching her with ancient eyes. “The Sorceress?” Xisis said. “You are going to try to confront the Sorceress?” Tress nodded. “Then perhaps taking you captive now would be a mercy.” “Exactly!” Crow said. “Just as I’ve been—” “Oh, hush.” The dragon waved a clawed hand in her direction. The cloth enveloping the nearest pillar suddenly wiggled as if alive. It whipped forward, wrapping around Crow’s face and gagging her. Xisis studied Tress, watching her with those incomprehensible swirling eyes. “I believe you,” he finally said. “You are too driven to make a useful servant.”
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“Thank you,” Tress said. Crow, in turn, began to claw at the gag, her eyes wide. The strange black cloth wrapped her further, then pulled her back tight against the pillar. “She really is awful, isn’t she?” the dragon said. “I’m afraid so, sir,” Tress said. “Well, I suppose I do need someone to scrub floors, now that I’ve promoted Lili.” The dragon stretched, rising up and arching his back like a cat—one that was over twenty feet tall and covered in scales. “I make it a point not to interfere too much in the workings of the society above. If you really have made the discoveries she mentioned, then by taking you, I’d be interrupting the planet’s technological progress. I’ll pick that as my excuse for letting you go.” “Excuse, sir?” Tress asked. “Yes, excuse,” he said, making it clear he would explain no further. “What is the payment you request?” “…Payment?” Tress looked at Crow. “Oh! I hadn’t gotten that far, sir. And…I don’t know that I can take payment for selling a person…” “If she really is a spore eater,” Xisis said, “then you’ve saved her life. I can heal the disease, yes, but I wouldn’t have mentioned to her that the healing only lasts a year or two at most. The infestation will return, so long as she is away from me. Her only path toward long-term survival is to remain here.” Tress considered that, and thought that if he was lying—and the cure was permanent—this would be an excellent way to make certain Crow remained with him willingly. And so, Tress wisely remained silent on the matter. “Regardless,” the dragon said, “the deal has been struck. I must pay you, however little I think the trade was worth. So ask your boon. Be quick with it.” “Can you remove a curse that the Sorceress bestowed?” “No,” he said. “Nor will I do anything to help your quest. There is precisely one being I fear on this planet—and no, your friend Cephandrius doesn’t count.” Rude. “I don’t know if there’s anything I want…” Tress said, feeling exhausted. “My life is enough.” She hesitated. “Unless…” “Yes?” “Would you consider three small boons instead of one large one?” A short time later, a very tired Tress hiked the last few feet up out of the tunnel, holding three cloth-wrapped packages—one larger, two smaller. She was greeted by the sight of Laggart, standing watch at the ship’s rail. The two stood, facing one another while his brain caught up to his eyes, then his common sense came huffing up behind with an ache in its side. He lowered his gun and backed away. This allowed a crowd of more friendly faces to appear. They cheered as Tress sluggishly settled into the ship’s launch. The tunnel collapsed in on itself as soon as the Dougs began hoisting her up to the deck. At the top, she was greeted by an ecstatic Ann. “How?” she demanded. “How?” “The captain probably should have gagged me,” Tress said. “Take note, Ann. If you ever go
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to make an important deal, make certain your payment can’t speak for itself.” You’d be surprised how often that advice has been relevant during my travels. “Here,” Tress said, handing one of the small packages to Ann. “The dragon couldn’t help me with my problem, so I got this for you.” The woman took it, frowning. But Tress was too tired to explain at the moment. The crew, realizing this, gave her a little space as she picked her way over to where Dr. Ulaam was tending Fort and Salay. Their wounds were already being treated by one of his fantastic salves—they didn’t heal a person immediately, but they did speed it up and left one feeling in much better shape. Ulaam was explaining the benefits of the various noses he could provide (I’ve always wanted to try the one that can’t smell cheeses), but Fort just slumped against the rail, staring ahead as if dazed. Tress knelt, then delicately unwrapped the larger of the two remaining packages. Inside was another board like the one Crow had destroyed. Fort sat up immediately. He looked from her to the board, then back at her. Then he hugged her. No words needed to be said. Ann walked up holding the pair of spectacles she’d unwrapped, one end dangling from her fingers as if she were holding a dead mouse by the tail. “The dragon,” Tress explained, “says you have something called micropsia. He gave a technical explanation, but I didn’t understand it. I don’t know if that disease could have caused you to somehow hit someone standing behind you, but…well, those spectacles should help.” Tress handed the final package—more an envelope—to Salay, then stood and walked to the steps up to the quarterdeck. She settled on the steps and tried to process everything. The others left her alone for the time being, so Tress wasn’t interrupted until Salay came limping over, using a crutch. “You should probably stay off that leg,” Tress noted. Salay shrugged, settling down with some effort next to Tress. She carried a folded piece of paper. “Filistrate City,” Salay said. “I searched Filistrate City.” “The dragon says your father arrived there six months ago.” “Damn,” Salay said. “Right after I left. I’d have kept hunting, never knowing he was behind me…” Then she reached over and gave Tress a hug. It was exactly what Tress needed right then. When emotions start leaking, it’s best to give the body a good squeeze and force them right on out. Like lancing a boil. When their emotions were thoroughly lanced for the moment, Salay forced herself to stand up. Crutch under her arm, she saluted. “It will take us about a week to reach the Midnight Sea, Captain. But supplies should hold out just fine. We bought plenty at that last port.” “Salay…” Tress said, “you should be captain.” “Can’t be captain,” Salay said. “It’s my job to make certain the captain is making good decisions. That’s what a first mate is for.” “But—” “You’re trying to make a bad decision, Captain,” Salay
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said. “See? I’m good at the job.” “The Midnight is dangerous,” Tress said. “The dragon wasn’t willing to give me any help. Even he fears the Sorceress.” “Well,” Salay said, “we’ll just have to figure out how to cross the Midnight like we did the Crimson, Captain. Do we set sail now, or wait for the morning?” Other objections died before Tress could get them out. This was what she wanted. “We sail tonight, Helmswoman,” Tress said. “And if I’m the captain, then I’m going to go claim Crow’s bed. Don’t wake me up unless Death himself has shown up, nails in his eyes. Even then, see if you can stall.” People want to imagine that time is consistent, steady, stable. They define the day, create tools to measure it, chop it up into hours, minutes, seconds. They pretend each one is equal to the others—when in fact some are clearly prime cuts, and others are full of gristle. Tress understood this now, as she’d known a hearty day thick with meat and fat. But the next few were lean and limber, passing quickly. While not the diaphane days of a vacation, they were ephemeral nonetheless—for all their increasing tension. The ship drew steadily closer to the Midnight Sea, interrupted only once when Tress had to lift them during a stilling. The rain missed them on that occasion, but none of the crew had complained about the hassle of chopping vines off the ship. If anything, this near miss was a reminder that they—by all reasonable accounts—should not be alive. Tress felt a momentum to her travel, a phantom tailwind. Encouraging, but also relentless. After so much wandering, so many detours, it was happening. She was sailing to confront the Sorceress. This was perhaps what made the days pass with such elasticity—if the first part of her voyage had been the bow being drawn, now the arrow had been released. She also decided to cast off a little emotional ballast. She was tired of lies and deception. With a frankness that was honestly somewhat inconvenient when trying to create a story, she gathered Salay, Ann, and Fort—then introduced them to Huck. He’d agreed to it reluctantly, and perhaps only because he’d been so elated when Tress had stumbled into the captain’s cabin that first night after confronting the dragon—and discovered him in a little cage, the cat pawing at the bars. Despite everything, Tress found room within her to feel guilty for not thinking of him. In her defense, she’d assumed him safe in her cabin—though the knowledge that Crow had ransacked the place should have raised if not a red flag, at least a fuchsia streamer. Still, his excitement to hear of her exploits had washed that guilt away like grime off a window. And now he sat on her palm, introducing himself to the ship’s officers, explaining how he and Tress had met. That done, he and Tress both waited for their reactions. You did so much to help, Huck! Fort wrote. Moons! We need to tell the Dougs. We
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can’t have anyone stepping on you! You’re a hero! The rat perked up. “Yeah,” Ann said. “And we’ve got to do something about that cat—can’t let it roam free! I’ll build a cage or something for it, keep it in my room until the next port.” All turned to Salay, who did her best to look calm and commanding despite her crutch. She rubbed her chin. “A rat on the crew,” she said. “Tell me…what is your opinion on tiny pirate hats?” Spoiler: he turned out to be quite fond of them. It was honestly a little distracting. The second thing Tress did in the name of abject honesty was explain the challenges that would face them in the Midnight Sea. This, in turn, led her to explain who she was, why she’d left her home, and what she was trying to do. Afterward, Ann did ask what was so great about this guy she loved. Tress did her best to explain, though she was certain world-traveled people like them would find her love plain and unremarkable. She underestimated the power of simple words spoken with passion. No one questioned her after that. So, the days faded behind her like the setting Crimson Moon. And ahead, a jet-black moon broke the horizon. It reflected no light, and seemed more a void than an object. A tunnel to nothing. As it emerged from the horizon Tress feared, irrationally, that it would keep growing—that the Midnight Moon wouldn’t be the size of the others, but would turn out to be a vast darkness that consumed the entirety of the sky. To escape it, she spent time in her new quarters. The captain had far more space than Tress had been assigned, though she still used her old room for spore experiments. She filled page after page of the captain’s notebook with discarded ideas for how to protect the ship as it crossed the Midnight Sea. Trouble was, her mind didn’t seem to work right anymore. Where it had once seized upon ideas with a predatory vigor, now it seemed trapped in a room, scratching uselessly at the walls with nothing to show for the effort. What had happened to her ingenuity? Her self-defining thoughtfulness? She grew more and more frustrated as each day slipped away from her, leaving no further progress than frazzled hair and another scribbled-out page in the notebook. What was wrong with her? Nothing. Nothing was wrong with Tress. Her mind was functioning properly. She hadn’t lost her creativity. She hadn’t run out of ideas. She was simply tired. We want to imagine that people are consistent, steady, stable. We define who they are, create descriptions to lock them on a page, divide them up by their likes, talents, beliefs. Then we pretend some—perhaps most—are better than we are, because they stick to their definitions, while we never quite fit ours. Truth is, people are as fluid as time is. We adapt to our situation like water in a strangely shaped jug, though it might take us a little while to
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ooze into all the little nooks. Because we adapt, we sometimes don’t recognize how twisted, uncomfortable, or downright wrong the container is that we’ve been told to inhabit. We can keep going that way for a while. We can pretend we fit that jug, awkward nooks and all. But the longer we do, the worse it gets. The more it wears on us. The more exhausted we become. Even if we’re doing nothing at all, because simply holding the shape can take all the effort in the world. More, if we want to make it look natural. There was a lot about being a pirate that did suit Tress. She’d learned and grown a great deal—but it had still been a relatively short time since she’d left the Rock. She was tired in a way that a good night’s sleep—or ten of them—couldn’t cure. Her mind didn’t have any more to give. She needed to allow herself a chance to catch up to the person she’d become. She was now only three days away from the Midnight Sea, and she was no closer to thinking of a way through it. And pounding her head against the page wasn’t accomplishing anything more than getting ink on her forehead. Tress was dreading what would happen next. And indeed, it arrived with a polite knock on her door. She nodded to Huck, who had—for some strange reason—decided she needed a valet. Did captains have valets? She thought those were for gentlemen with so many pairs of shoes they needed someone to organize them all. Huck scampered over to the table beside the entry and called, “The captain bids you come in!” Tress figured she could have done that herself. She was not yet accustomed to the finer points of being in charge, which often involve being too important to do things the sensible way. Salay, Ann, and Fort entered. Tress steeled herself for their recrimination. Here, today, they would see the truth. That she had no plan. That she was an unfit captain. In actuality, all they saw was that she had very nice penmanship. Even written backward on her forehead. “All right, Captain,” Salay said. “We’ve been giving this voyage some thought. And the protections around the Sorceress seem almost impossible to overcome.” “I know,” Tress said, bracing herself. “Salay, I…I don’t…” “Therefore,” Salay continued, getting out some papers, “we’ve been working hard on ways to overcome them. We’ve got some pretty good suggestions here, if you want to see them.” Tress blinked. Well, she often blinked, as people do. In this case, it was a meaningful blink. It was the kind that said, Wait. What did I just hear? “You have…suggestions?” Tress asked. “Here, let’s get to it,” Salay said, each of them grabbing a chair and settling down next to Tress’s meeting table. Tress drifted over, then looked with amazement as Salay laid out the first set of plans. “This was Fort’s idea,” she said. “He should explain.” Huck says, he wrote on his board, that the island is protected by machine
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men, an entire legion of them, who can’t be harmed in any way. I started working on a way to distract them, until I realized you already solved this problem, Tress. The new sign was an improvement over the other. Lines of text disappeared at the top, replaced with new ones at the bottom, so he didn’t have to stop—he could keep tapping words on the back for them, speaking more in real time. Also, it could do different fonts. “I…solved the problem?” Tress asked, taking the chair that Huck was trying to push over for her. Once she sat, he dusted his paws off as if he’d done an excellent job, then went to count her pairs of shoes. You did, Fort said. With your flare gun modifications! You were already prepared to face someone we can’t kill. We just need to expand what you came up with! I figure, a legion of mechanical men can’t hurt us if they’re wrapped in vines. See, here’s a schematic for a cannonball using the ideas you came up with. We could lure out the metal men, bombard the beach with verdant, and tie them all up. Then you slip right past! She took the diagram. It had several parts that said “sprouter mumbo-jumbo” on it, so he obviously didn’t grasp the finer details of what she’d done. Yet, the idea was sound. Excellent, even. They already had cannonballs made to explode on a timer—she could build ones that burst with vines instead of spraying water. “This is brilliant, Fort!” she said. Fair trade! he said, tapping the board. Once you have your friend back, then we’ll be even. Not before. She didn’t point out that he’d only lost his original board because of her—and so giving one back to him was already a fair trade. She was too amazed. They’d solved her problem. Instead of being angry at her for not having the solution, they had worked out one themselves. She…didn’t need to do this all on her own. That shouldn’t have been such a revelation for her. But after spending ages walking around with everyone piling bricks in your arms, it can throw you off balance when someone removes a brick to carry for you. “Thank you,” Tress whispered, trying to maintain her composure. She wasn’t certain if captains should cry in front of their crew. Seemed like there’d be a maritime law against it. “Thank you so much! I’ve been trying and trying to think of a way through this.” We’re here for you, Fort said. We’re your crew, Tress. Your friends. Let us help. “Yes, of course,” Tress said. “But…thank you.” She looked at them each in turn, beaming. “I’m trying to figure out why it says ‘Ask nicely’ on your forehead, Tress,” Ann said. Technically, Fort added, it says “ylecin ksA.” “Actually it says neither,” Salay said. “Because it’s crossed out. See?” “Oh yeah,” Ann said. “Anyway, we might have a solution to the other problem on the island: getting into the tower. You gave us the clue to
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this one too.” “Growing a tree of verdant vines?” Tress said. “To reach the top, and get in that way? I thought of that, Ann, but surely the Sorceress keeps the door locked.” But not the window, Fort said. Where she lets out her ravens. “Far too small.” For a human, he wrote. Their eyes turned toward Huck, who stood before the room’s wardrobe. He’d finished counting the shoes Tress owned. That hadn’t been difficult, as she was wearing both of them presently. So he’d moved on to making a mental list of the different types she’d need to buy. He felt the stares. It’s a thing rats learn. So he turned, feeling like the only piece of cheese left in the larder. “What?” he said. “We need someone small,” Salay said, “to sneak into the Sorceress’s tower through her raven window.” “Tricky,” Huck said, “since I don’t think any human could fit through… Oh. Rat. Right.” He wrung his paws together. We need to do this for the captain, Fort said. And the debt we owe her. “Huck owes me no debt,” Tress said. “He wouldn’t be on this ship except for me.” Which means he’d be on the bottom of the Verdant Sea. I doubt he’d have made it to the bottom. Rats are rather low in body mass. He’d almost certainly have ended up wrapped in a vine ball, drifting through the middle depths of the ocean until he decomposed. But as no one in the room was versed in spore depth density and relative fluidized viscosity, they took Fort’s words as fact. “It’s all right,” Tress said to Huck. “You don’t need to do it if you don’t want to. I’d hate to force you into anything. But…it is a good solution. You’re good at sneaking, Huck.” “But how will I reach the window?” “On verdant vines, which I’ll grow upward for you.” “No good,” he said. “The tower is coated in silver. Didn’t I tell you that?” He hadn’t. And that would cause a problem. Tress sat back, her face falling. Something in that expression pained Huck. He couldn’t stand how gloomy she’d been feeling lately. Like smog over an island, he thought. So something slipped out. “I can get you through the door,” Huck said. “I…have a way we rats know about. If you somehow got me to the tower, I could open it. But Tress, isn’t all of this irrelevant? We would have to cross the Midnight Sea first. And we shouldn’t do that. We’ve barely survived the Crimson!” He was, unfortunately, correct. Tress looked to her friends, hoping they knew a quick solution to this problem as they had the first two. No one spoke up. The other three might not have been marked, both literally and literately, by the fruits of their frustration on this point, but they were equally stymied. Curiously though, there is a feature of collaboration that is often misunderstood. Two heads are not necessarily better than one (no matter what Dr. Ulaam might say). That rather depends on the
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heads in question. However, when someone tries, it makes others more willing to try. And when you taste a little success—even vicariously—it can act as a mental laxative. Or if you prefer, a little success is the metaphoric bang on the front of the mental vending machine that jostles loose the stuck ideas. Tress’s eyes went wide. Tress placed exactly two midnight spores on the table. The other officers shied back noticeably, though there wasn’t a lot of room in the captain’s cabin for shying. She’d spent a little while preparing this experiment, which had given Huck time to scamper off, not wanting to be in the room with more active midnight spores. Tress put her silver knife on the table, then got out an eyedropper full of water. “Midnight spores behave differently than the others. The others all have an immediate, almost chemical reaction to water. But these spores, they seem almost alive. Like they want something.” “What…what do they want, Cap’n?” Ann asked. “Water,” Tress said, leaning down to eye level at the table, holding her eye dropper. “It’s like…a trade. I give them water, and they obey me for a time.” She raised the eyedropper, causing Salay to gasp despite herself. “This should be safe. But in case it’s not, be ready to sever my bond to the spores with that knife.” Sever it how? Fort asked, leaning forward. He was the only one in the room who didn’t seem positively terrified. Something about this entire conversation (and if you’ve been paying attention, you’ll know what) intrigued him—overcoming his natural fear. “Black lines,” Tress said, glancing at his board. “Cut them with the knife. But I’m hoping that won’t be necessary this time.” She released a single drop of water. Like before, the midnight spores bubbled and merged, becoming something not unlike an undulating pustule. Or (and please forgive me) a boiling boil. As before, Tress felt a connection to it immediately. A tugging at her mind. She could initiate the link, could offer the water and make the bond. But for now she resisted. “I feel something,” Ann said. “Like it’s yanking on my brain!” “It’s looking for a host,” Tress said. “Or…a buyer. The monsters that roam the Midnight Sea? This is what they are. Creations of the Sorceress, bound to her. I wonder how she feeds so many…” The globule lurched toward Fort, then took on the shape of a cup—specifically, the large metal tankard that was the heaviest and largest of Tress’s collection. The midnight cup then grew legs and moved toward Fort. He’d bonded it inadvertently, as evidenced by him suddenly putting his hand to his mouth—which would inevitably have begun to feel dry. A small black line began to move between him and it. Tress seized control. When Captain Crow had used the midnight spores, Tress had been able to take control of the thing, destroying it in the process. This time it was far easier. She pushed her mind against the spores and offered water. More water. A bribe. The thing immediately
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moved to her instead, and let her take over. She was closer to it, which Tress thought was key. She took complete control, then severed the bond before she could be drawn into the thing’s eyes and experience life as if she were a midnight cup. It popped and evaporated, leaving smoke, then nothing. Fort gasped, then took a long drink from a red ceramic mug of water Tress offered him. “What happened?” Salay asked, stepping forward. “I took control of the thing,” Tress said. “I bribed it with my water instead—offering that in trade, giving it more freely than it could take from an unwilling subject. Once it accepted, I took control, then dismissed it.” “And…you think you can do this with the ones guarding the Midnight Sea?” Ann asked. “We are going to find out,” Tress said, standing up. “How long until—” A pounding came at the door. Tress hesitated, then nodded. Ann moved to open it, and they were confronted by Laggart. Hell. I forgot to tell you about Laggart. Tress let Laggart stay on the Crow’s Song. She rightly figured that without Crow around to impress, he wouldn’t try anything funny. (Not that he could, mind you. Laggart was to funny what liquid nitrogen is to a healthy set of lungs.) He’d spent the last few days strutting back and forth up and down the deck. Ornery. Confused. Uncertain. “I need to speak to you in private, Captain,” he said. Tress was unsure about this, so she rested her hand on her flare gun. But she nodded to the others, indicating they should leave. They did so, closing the door behind them as Laggart stepped inside. They regarded one another for a short time. Then Laggart drew himself up—looking like a buzzard that forgot to put on its feathers after its morning shave—and met Tress’s gaze. “I demand,” he said, “that you shoot me.” “Shoot you?” she said. “For what I’ve done to you!” “I told you that you were forgiven for that.” “I know!” he said and began to pace. “Captain, I can’t take the lies. I know what you’re really doing. I know you’re waiting until I’m calm and comfortable, so you can toss me over then. It’s cruel, waiting to kill a man until he’s sure you won’t. I figured you for someone better than that.” He spun on her. “I demand to be shot. Get it over with. Be forthright. Shoot me.” Tress sighed, rubbing her forehead. “Laggart, I’m not going to shoot you.” “But—” “Look, I’m far too tired to pretend to understand what your mind is doing to you right now. I’m not going to shoot you, but if you insist, I can throw you in the brig or something.” He perked up, then craned his neck. “Really?” “Really.” “You’d do that for me? Imprison me instead of kill me?” “Laggart,” she said. “I’m not going to kill you. I was never going to kill you. I didn’t even kill Crow.” He chewed on that. Then chewed on it some more. Then
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a little more. Those were words with gristle. Laggart was not a smart man. True, the things he lectured people on could fill a dictionary—but what he actually knew would barely fill a postcard. That said, he wasn’t an idiot either. He settled somewhere between smart and stupid, perched on the very peak of the bell curve and assuming that it was the right place to be, as highest has to be best. In that moment though, he understood. Tress was willing to throw him in the brig. But…she wasn’t going to shoot him. She wasn’t going to toss him overboard. She hadn’t been playing tricks on him. She had been honest. She’d been kind to him. This was the most difficult idea he’d ever been forced to swallow. You see, Laggart hadn’t known much kindness during his existence, and it’s a sorry truth that people often live what they know. He didn’t view himself as mean or callous. He thought the way he acted was normal, because that was how he’d always been treated. In the land where everyone screams, everyone is also slightly deaf. Now, it should be said that there are people who escape such a cycle of cruelty. When you find them, cherish them. Because unfortunately, many continue like Laggart, never realizing the way they are. Until perhaps they experience a moment like the one that happened on that ship. Where Tress showed him pure kindness, forgiving his actions. Yes, he was no longer confused. Instead he was horrified. Because he’d realized at long last that there were people who felt the things they said. There were genuine people in the world. To a determined hypocrite like him, that changed everything. He stumbled to the door, shoved it open, and fled. Tress, in turn, watched him with her head cocked. Blissfully unaware of the war happening inside the man’s heart. She didn’t demand he be thrown in the brig. If he wasn’t going to press the issue, she wouldn’t either. Instead she carefully tucked away her box of midnight spores. And honestly, she felt a growing elation. She had a plan for dealing with the monsters. If she could defeat them, she would have overcome the final obstacle between her and the Sorceress. She was close. Truly close. She felt like celebrating. That lasted about as long as it took her to find out what I’d been up to the past few days. Tress expected a certain sense of reverberation from the officers as she left her cabin. She felt enthusiasm, relief, excitement. They had an answer to each of the problems they needed to face in order to reach the Sorceress. The other officers, naturally, should have returned similar emotions to harmonize with her own, making the music of shared success. So she was confused as she saw Salay running up to her with a concerned expression. Apparently Dr. Ulaam’s treatment had run its course, but Tress hoped Salay had not grown any extra toes. “What?” Tress asked, her sense of dread returning. “What’s wrong?” Salay led
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her to the hold of the ship, where I sat in chains, happily thinking of great conversation starters like politics, religion, and your uncle’s overtly racist views. I experienced my tawdry ruminations among the remnants of the ship’s food stores. An alarmingly small collection now, as I’d happily dumped the rest of the stores overboard. “We caught him with three jugs of water,” Salay said. “He was preparing to toss them out the rear porthole of the middle deck—where it appears he’s been throwing out our food stores for days now.” Tress let out a groan. “How much do we have left?” “Plenty of water,” Salay said. “But less than half of our food. Roughly enough to reach the Verdant Sea, should we leave now. And Captain…we saw birds on the Crimson only twice, and they don’t live in the Midnight at all. We can’t forage out here.” They looked at me. “I had to throw the jugs out,” I explained, “as the food is lonely on the bottom of the sea. Also, Tress, how does your uncle feel about seagulls taking his jobs and/or sandwiches?” Tress looked at the gathered officers, then all of them turned to Ulaam, expecting him to have an answer. They foolishly assumed he could grasp the complex network of motivations, loyalties, and historical failures that made up the ever-changing web of my psyche. “He is currently way too stupid to have done this on his own,” Ulaam said. “See how the ones he was going to toss out are marked with chalk?” Well, all right then. Points to Ulaam, I suppose. “The rat said my mission was absolutely vital,” I told them. “It’s also secret. So please don’t tell Tress.” A short time later, Tress approached Huck in his quarters—her former ones, which she’d assigned to him. His very own room. Yes, it didn’t have silver, but it was more than most rats ever got. He’d been sitting there making a list of all the hats she owned. It only had one item so far, but he was an optimistic type of rat valet. What’s more, he’d been so nervous that he’d needed something to pass the time. He looked at her. “Did the test with the midnight spores work?” he said, dropping the pencil and scurrying over. “I would have come back to watch. Should have. But…that’s not something a valet has to do, right? Be around midnight spores? They give me chills, Tress.” “I…” She didn’t know what to say. It is an affliction that I’ve never known, but I hear it can be quite debilitating. “Tress?” Huck asked. “I feel like you should be excited. Maybe enthusiastic. Certainly relieved. Yet…” “I’ve discovered,” she said, “that our food stores are frighteningly low. Somehow, we lost count of how much we had. It seems…we have barely enough to make it to the Verdant Sea, should we turn back now.” “Oh!” Huck said. “Well, that’s dreadful news, but I suppose with everything that has been happening, it’s not too surprising that something slipped through the cracks!
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We must make sail for the Verdant Sea, restock, then…” He trailed off, meeting her eyes. He wilted. “Hoid talked, didn’t he?” “You’re remarkably good at reading human emotions,” she said. “For a rat.” “Well, emotions are emotions,” he said. “Doesn’t matter the species. Fear, concern, anxiousness.” “Betrayal?” she asked. “Is that emotion the same for both human and rat?” “So far as I can tell,” he said, his voice growing very soft. “I’m sorry, Tress. I can’t let you face the Sorceress. I can’t. For your own good, you see.” Ah, those words. I’ve heard those words. I’ve said those words. The words that proclaim, in bald-faced arrogance, “I don’t trust you to make your own decisions.” The words we pretend will soften the blow, yet instead layer condescension on top of already existent pain. Like dirt on a corpse. Oh yes. I’ve said those words. I said them with sixteen other people, in fact. “It hurts that you don’t trust me, Huck,” she said. “But you know, it hurts more that I can’t trust you now.” “I get that,” he said. “You deserve better.” She found a cage for him. It felt appropriate that she should put him back in one, and Crow had a couple of the appropriate size for keeping messenger birds. It broke Tress’s heart to leave Huck inside, huddled against the bars, refusing to face her. But she had a crew to protect, and she couldn’t risk Huck doing something even more drastic to stop them. As it was, she barely contained her frustration. They were so close. Now they’d have to sail across the entire Crimson and restock. Moons…could they afford to restock? How was she going to pay the crew? Would they continue as pirates? And if she did find Charlie, what then? Disband the crew? Give the ship to Salay and go home? Her focus on reaching the Sorceress had let her, so far, procrastinate addressing these questions. Payroll didn’t seem so pressing when you expected to get captured and turned into a marmoset the next week. These thoughts weighed on her as she opened the door and found a collection of Dougs waiting outside. By now, Tress knew them all personally. The one at the front, holding her cap, was a good-natured woman who had once explained that she thought birds were the souls of the dead, watching over sailors as they traveled. It had been awkward, considering Tress had been serving pigeon pie that night; the Doug had just laughed and said that was a way of helping. They all had quirks like that. Personalities, dreams, lives. Human beings are like the shorelines of continents. The closer you look, the more detail you see, basically into infinity. If I didn’t practice narrative triage, you’d be here all week listening to how a Doug once got so drunk, she ended up as queen. Today, fortunately for us, they acted in concert—and in service of the story. Because they had something to tell Tress. “Let’s keep going, Captain,” the lead Doug said. “If
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you don’t mind. Let’s keep sailing, and go save that man of yours.” “But, the food…” Tress said. “Pardon, Captain,” another Doug said, “but we can eat verdant for a little while.” “Agreed,” said another. “If it helps you, we can eat weeds for a few weeks.” “Wait. You can eat verdant vines?” Tress asked. The Dougs were shocked to hear she didn’t know this. You might be too, as it was mentioned earlier in the story as clever foreshadowing. But Tress had been distracted during that conversation, and had missed the point. Besides, few people who had grown up on islands had to know that the vines were technically edible. Because on islands, there was so much better food you could grow with far less danger, assuming you had access to soil or compost vats. Even her family, poor though it had been, had always had normal food to eat. Regardless, people could survive on verdant vines, provided they were fully grown, a process that involved soaking them for a day. They provided some few calories and nutrients. Do it too long without supplemental protein and you’ll have a rough time, but they could manage to get to the Sorceress’s island and back on vines, plus what they had remaining. Behind her, Huck looked at his feet. He was realizing that in the end, his betrayal hadn’t even accomplished anything. “Thank you,” Tress said to the Dougs. “Captain,” the one at the front said, “we spent a month eating Fort’s food. Then you started cooking dinners that didn’t taste like they were scraped off the bottom of a shoe and…well, we can survive a little verdant.” “Besides,” another added, “it’s worth continuing. After this, we’re gonna be the only pirates who ever robbed the Sorceress herself!” About that. Tress knew that there was a hole in her plans. In fact, there were exceedingly more holes in her plan than there were wholes. For example, she couldn’t be certain she’d correctly guessed the island’s location. Even if she had, there was no guarantee their plans would work. She might not be able to get past the Sorceress’s defenses. All of those issues, however, were secondary to the biggest one. Lurking like a shadow beneath the ocean. Her focus so far had revolved around getting to the island, then into the tower. But what then? How under the moons was she going to find, then rescue Charlie? How would Tress deal with the Sorceress? Their plan involved firing cannons at the metal servants on the beach. That would make a ruckus and certainly draw attention. How would Tress, after making so much noise, secretly get to the tower so that… So that Huck could let them in. Her confidence wavered. Well, it had been wavering for days—not unexpectedly, considering its flimsy foundation. Now it threatened to topple right over. Their plans had relied on Huck letting them into the tower. Now that obviously wasn’t an option. Tress felt sick about this, but no solutions revealed themselves over the next few days. The ship
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sailed inexorably toward the terrible Midnight Moon, until it reached the border. That place where spores mingled, like a scar that was festering and black on one side. A limb that had suffered full necrosis. Black spores, stretching to infinity. Tress watched from the quarterdeck, feeling an unnatural quiet as the Dougs stilled and even the sails seemed to hold their breaths. It was here, the Midnight Sea. Salay looked to Tress. “Drop anchor, Helmswoman,” Tress said. “It’s nearly night. I shouldn’t like to sail that sea in darkness.” “Agreed,” Salay said. “Keep a double watch tonight,” Tress suggested. “I don’t fancy being taken by surprise—either by rain, or by something else coming up through that darkness.” Salay nodded, visibly uncomfortable. Tress moved to go down to her cabin, then paused. “Salay. Have you ever heard of anyone sailing it successfully?” “The Verdant King keeps sending fleets to try to capture the Sorceress,” Salay said. “Some ships do survive the Crimson. That’s random luck, after all. I’ve never heard of one coming back from the Midnight though. They sail out into that, and are almost instantly overrun by dark creations of foul spores.” Tress shivered. Did she really think she could do what those capable sailors had failed to do? What was she thinking? Why was she even here? She was a sham of a captain, playing dress-up. Granted, Tress wasn’t giving herself enough credit—please act surprised—as she’d come quite far, all things considered. And it’s true that numerous members of the king’s court hadn’t managed to survive their first encounter upon the Midnight Sea. But then, you’ve met at least one member of the king’s court: he was the handsome fellow in the early part of the story with both the jaw and the intellect of a marble bust. So, you know, maybe they didn’t set the highest standard. Regardless, Tress was suddenly very uncertain of herself. She fled below, to the familiar hallway of the middle deck. She passed her old room, and found herself nostalgic for a couple weeks earlier. Days when she’d sat reading about spores while listening to the comforting footsteps above. Those footfalls had sounded so confident. Random, but somehow still rhythmic. Beats indicating a song the crew all knew and played together. Now she was in charge. The one everybody was confident in was her. She approached Dr. Ulaam’s office and was let in after a quick knock. She found him inspecting his hand, which had grown a sixth finger. Tress sighed in relief. Finally a normal and familiar sight. “Tress!” he said, trying out a ring on the finger. “I’m pleased by the visit! Have you reconsidered my offer?” “Thank you, but no,” she said. “I’m rather attached to all of my toes.” “Everyone is, dear. That’s why the Father invented scalpels. But now, you look distraught. Here, sit. Let me boil some water.” She sat down as he used some odd device that worked like a hot plate, but without fire or spores to warm it up. He set a kettle on top,
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then turned and regarded her, grey-skinned fingers laced in front of him as he leaned against the counter. “Speak, please.” “Ulaam,” she said, “I can’t defeat the Sorceress.” “No, of course you can’t,” he said. “All of the others are expecting me to. And…I’m increasingly terrified I’ll let them down.” “Ah, well then,” he said, “can I help you with this anxiety, hmmm? I don’t even have to give you a sedative. You needn’t worry.” “I needn’t?” she said. “Really?” “Yes. You see, no one expects you to defeat the Sorceress. I believe they’re all expecting to die. And so, you won’t disappoint them, child, when the Sorceress inevitably murders the entire crew!” She groaned. “That was a joke,” he noted. “I doubt she’s capable of killing me—though she thinks she can. Even if she is right, she certainly can’t kill Hoid, even in his current state. So it will only be most of the crew she murders.” Tress felt dizzy. Ulaam, it should be noted, is not known for his bedside manner—as I’ve pointed out, his people lost something when they stopped being forced to imitate actual humans. I can genuinely say that without that burden, they’ve all become increasingly themselves over the decades. That said, Ulaam is legitimately the best doctor I’ve ever met. If you are easily stressed, but need his help, I suggest you ask him to sew his mouth shut before he visits. He’ll probably find the idea novel enough that he’ll try it. That day, however, he realized he’d said too much. Even Ulaam, a creature with the empathic talents of an angry emu, could occasionally realize when someone was in emotional distress. “Child,” he said, “I—” “How could you?” Tress snapped at him. “How can you sit there and not care? What is wrong with you?” “Oh!” he said. “Hm. Ha ha. Well, no need to bite my head off. I have several saws for the purpose right over—” “Jokes don’t help, Ulaam!” she said, standing up. It hadn’t been a joke, mind you. He actually had three. He let her pace for a little bit, and when the teakettle began to whistle, he didn’t move to get it. As she paced, one point stuck in her brain. He’d mentioned Hoid again. The drooling cabin boy. Ulaam was a creature of strange powers, but he saw me as someone even greater. It wasn’t the first time Ulaam had said something like that. But this time it actually struck her. Finally she took a deep breath. “I shouldn’t have snapped at you,” she said. “You’ve been helpful in the past, Ulaam, telling me things you didn’t have to. I shouldn’t get angry at you for not doing more. I…I don’t know what’s wrong with me. I never would have acted that way in the past.” “I think,” Ulaam said, “that perhaps nothing is wrong. Maybe you should snap at me more often. I forget sometimes what I’ve been told about the stresses mortals live under.” “You’re right though,” she said, pacing the other direction in the
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small room. “We are going to die. This quest is foolishness! When it was only me who was risking my life for Charlie, that was bad enough. I can’t force the rest to join me.” “You aren’t forcing them, Tress,” Ulaam said. He finally rose and began to make the tea. “Have you seen how they walk these days? How they hold their heads? They know they’re partially to blame for the people Crow killed. “You’re not bullying them. You’re offering them a chance at reclaiming their humanity. They want to try to rescue your friend. They want to prove to themselves that even though they might not be first-rate men and women of valor, they at least possess a secondhand variety.” He turned, handing her a cup and gesturing toward the seat. It was a nice cup. Tin, but dinged up with the respectable scars of favorite use, and shined along the handle from the caress of fingers. She sighed, taking the seat and the tea, though she put the latter aside to let it cool. “Look,” she said, “Huck was willing to move against me. Perhaps I should see his point. Even if I don’t, I can’t use him to get into the tower now. So the mission is a bust.” “You still have Midnight Essence,” Ulaam said. “Maybe you can make a creature that can sneak in and unlock the door.” “The tower is coated with silver,” Tress said. “So I wouldn’t be able to touch it as a midnight creature. At least that’s what Huck said. I don’t know if that’s true, or what to trust from him, but either way we have a bigger problem. Ulaam, I can’t beat the Sorceress. She’s going to know I’m coming.” “She knows already, I suspect,” Ulaam said. “From what I know of her, she is probably looking forward to seeing how you deal with her defenses.” “Is it…possible to impress her so much with what we do that she lets Charlie go?” “Unlikely,” he said. “Best you can hope for is that she finds you amusing and sends you away with a particularly creative curse.” “So there’s no hope.” “Well…” Tress looked up. “I am supposed to remain neutral, you see,” he said, “in the actions of certain individuals such as the Sorceress. But there is someone who never follows those rules. He’s on this ship. And he has a pair of bright red sequined briefs.” “Hoid,” she said. “You’ve mentioned that he’s…not what I think he is. Is he truly something greater than the Sorceress?” “Well, these things are famously difficult to judge,” Ulaam said. “But I should say yes. I wish you could know the real Hoid. As amusing as it has been to watch his current incarnation in all its splendor, he is normally quite different from the person you know.” “And that person is…less embarrassing?” “Well, usually more embarrassing. But also quite adept at certain things. If there is a single person on the entire planet who can defeat the Sorceress and get you and yours
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out alive, it is that man. I tell no joke or exaggeration in this, Tress. When he wants to, there are few people in the entire cosmere who can influence events like our dear friend with the inappropriate undergarments.” I’ll have you know I owned those briefs before the curse, and I stand by the purchase. Tress considered that. Then she finally tried her tea, which alone proved her bravery. I never drink anything Ulaam gives me without first seeing what it does to the houseplants. “If he’s so powerful,” Tress said, “how did the Sorceress end up cursing him?” “I have no idea,” Ulaam said. “But it’s not that surprising. For how capable he is, Tress, he often overreaches in some way. It doesn’t matter how powerful a person is, if they believe they are slightly more powerful than they truly are, there’s room between those margins for big errors. Hmmmm?” Yeah, that one was fair. “Regardless,” Ulaam said, “I think in this case, what happened to him wasn’t an accident. If I were to lay down money—or, more valuable, my favorite set of fingernails—I’d guess he got cursed on purpose. And is now having more trouble than expected getting out of it.” “Why?” Tress said. “Why would he get cursed on purpose?” “I haven’t been able to decide,” Ulaam replied. Tress was skeptical. But in this case, Ulaam was (unfortunately) right. I had honestly thought I would have sorted through this by now. It was…proving more difficult than I’d anticipated. Fortunately, I was close. Closer than ever. Because Tress hit on the most important idea right then. “So…” Tress said, “maybe I don’t have to defeat the Sorceress. Maybe I just have to find a way to get Hoid to do it.” “Perhaps. Yes, perhaps indeed.” Tress excused herself, then wandered to her quarters. There she dug under the bed and brought out her collection of cups. It had been so long since she’d admired them. The part of her that enjoyed them hadn’t changed, but she just…didn’t have the time she’d once had. Really, these days she’d only been using the big metal one. It was the one that wouldn’t break if it dropped off the table when the ship swayed. Still, she took them out one at a time and placed them on the counter. Last of all she got out the ones Charlie had sent her. She stared in particular at the one with the butterfly soaring across the ocean. She’d originally assumed the butterfly had to be forced into such a terrible situation. Why else would it fly out over the spores? She saw it differently now. Perhaps it was simply a butterfly who knew what it wanted—and was willing to try to get it, no matter how impossible. It wasn’t a suicidal butterfly. It was a determined one. She put away the other cups, but kept this one out, along with the pewter tankard. These were her two favorites. One a symbol of determination. The other a solid and heavy practical device—almost a weapon. I,
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she thought, am these two cups. One side utilitarian, one side dreaming. Opposites. Yet both served the same function. Remarkable. That butterfly, though, had gone out on the ocean alone. It hadn’t brought an entire crew with it to die. She took a deep breath and tied her hair back, then took the two cups and stalked out onto the deck. “Salay,” she said to the helmswoman, “I’ve changed my mind. I want you to set down the launch. I’m going to take it into the Midnight Sea. Alone.” The objections were mountainous. “Alone?” Salay said. “Captain, what moon gave you such a lunatic idea?” “I’ll go with you,” Ann said. “I can keep you safe. I’ve got six pistols on me, and four eyes to aim them with now!” Even Laggart, hovering about the back of the group of officers, seemed concerned. Fort just held up his board. Why? he asked. “I want to try the experiment with the Midnight Essence,” Tress said. “See if I can actually control or destroy the monsters—because if I can’t, there’s no moving forward and all of this is moot. I will try it alone, as there’s no reason to bring the rest of you. There’s nothing you can do.” “I think this is a bad idea, Captain,” Salay said, folding her arms. “I won’t let you go into another sea alone.” “Am I not the captain?” Tress asked. “Can I not make this decision?” “You can,” Salay said. “But you shouldn’t.” Irony is a curious concept. Specifically, I mean the classical definition: that of a choice leading to an opposite outcome from what is intended. Many grammarians bemoan the word’s near-constant misuse—second only in dictional assassination to the way some people use the word “literally.” (Their use of which is ironic.) I’m not one of those people who care if you use words wrong. I prefer it when words change meaning. The imprecision of our language is a feature; it best represents the superlative fact of human existence: that our own emotions—even our souls—are themselves imprecise. Our words, like our hearts, are weapons still hot from the forging, beating themselves into new shapes each time we swing them. Yet irony is an intriguing concept. It exists only where we want to find it, because for true irony, expectation is key. Irony must be noticed to exist. We create it from nothing when we find it. But unlike other things we create, like art, irony is about creating tragedy. Irony is reversal. Set up, then collapse. A perfect bit of irony is a beautiful thing. So watch. Enjoy. “I cannot let myself create more hardship for any of you,” Tress said. “I need to do this next part alone.” Salay sighed softly—the kind of sigh you make when you’re trying not to yell, but need to give your lungs something to do. She nodded to the side. “Can we speak in private a moment, Captain?” Tress nodded, and the two of them stepped away. “I have another suggestion,” Salay said. “We sail the Crow’s Song
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in a little way and skirt the edge of the border for a while. Try to attract one of these monsters. Then we trap it with verdant spores and haul it on board. From there, we can retreat to the Crimson and take our time experimenting on it.” “Too dangerous,” Tress said. “More dangerous than you going in alone?” “Too dangerous,” Tress revised, “for all of you. This is something I have to do, but I can’t let you keep risking yourselves.” “Captain,” Salay said, her tone softening, “Tress. My entire life changed when you returned from the dragon’s den. I’ve been searching for Father for…for so long. I hoped for such a long time that hope started to wither. I was simply doing what I’d done because I was afraid to let it fully die. “It’s alive again now. Watered by you, nurtured back to life. He’s alive. And I know where he is. I need to survive what’s coming next so I can get to him.” “Then go,” Tress said softly. “You need to live to save him. You can’t take risks.” “I need a good crew to get through these seas,” Salay said. “This is a good crew.” “It was one,” Salay said, “and can be one again. But Tress, do you know what it does to a person’s soul to serve someone like Crow? You build up a black crust. Like toast left too long in the oven.” She nodded to the crew gathered on deck. “I put you in charge for several reasons. One is that I think you’ll be a good captain. But another is that they need someone to lead them who can set things right again. Someone who didn’t agree to Crow’s demands. They need you.” Tress nodded, understanding a shade better. Salay taking over would be a little like a team taking a time-out to reassess their strategy. Giving the ship to Tress was like tearing down the stadium to build a new one. “Ever since you came on this ship,” Salay said, “you’ve done nothing but try to protect and help us. The crew knows it. They’ll follow you. I’ll follow you. But I can’t save my father yet. Can’t save…myself yet. Not until I help you and this crew. So, I’m asking. Let me help you right now.” “Why ask?” Tress said. “Why not demand?” Salay shook her head. “We mutinied against Crow. We can’t afford to let that kind of behavior be seen as normal. We have to make it clear that disobeying Crow was an extreme exception. “So we’ll follow you. Exactly. The officers and I, we’ll model for the others, because we know if we don’t…well, that’s when things on ships can go extra poorly. When exceptions become habits. So if you tell us to let you do this alone, we will let you, Tress. We have to.” She met Tress’s eyes with one of those looks full of implication. That never works as well as you think it might. Because Tress had learned the wrong lesson. She’d
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heard the part about helping the crew. About protecting them. And so, she doubled down. “Thank you, Salay,” Tress said. “Now, please prepare the launch. I will be going alone into the Midnight Sea to test my theories about controlling the spore monsters there.” The sigh this time was accompanied by a barely contained growl, like Salay had swallowed something angry and furry. Speaking of which. Tress returned to her cabin to grab her hat before heading out for her experiment. And when she did, a voice spoke from the corner. “Take me,” Huck said. Tress froze, then turned toward his cage. “Bring me,” he said. “I heard you speaking. Take me in the cage, if you must. But bring me with you, Tress. On that boat. You might need me.” She nearly dismissed him. But something about his voice…the tone of it perhaps... She pulled on her hat, wavered for a moment, but then decided. As she left, she grabbed his cage by the handle on the top and carried it with her as she swept out onto the deck. And so, soon afterward, Tress found herself in a rowboat, the Midnight Sea surrounding her in all directions. Accompanied by only a caged rat, a keg of water, and a couple of free-range cups. It was time to see if she could get past the Sorceress’s first line of defense. To see if she could conquer the terrible tar monsters that roamed the Midnight Sea. It was a tense, dramatic moment—that unfortunately the terrible monsters forgot to attend. Surely they’d be along any moment now. Tress continued to drift alone in all that blackness. The sea was warm, gorged on sunlight as it was. Somehow it felt even more alien than the Crimson Sea. She might have thought black spores would be more familiar. The world turned black for roughly half the day, every day. It was a natural color. Yet sitting there, she felt as if her tiny boat were hanging in a void. A vast nothing. Even the sound of the seethe making the spores ripple wasn’t comforting. It sounded wrong here. Upon this persistent night. Upon this gluttonous expanse that ate the very sunlight. And now the sun was going down. Tress turned and looked backward longingly—but she had rowed herself out here for a good hour or so. Her arms were burning as proof. The Crow’s Song wasn’t even visible, nor was the Crimson Sea. She was alone. Except for Huck, who huddled in his cage, quiet and terrified—despite having demanded he be brought along. To pass the time, Tress tried writing a little in her notebook. But she was too worried, too distracted. It wasn’t only the thought of the Midnight Essence, but the fact that the spores were so close. Churning and bubbling right outside the hull of her boat. She tried looking up at the sky, but as she did, the sun sank behind the moon on the horizon. The Midnight Moon, like a hole in reality. So she waited. There are few things
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worse than stressful—yet empty—time. Free time that you can’t use in any way always feels like nature itself is mocking you. Finally though, Tress spotted movement. The Midnight Essence had gotten alarmingly close to her without being noticed. Perhaps because it was black upon black, though the fact that it was moving through the spores also helped hide its approach. Once she spotted it though, she tracked it easily—for it reflected the light of her lamp like oil. Her breath caught. She stopped worrying about the spores, fixated only upon this approaching horror. What kind of beast moved through the spores? Bathing in them? Or…swimming? Was that the right term? Tress knew the word from one of Charlie’s stories, though she found the idea remarkable. There were places with so much water that you could go in over your head? Wouldn’t you sink and drown? Whatever the word, the creature approaching was doing it. You might have recognized the Midnight Essence as resembling some kind of eel or sea serpent, perhaps half as long as the Crow’s Song was. But you come from a world where things live in the water; that idea was wholly alien to Tress, and so she found the beast’s movements unnatural, unnerving. A spine should not move in such a way, like a piece of string, bending with supple contours. It circled her boat, predatory. Also confused. Why was this human sitting out here alone in a little boat? You’d have felt similar if you’d been strolling through the woods and found a warm steak dinner chilling on a stump. What kind of trick was this? To this day, I can’t completely say if Midnight Essence is alive or not. The Luhel bond is an odd one, to be certain. For the context of the story though, pretend that the thing slinking along outside her boat was functionally self-aware. At the very least, it had been given a specific set of commands that approximated life. And so, it knew to be cautious. This gave Tress the opening she needed. With a trembling hand, she reached out and touched the thing as it swam past. This was, in the thing’s perception, deeply unsettling. There it was, an eldritch monster of nefarious design, imbued with a hatred for all life. It had spent its entire existence seeking out ships, then growing legs to slip on board and consume those inside. When people saw it, they made all kinds of noises—though each one ended up as a painful gurgle. That was the sound of a job well done, an existence fulfilled. People feared it. They didn’t reach out to touch it. That was basically like a salami standing up and trying to jump into your mouth. It isn’t that you don’t like a good salami, but you should at least have to work for it. Also, there was the mind control. Tress had bet everything on being able to do what she had earlier—and seize control of this thing. It was more credible a plan than you might think. You
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see, there was too much sea to cover for the Sorceress to pay attention to each creature individually. She made them in batches, then sent them out with orders, maintaining only a loose control. Indeed, if she’d tried to actively direct all of these things, even she would have been quickly dehydrated and killed. Beyond that, the creatures had just enough self-awareness to make decisions. To choose. That’s a dangerous feature to build into your roaming minions, but again, the Sorceress didn’t have another option. She had to give them a measure of autonomy, lest they be incapable of doing the job for which she’d designed them. So yes. Tress’s plan could have worked. If she’d been sprouting for more than a couple of weeks. Tress tried to seize control as she’d done earlier, pressing her mind against it. The thing reared up out of the spores, pulling away from her hand, and looked at her with midnight eyes. A question came into her head, like…it wanted something. She tried to offer water, hoping it was more than the Sorceress was giving. The thing rebuffed her. Naturally, the Sorceress knew of this possibility. She understood the weakness inherent in her creations. And she’d built them, with complex mechanisms, to recognize an outside attempt at control. Tress was tenaciously talented and demonstrably determined. But she was still new. And the Sorceress, it should be noted, was not. The thing reared up with a hiss, opening its mouth, anticipating its feast. Tress threw herself to the bottom of the boat, terrified. When a small, high-pitched voice spoke. “Stop,” Huck said. Then, sounding reluctant, he continued, “Take us to your mistress. I…have free passage.” The creature swayed its head, the complex sets of commands that guided it converging on the owner of that voice. One it had been instructed not to eat. One it was to bring to its master when commanded. Huck the rat had returned to the place where he’d been created, as instructed by the Sorceress. The next morning, Tress arrived at the Sorceress’s island. She’d been allowed a drink and the use of the facilities (a chamber pot) on the little rowboat. But otherwise she’d spent the trip wrapped in the coils of the Midnight Essence. Immobile. Two others just like it had emerged from the spores to push the boat, with incredible speed, to its destination. Huck refused to answer her demands for explanations of what he’d done, or why the creatures listened to him. But Tress had her suspicions. So it was that after an incredible journey, Tress finally arrived at the Sorceress’s island. And found it smaller than she’d envisioned. This is notable, as the island Tress came from was already small by the standards of most worlds. So her surprise was akin to a four-year-old remarking, “You know, I expected you to be more mature.” As the spore seas lack the fine silicates derived from coral refined by ichthyological digestive processes (yes, your favorite beaches are fish poop), the Sorceress’s island was merely another pile of rocks
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rising from the spores. In this case, the slate-grey stone skerry was suspiciously circular, and perhaps two hundred yards wide. A few trees tried to spruce up the landscape but failed, both by being too intermittent and by not being the right species. Instead they were spindly, gnarled things with tufts of leaves growing only at the very tips of their branches. As if they knew the concept of “trees” only by description, and were doing their best, all things considered. Tress had spent the trip alternating between hating Huck and hating herself. With the most generous helping heaped on herself. Now she sat, wrapped in the coils of the Midnight Essence, watching with dread as they approached the island. The Midnight Essence, it should be noted, now looked less like an eel and more like a pile of verdant vines. The boat had a line of silver in the hull, which left dead spores trailing them in a dissipating wake. The creature took care not to touch the silver, but—like Tress had noticed when she’d seen through the eyes of the Midnight Essence rat—could get close to it without being destroyed. It had unlocked Huck’s cage. He sat on one of the plank seats, near the front of the boat. Spores crunched and rustled as the two midnight creatures pushed the little craft steadily forward. “You have been here before,” Tress said, voicing her guesses. “All that talk of growing up in a community of rats—that was all lies, wasn’t it?” “Yes,” Huck whispered. “You belong to her,” Tress said. “You’re a familiar of the Sorceress, or something like that. You’ve always belonged to her.” “Yes,” he said, even softer. Each answer hit like an arrow. The barbed kind that hurt going in—but also rip and tear going out. The kind that make you want to leave them in, walking around with wounds that can never heal, for fear of the worse pain of removal. Still, as much as that stung, she forced herself to admit something. Huck had done everything he could—short of abandoning the ship at port—to keep her from coming this way. To protect her from the Sorceress. He had lied, yes, but he was obviously terrified of the Sorceress. She couldn’t blame him too much for how he acted, now that she’d unwittingly brought him back here. She could, however, blame herself. She should have been smarter, come up with another plan. Maybe she should have taken Salay’s advice, and let the crew help with the problem? Tress wavered on a precipice as she thought about that. Change has an illusory aspect to it. We pretend that big changes hang on single decisions, single moments. And they do. But single decisions and single moments, in turn, have a mountain of smaller decisions behind them. You can’t have an avalanche without a mountain of snow, even if it begins with one bit starting to tumble. Don’t ignore the mountains of minutes that heap up behind important decisions. That was happening to Tress right at that moment. Full realization
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hadn’t dawned yet, but the glow was on the horizon. The midnight monsters steered the boat in an odd way as they approached the island, and Tress soon observed why. Long, jagged lines of stone cut up through the sea here, like sandbars with teeth. The Sorceress had chosen her island deliberately; the approach to the place was exceptionally treacherous. Hidden rocks lay like mines, barely peeking through the seething spores, giving almost no hint to their locations. Approaching, then, was nearly impossible. As the boat made a sequence of expert maneuvers—steered by monsters who knew the correct path by magical gift—Tress felt her stomach drop. This was a protection to the island they hadn’t known about. Huck hadn’t told them of it, perhaps with nefarious intent. (In fact he simply forgot, but that’s beside the point.) If the Crow’s Song had arrived and tried to sail up to the island, it would have surely ripped its hull to pieces and died upon the spores. Her mission here had been doomed all along. Eventually their little boat—a lone speck of color skimming the top of the void—navigated to shore. Here Tress could make out the legion of golden metal men standing in ranks around the Sorceress’s tower. Outfitted with spears and shields, Tress could almost imagine them as men in armor with lowered faceplates. If only they hadn’t stood so unnaturally still. Other than the lonely trees and the hundred metal men, the island’s only feature was the tower itself. This, in contrast to the size of the island, was much larger than Tress had anticipated. Wide and tall, with a peaked top, Tress was too modest to say out loud what it resembled. I, of course, don’t know what modesty feels like—so when I mentioned what it looked like, the Sorceress asked me if I’d like a large yonic symbol splitting my forehead. Tress had hoped for a way to escape once the boat landed, but the creature kept her wrapped tightly, lifting her and carrying her before itself as Huck hopped off the boat. On the stone ground, he looked toward Tress. The first time he had looked directly at her since they’d gotten on the little boat. She glared back at him. He wilted visibly, like a vine without enough water. Then, however, he perked up—as if deciding something. “Yes. Yes, that’s it,” he said. “Not doing what she asked at all.” He eyed the monster, then scampered forward before Tress could berate him again. They crossed the ground to the tower itself, the metal men letting them pass. The things seemed to be asleep at the moment, in Tress’s estimation. Merely statues. The tower soon took her attention. It was an awe-inspiring sight, more silver in one place than she’d ever seen before. There was so much of it, in fact, that it would destroy spores at an incredible rate. Protection against enemy sprouters. A door was built into the side of the tower, apparently also made of silver. Huck stood up in front of it, and in
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a loud voice, spoke. “As I was commanded, I’ve returned to the tower with a captive to present to the Sorceress. Magic door, please open! Uh, I was told—” The door swung open on its own. “Right,” he said. “Good.” He scurried in, then looked down at himself, then back at Tress. Uncertain what would happen next. The midnight monster—now looking like a large centipede with tentacles for feet—let Tress go and shoved her through the door into the tower. It couldn’t follow, because of the silver. Instead it tossed her something. Her cups. The pewter one and the one with the butterfly. It had brought them—because it had found them in the boat and didn’t know if they were important or not. As Tress fumbled to catch her cups, the door slid shut. Locking her inside and leaving her with only one choice. To proceed. And meet her destiny. Tress took a moment to reorient herself, taking a deep breath, rubbing her arms—and trying to brush free the touch of the strange midnight creature. She thought of grabbing Huck, but he was quickly vanishing up a set of steps—using the running board alongside them as a ramp. Tress stayed still for the moment. She’d entered an all-metal corridor, decorated only by a red carpet down the middle like a tongue. It was inlaid with symbols that a well-traveled person would recognize as Aonic, but that Tress saw as some kind of arcane rune. Which wasn’t too far off. The walls—instead of being lined with pictures or tapestries—bore several panels that reminded Tress of Fort’s writing board. Now, many storytellers would describe such a hallway with words like cold and sterile. That’s mostly due to past association. The calm, pure white lights in the ceiling—diffused through a plastic filter—might remind you of an office building, while the unadorned metallic finish might remind you of a hospital operating room. To Tress, the room wasn’t cold. It wasn’t stoic, or bleak, or stern—or any words that might describe a politician at his trial after he escapes the dumpster. “It’s beautiful,” she whispered. “So clean and so radiant. Like I imagine the afterlife.” Her words echoed in the corridor. Finally, she took a long breath. She was here. She wasn’t dead. Perhaps…perhaps she could find a way to rescue Charlie. Despite everything. This was where she’d been pointed her entire voyage, after all. So, scraping together what was left of her determination, she strode forward and up the steps. At the top, a door opened on its own, sliding to the side. Because the Sorceress had very particular ideas about what the interior of this kind of vessel should be like. Beyond the door, Tress entered a large, circular room with doors at the sides. The chamber had a lived-in look, decorated with the kinds of things that would make a mess if the Sorceress had to leave in haste. Furniture, bookshelves. The floor was still metal—inscribed with a map of the planet—and the lights were still industrial, but she made it look cozy. The
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woman herself sat at her desk near the bookshelves, holding a fluffy white cat and idly doing something on her laptop. Or, I mean, her “magical seeing board” that let her watch events outside, as well as occasionally play a mystical card game to pass the time. Her skin glowed, and she had a silvery effervescence to her. She was maybe in her fifties—rather, that was how old she’d been when she’d stopped aging—and she’d come a long way from the withered husk she’d once been. Short, a little plump, she liked keeping her hair in a bun for convenience and abhorred makeup. I mean, I would too, if I literally glowed. Her kind tended to prefer clothing and other accents that didn’t distract from their luminous nature. Though she was a long, long way from home, she was extremely powerful. She rotated in her chair, setting her mystical board on the table, then shooing her cat off her lap. It hopped onto the floor, then eyed Huck—who cowered on the desk. The Sorceress pointed, and the cat slunk toward the door, slipping past Tress and out. Tress was paying little heed, as she was mesmerized by the various seeing boards on the desk. One showed a view of the hallway where Tress had entered. Several other panels on her desk showed things like shots of the island—but one of them depicted the deck of the Crow’s Song. “Ah!” the Sorceress said, standing up. She glanced at Huck, who shied down before her gaze. “So this is her. Your offering. I have to say, I’m not impressed. She seems scrawny. And that hair! Girl, I know your planet is rather unimportant, but surely your people have invented hairbrushes.” Tress swallowed. To her, the woman looked deific. It was the glowing skin. Really helps you land a good first impression. I’ve been envious of that look for centuries now, and have been aiming to adopt it. In fact, that is what this has all been about. But I get ahead of myself. Tress shoved down her awe and cobbled together her ramshackle plan. She drew herself up, clutching her cups for strength, and spoke. “Sorceress! You have taken captive someone I love. I have come to demand his return.” “Demand?” she asked. “What makes you think you can demand anything of me?” “Because I,” Tress proclaimed, “have defeated you.” “Defeated me?” the woman asked, amused, glancing at Huck. “I’ve crossed your ocean,” Tress said, “approached your island, passed your metal army, and gained entrance to your lair. I have overcome the four trials you’ve put before me, and have obtained your presence.” “Ha!” the Sorceress said. “My four trials? I love it. You’ve been listening to Hoid. Tell me, how is Ulaam?” “Er…” Tress looked at Huck, who was wringing his paws. “He’s…fine, my lady. He seems happy on the Song, at least.” “All this time,” she said, “and he’s never come to see me. Wise, I suppose. He knows I keep a vat of acid just for him. It’s one of the
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only ways to be sure about them, you know. That or a good fire.” The Sorceress strolled through the center of the circular room, walking across the map of the world inscribed on the floor. Offworlders called the place Lumar, which is a pretty good translation of the name used by several native languages. Tress had never seen a map of it so detailed, but there was a lot to take in, so she didn’t spare much thought for it. The Sorceress stepped right up to Tress. Obviously unafraid of physical altercation. “So,” Tress said. “I’ve defeated you…” The Sorceress grinned. “Did you really think that would work, dear? Pretending you got captured on purpose to get past my defenses?” Tress swallowed, then went for her backup idea. “I…um…I want to make a trade with you. I have a flare gun. It shoots bullets that create explosions of spores.” “Yes, I’ve seen,” the Sorceress said, gesturing to her viewing boards. One of which still depicted the Crow’s Song—and the image was wobbling, moving…and there were some fingers at the side of the image, gripping it… Fort’s board, Tress realized. That’s a view from his board, facing outward. The Sorceress has been using it to spy on us. Indeed she had. If I’d been in my right mind, I’d have realized ages ago that the security protocols were off by default, letting the things be hacked quite easily. The Sorceress had been watching this entire time, save for the short period where Fort had been between boards. She’d stopped paying quite so much attention to the Crow’s Song once Tress left. “My gun,” Tress continued. “It’s a design I made, known nowhere in the rest of the seas. I want to trade you the designs. In exchange for the return of Charlie, the man I love.” “You think,” the Sorceress asked, “that with all the advanced technology at my disposal, I’d be interested in your spore gun? A type of weapon that is already being manufactured in several seas on this very planet, which simply hasn’t made its way to your ocean yet?” Tress’s resolve had already been crumbling. Now it all-out collapsed. She looked to Huck, who—strangely—raised a paw toward her in a little fist. Encouraging her. Something else was going on here, Tress realized. Something she hadn’t grasped yet. She began thinking back through the events that had led her to this point. Huck had been able to demand the midnight monster bring her to the island. The Sorceress seemed intrigued by her and her crew. They were worth noticing and watching. Why? Hoid, Tress thought. Hoid can defeat her. She’s been watching him. So how did Huck fit into this? And why was the Sorceress chatting with Tress instead of locking her away? Tress hadn’t known what to anticipate in a confrontation with this woman. But a civil conversation certainly hadn’t been it. It made Tress feel terribly uncertain. The Sorceress turned and walked toward her desk. “Well, child, I don’t need your technology, but I find you intriguing. Seslo,
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please open the bridge’s holding chamber.” “As you wish,” a monotone voice said. It was the spirit that inhabited this place, you see, obeying the will of its owner. Yes, like the speaking minds inhabiting the ships you’ve seen landing on your planet. One of the doors at the side of the room clicked audibly, then swung open. Behind it was Charlie. He looked a little worse for wear. He had on one of his formal outfits, one Tress had seen him in when making appearances with his father, but it was rumpled and torn in a few places. Otherwise, he looked exactly as she remembered him, with hair that didn’t comb straight and a wide grin. “I knew you’d come,” he said, rushing over to Tress. “I knew you would! Oh, Tress. You’ve saved me!” At this moment, Tress’s emotions were complicated. Like that rope you always swear you put away neatly, but which comes out of storage looking like someone used it to invent new theoretical types of knots that bend space-time. It was Charlie. Seeing him was incredible. That made her happy, and also relieved. Celebratory, overwhelmed, excited, grateful—yes, all of that. All the emotions you would expect were present and accounted for. But she also felt a sadness she couldn’t explain. (We’ll get to it.) And in addition, confusion. Suspicion. That was it? Was she truly just going to get what she wanted? “I will trade him,” the Sorceress said, “for those two cups.” “What, really?” Tress asked. “Really,” the Sorceress said. “Simply leave them on the shelf by the door.” “Is he…ensorcelled in any way?” Tress asked. “Oh, that. I should play the part, shouldn’t I? Ahem. “Under shining bulb, With mighty gulp, I make it felt That I break this spell.” Barbarian. She does that to annoy me. It was exactly the sort of thing that Tress expected to hear though. Arcane nonsense—comfortingly mystical. Charlie put his hand to his head, then leaned down and gave her a brief kiss. That made Tress’s emotions twist even further. “See, rat?” the Sorceress said. “I told you, didn’t I?” Huck, on the desk, bowed his head. “Say it,” the Sorceress continued. “Say it, rat.” “You were right,” he whispered, almost inaudibly. He slunk away from the desk, dropping to the floor. Vanishing. Tress took hold of her emotions, slapped them sensible, and sent them to stand in an orderly line. There would be time to deal with them later. For the moment, she made a decision. It was time to leave. She grabbed Charlie by the hand, put her two cups on the shelf by the door, then hurried out and onto the stairs. Charlie took it all in stride, starting a rather boring story about his days in captivity that I won’t tediously repeat here. Particularly since he soon moved on to other comments. “Oh, Tress,” he said, “won’t it be so nice to get back to our normal lives on the Rock again? Won’t it be so nice to go back to pies, and window washing,
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and gardening?” It was here—right at the bottom of the steps, listening to those questions from Charlie—-that Tress’s sadness assaulted her. It fought dirty, you see, as sadness usually does. Going for the kidneys. Or the heart. Charlie didn’t seem like he’d changed at all. That was good. She’d worried his captivity would have left him mentally scarred. But here he was, perky and excitable as always. He could have given lessons to puppies on how to be properly enthusiastic. Good old Charlie. Same as ever. Tress was not the same. She’d changed so much in the course of her time away from the Rock. She found she didn’t care about pies, or window washing, or even cups in the same way. She cared about spores, and what she could do with them. About sailing, and her crew. All of this…all of this meant she couldn’t go back to being the same person. She, you see, had been scarred. There it is! Irony. The very journey she’d taken to find what she wanted had transformed her into a person who could no longer enjoy that victory. She looked into Charlie’s eyes, and her emotions parted asunder, bowing before her building sense of melancholy. Crowning it queen. In that moment, looking into Charlie’s eyes, she thought of someone else. Someone Tress shouldn’t have cared for, on paper. That’s one thing we get wrong far too often in stories. We pretend that love is rational, if we can only see the pieces, the motivations. Charlie grinned. It was such a familiar grin. Perfectly like him. She didn’t believe it. That smile was one step too far. Because she knew Charlie. Tress turned, ran up the steps, and burst into the main room, startling the Sorceress—who was settling down into her seat. Full of electric defiance, Tress shouted, “That is not Charlie.” The Sorceress hesitated. “You like to torment people,” Tress said, pointing at the Sorceress and stalking forward. “You curse them with the worst curses you can imagine, tailored to the individual and their pains. You didn’t keep Charlie here.” “And what,” the Sorceress said, “do you think I did with him?” “You turned him into a rat,” Tress said. Ha! Finally. Tress kept striding forward, step by step, toward the Sorceress. “Each time I tried to get Huck to talk about this place, or you, he stammered. He searched for words. Because a spell was preventing him from speaking things that would let me know he was Charlie, cursed.” “If that is so,” the Sorceress said, “then how could he have told you about the defenses here? I know he did. I know many things, child.” Tress stopped, and her eyes widened. “Because when he told me…he was trying to get me to stay away…” She focused on the Sorceress. “Because me coming here is the way to break the curse, isn’t it? Moons! You cursed him, and said the only way to break it was for him to bring me here, to you! That’s why he tried everything to stop me. Because…because
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he loves me.” The room fell still save for one sound. Sniffling. Tress approached the desk and found Huck the rat behind it. He looked up at her, his eyes red. Unlike the doppelganger she’d been given, Huck was a mess. Shivering and crying as he curled up in a ball. Tress knelt. “Charlie…” “I’m sorry,” he whispered. “I didn’t want her to be right. She told me I’d end up bringing you here so she could play with you. I tried not to follow her prophecy, but I’m stupid, Tress. Stupid and worthless. You deserve so much better. Look at all you’ve done, and I couldn’t even manage one thing to keep you safe…” “Oh, Charlie,” she whispered, picking up the rat, cradling him. He trembled, his eyes squeezed shut. The desk rolled to the side at an offhand whim of the Sorceress. She now stood in the dead center of the room. The fake Charlie had walked up to the doorway, and the Lightweaving had fallen away, revealing a creature that only resembled a human—reptilian with golden eyes and a toothy grin. My best guess is that she wanted to plant someone on the Crow’s Song to deal with me more permanently. I suspect she was beginning to worry about our bet. And the fact that someone so close to me had been able to get into her fortress, even as a captive. The Sorceress showed none of these emotions. Instead she tossed aside her amiable air. Her eyes grew hard as stones. Her lips drew to a line. She didn’t like that Tress had seen through this ruse. In addition, something else bothered her. Something that might be obvious to you. If not, it will be revealed in a moment. Tress was oblivious as she cradled Charlie the rat. He’d indeed tried to tell her, several times. When he couldn’t say his name was Charlie, he’d tried “Chuck.” But the curse had only let “Huck” come out. “Charlie,” Tress whispered. “You sent me cups.” He looked at her. “That was a lifetime ago, Tress.” “I love them. Particularly the one with the butterfly on the sea. Like us, Charlie. Soaring over places we never thought to go. And the one made of pewter. Like us, Charlie. Stronger and more straightforward than we have a right to be.” “She has us though,” he said. “Because of me, she has us both. She told me…the only way to be free was to bring her the person I loved, then give them to her to curse. She said she’d make me watch. Moons, it was excruciating, watching you sail ever closer. I should have tossed myself overboard. Then you’d have never learned how to get in…” He trailed off as she held him up before her, meeting his eyes. “Charlie,” she whispered. “I want this.” “I…” “You remember what you told me? Before we parted?” “Always,” he whispered. “Always…what you want.” “I want this,” she said. “To be with you.” He met her eyes, and found in them strength enough for two.
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Then his head cocked. The same thought occurred to the two of them simultaneously. “Charlie,” she said, “if the way to break your curse was to bring the person you love to the Sorceress, why are you still a rat? Is it because… Is there someone else you love?” “No!” he said. “It’s you. But…” “It’s because,” the Sorceress said from behind them, “I haven’t cursed you yet. His torment can only be ended if he brings you to me for that specific purpose.” Tress rose, holding Charlie in her palm, looking toward the Sorceress—who seemed to be another person. Same shape. Different soul. No jovial playfulness. Instead a cold monster. Some scholars say that when you become an immortal like the Sorceress or me, your soul gets replaced with something new. Like the fossilization process. In her case, in lieu of a soul, the woman had pure ice. Kept cold and frozen by her heart. In the face of this, Charlie—who had himself been changing, day by day, on this journey—spoke. “You’re wrong,” he said softly. “I’m still a rat, and will remain one. Because for my curse to be broken, I have to bring her to your home in trade for my freedom. I realized on the way in that I haven’t done that. I brought her, Sorceress, but not in trade. Not to get cursed. I brought her to defeat you.” “Remarkable,” the Sorceress said. “I didn’t give you the intelligence of a rat, but it seems you’ve adopted it willingly. I can’t be defeated by—” A red light appeared on her desk. Several other lights appeared on the wall. Then several more. The Sorceress spun, surprised, commanding the soul of her building to show her what had tripped her alarms. A large screen appeared in the air beside one wall, depicting a ship crashing through the seething midnight spores. As I said, she hadn’t been paying enough attention. If she had, she would have seen this coming. Because the Crow’s Song had arrived. How? Let’s jump back a day. To the crew, who had been waiting for Tress’s safe return. A Doug posted on duty high atop the main mast had been able to see—through a spyglass—when Tress was taken. He’d scampered down to explain. This put the crew in a bind. What did they do? They couldn’t give chase through the Midnight Sea, could they? The very monsters that had taken Tress would claim them as well. They perhaps should have turned and tried to escape through the Crimson to safer spores. It was what Tress had said she wanted. Instead they’d held an emergency meeting. And a solution had been offered. By Fort. It was a chance for him to claim the title of the greatest hunter his people had ever known. A chance to hunt monsters made from midnight spores. The others had listened to his plan, then gone to the Dougs to propose it. The crew had voted unanimously in favor, save for Laggart. So they’d sailed the Midnight Sea. Fifteen minutes in, the
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first midnight monsters had appeared. Three of them slithered up on deck, completely impervious to normal weapons, looking for warm bodies and blood to feast upon. For liquid, for water. For death. Instead they found a large man standing at the center of the deck surrounded by barrels of water. Each with a keg of spores suspended above it by a rope. Welcome, he wrote to the three monsters—with Ann saying the words out loud in case the creatures couldn’t read. I have quite the deal for you today. The things slithered forward, making for him. In turn, Fort moved to cut one of the kegs free. Careful, he warned as Dougs moved to do likewise. We’ll feed all this water to these other spores, leaving none for you, unless you take care. The midnight monsters stopped. They didn’t need the words, as they could sense what a person was saying or meaning. Their essence reached out to people, seeking the Luhel bond. And so what Fort said registered on some level with them. They communicated with one another by wiggling tentacles. And Fort…well, he understood. Not because he knew another sign language, but because of that same bond. They did want the water. But there were sources of blood on the ship, and that would do as well. Warning, he said, gesturing to the rest of the crew, who had gathered with guns at the back of the ship. If you don’t stop, they’re going to throw themselves overboard and feed their water to the spores. Other spores. Not you. This finally got through to the creatures. It was a conundrum. So much water. But…if they weren’t careful…it would all go to someone else. Fort rammed his hand into one of the barrels of water, then made signs with the other—signs the creatures understood because of the bond. «I can feed you all of this,» he said. «All for you three.» «How?» they signed back. «What will it take to be able to eat and drink and thrive and drink and drink and drink?» «Protect us,» Fort said, «as we sail farther into the sea here.» As I said, there’s a flaw in using self-aware magical creatures as guards. This process was efficient, allowing the Sorceress to send them out in large numbers, although she couldn’t spare much attention for them. But midnight aethers are insatiable. And their inherent nature is to trade. To do a human’s bidding in exchange for water and form. That left them highly susceptible to someone who understood the mechanics of the magic—and had a mind for a good trade. And thus, using the coordinates on the map that Tress had gotten out of me, the Crow’s Song arrived at the island only half an hour after Tress had. Ready to rescue their captain. It provided the exact distraction Tress needed in the moment. Because the Sorceress, reorienting to these new arrivals, needed to awaken her defenses. She began shouting orders—for the moment ignoring Tress and Charlie. “They came for me,” Tress said. “Those beautiful fools.
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They should have stayed away!” “Like you should have stayed away?” Charlie said. “Instead of coming for me?” Tress looked at him sitting in her palm, tears in her eyes. And the avalanche started to tremble. She realized that she was the fool. Not for coming to save Charlie—but for trying to keep others from following their own hearts in the same way. “We have to do something,” she whispered. “I need to warn them about the rocks under the spores. There has to be a way to talk to them.” Both of them looked at the Sorceress’s desk—in particular, the magical board that displayed the image from Fort’s similar one. Then, as the Sorceress was waking up her armies, Tress and Charlie grabbed the board and stared at it. Trying to figure out how to operate it. “Uh,” Charlie said. “Board? Can you please let us talk to the people you’re showing us?” “Video conferencing engaged!” the board said, happy to be of service. Fort, who had been holding the board, stood up from his chair. He’d spent the entire night drinking water and feeding it—via the bond—to the three monsters. So he was both tired and feeling a little odd, as he’d been able to drink multiple barrels’ worth but didn’t feel full. Still, their arrival had made him alert, and he’d sent the midnight monsters—now fully under his control by the strengthening of the bond—swimming away to fight others that had tried to get onto the ship. His always won those fights, of course, having far more water to build new body parts from the spores around them if wounded. Regardless, he had a moment of peace. And could cock his head, frowning as the back of his board—which used to display words for him—now showed Tress and the rat, huddled up close to the camera on their side. “Fort?” Tress asked. “Can you see us?” The words scrolled across the screen, obscuring the view a little. I can! he typed, the words appearing underneath theirs but from the other side. He waved to the others, and in a moment Ann and Salay had joined him. Even I huddled up with them, curious. “Captain?” Salay asked. “Captain! Are you well?” “We’re in the tower,” Tress whispered. “How did you survive the spores? No, never mind that now. Explain later. Salay, you need to watch out. The sea here is full of rocks under the spores. They’re extremely treacherous!” “I’ll watch for those,” Salay said. “Thank you.” “You shouldn’t have come here,” Tress said. “If you try to sail through those rocks, you’ll sink.” The three of them frowned. Then Salay asked simply, “Do you order us to turn around?” Did she? Could she? Dared she? In that moment, the decision was made. The rock tipped and the avalanche of change that had been building in Tress started tumbling down. “No,” Tress whispered. “Please help me.” The three of them grinned. I scratched my head. Because something about the place where Tress was standing, visible behind her, was familiar to
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me. “We’ll do it,” Salay said. “We’re coming.” “Don’t get yourselves hurt!” Tress said. “Captain,” Ann said, “we’re going to save you. Because you deserve it. You remember, you once told me somethin’ that made me see the world in an entirely new way.” “And that was?” Tress asked. “‘Here, try on these spectacles.’” Ann, Fort wrote, that was almost as bad as one of Hoid’s jokes. “It isn’t just a joke though,” Ann said, tapping her spectacles. “It’s true. I see a new world. A world where we aren’t condemned people any longer. A world where we’ve got ourselves a future.” “You know I’m not a King’s Mask,” Tress said. “I can’t get him to pardon us.” “We’ll find another way,” Ann said, looking to the others, who nodded. “Because once we saunter up to the Sorceress herself and get away…well, I figure after we do that, we’ll be able to do anything.” The three of them nodded to her, and she felt overwhelmed. By their loyalty, by her own (at long last) willingness to accept help. By… Wait. Within Tress’s avalanche of emotions, something stood out. Prompted by how I, standing there with the other three, was trying to use my tongue to pick my nose. Her thoughts were a curiosity, you might say. A revelation, I’d say. “Hoid,” Tress said. “Hoid couldn’t point out the way to the Sorceress. We had to guess the location by pointing to places other than this one. He could talk about all of those…” And? Fort said. “And I assumed the reason was because he couldn’t talk about his curse,” Tress said. “But the solution to Charlie’s curse involved him returning to her. If Hoid couldn’t show us the way here, at least not intentionally, then maybe the solution to his curse involves him coming here too.” She looked down at the floor. A map of the world. You must bring me to your planet, Tress. “Yes…” Charlie whispered. “Hoid could talk about being cursed, once you knew about what had happened to him. He should have been able to easily mention the Sorceress and her island. But if he couldn’t? That implies that doing so would help break the curse. His solution must involve getting back into the Sorceress’s tower. Passing her tests…Tress, it makes sense!” She looked up toward the others again, her eyes widening. “You need to bring him here. Into this room.” “The cabin boy?” Ann asked, frowning. “Captain?” Salay said. “Are you sure?” “Yes,” Tress said. “Please. Bring him to me. I know it’s hard, but please.” “Well, if you order it...” Salay said. “Don’t do it because I order it,” Tress said. “Do it because you trust me.” The others nodded. They did trust her. Which was good, since the Sorceress had noticed what Tress was doing. Eyes wide with fury, the woman barked an order, shutting off their communication. She thrust her hands into the air, her fingers leaving trails of light as she constructed powerful runes. As she finished them with a flourish, a blast
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of light erupted from them and crossed the room, slamming Tress back against the wall and holding her there. A crash and a clank sounded as two cups tumbled free of their perches. The one with the butterfly shattered. The other bounced, gaining a new dent. The Sorceress turned back to mobilizing her armies. Charlie—who had been dropped as Tress slammed into the wall—picked himself up and scampered over to her, climbing her clothing. He tried to nibble at the lines of light to free her. It worked about as poorly as you might imagine. “Charlie,” Tress whispered. He looked up at her, frustrated that glowing lines of light could be so strong. “I…I’m sorry, Tress. You can’t rely on me. I’m useless. I’m failing again. I…” “Charlie,” she said, “there’s something I’ve been meaning to tell you. I wish I’d said it earlier, so I’m going to say it now, although it’s probably a terrible time for it. I love you.” “I feel the same,” he said. “I love you too.” “Good. It would be very awkward if that turned out not to be the case.” She struggled, then looked over at the Crow’s Song on the screen, sailing toward the island. “Please, Charlie. I hate to impose. But if they fight through the defenses, they’ll never get into the tower to rescue us.” Realization hit him. “I…I can open the door for them, Tress. I can do that.” “If it’s not too much trouble,” she said. Yes, she’d changed. But even big events change us only a little at a time, and she was still Tress. Charlie looked toward the room’s open door, leading to the steps down to the outer door. Where the Sorceress’s cat was prowling. “It might be too frightening for Huck the rat,” he said. “But I think perhaps Charlie the gardener is made of something stronger.” He nuzzled up against Tress’s cheek. “Thank you,” he said, softer. “For coming to get me. I wish I could have told you earlier.” Then he leaped down to begin his quest. The Sorceress was not angry. Not yet. Not even frightened. Not yet. She was mostly annoyed. And admittedly a little worried. She had thought I was handled. When I’d started across the Crimson, she’d watched not because she was afraid I’d actually reach her tower, but because she enjoyed seeing me inconvenienced. She thought maybe I’d get sent to the bottom of the ocean, and she figured that would be a delight to watch. Now, somehow here I was. Surely I couldn’t get past her defenses, not on a common boat. Yet she hadn’t thought I’d pass the Crimson, or sail the Midnight. She now assumed I had somehow, despite my enormous hindrances, been behind the ship’s survival of those dangers. She didn’t realize that my true advantage has never been my uncommon intellect. It’s been my ability to find the right people and stick close to them. Right then, I clung to the side of the Crow’s Song—up on the quarterdeck, near the helmswoman’s station. I
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had stolen Huck’s tiny pirate hat, thinking he didn’t deserve it. Which, strictly speaking, was wrong. Can you really be mad at a pirate for stabbing you in the back? It looked much worse on me. So of course I wore it clipped in place. I was grinning wildly, wind in my hair, eyes wide—because I figured they might dry out that way, and then I could stop blinking. Salay spun the ship’s wheel. She shouted orders to the Dougs, who worked their magic on the sails. The Sorceress was extremely confident in her defenses. Certain that no one could sail the passage between the rocks to her island. She hadn’t counted on a woman like Salay. Sailing with her father’s final letter in her pocket, knowing that if she died on this sea, he would remain imprisoned by his debts forever. A woman who had just discovered a renewed purpose in life. A woman who had taken a bet on Tress, and had earned the lives of the crew in return. A woman who would not back down when the lives of her friends were at stake. Pray you meet such a woman at least once in your life. Then pray you get out of her way quickly enough. She held to the wheel as wood groaned, her will against that of the spores, and steered the ship past stones. Unblinking. I was impressed by that part. “Why?” Ann said, holding the banister and walking up the steps toward me. “Hoid, why does Tress have this strange idea that you can be savin’ her?” “Probably,” I shouted over the rush of wind and spore, “because I just realized I should take up painting! And the Sorceress will be scared of my talent!” “You are so aggravating!” Ann said. “Nonsense,” I replied. “Your cabin, Ann! Feels like it could use something to spruce it up. Or, if trees won’t fit, maybe some paintings of dogs wearing hats. Oh!” I looked at her, my eyes wild as a spray of black spores crashed up beside me while the ship navigated a near-impossible curve. “Oh, I’ve just had the best idea. I could paint the pictures on velvet.” “Why in the name of the Verdant Moon’s own backside would you do somethin’ like that?” “To give them texture when you lick them, obviously,” I said. “Really, you should think about things more before you ask stupid questions, Ann.” And she should have known better. She might not have been asking a stupid question, but asking a question of stupid is nearly as futile. Salay was so far into her zone of focus, she didn’t hear the conversation. Back in the tower, the Sorceress paused to watch as the ship slipped among the rocks, drawing ever closer. A sailing ship is a strange thing to control—I’m sure some of you know. You often don’t steer so much as ride the waves, winds, and currents. You need speed to maneuver, but motion is always both your enemy and your ally all at once. Too little, and
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you can’t complete your turns. Too much, and you end up kissing the rocks. That day though, the ship appeared to obey neither wave nor wind, spore nor shoal. The ship obeyed Salay, and for a short transcendent moment, we seemed not on a ship at all. We rode upon her willpower made manifest, dodging rocks by inches, leaning so far to the sides at times I thought for sure we’d capsize. She had an instinct for where those rocks were, based on how the spores churned. And she did it all with eyes straight forward, focused on her goal. To the Sorceress’s astonishment, we broke through the rocks into the island’s small bay. She shook her head, moving from annoyance to genuine concern. Behind her, Lacy—the cat—screeched and pounced, causing the worried Charlie to retreat into the room. He tried to race down the stairs again, but was chased back. The Sorceress gave another order, and her group of metal men marched forward, ready for battle. They, surely, would put an end to this farce. They’d always been her most secure form of defense. “Cannonmaster!” Salay said on the ship. “Prepare arms!” That meant Ann. She hurried to the front of the ship to her cannon. It was her chance at last. To prove herself, one way or another, a bespectacled spectacle. She’d been practicing these last few days, enough to be worried. She didn’t seem to be supernaturally bad at aiming any longer, but that didn’t mean she was good. She was really, really worried about that. And about how, despite years of dreaming of this day, everything suddenly came down to her. On the shore, the metal men marched in ranks, responding immediately to the Sorceress’s orders. The color of burnished brass, each one seven feet tall and carrying a spear with a glistening tip, they were an intimidating sight. Their instructions (carefully conveyed by the Sorceress when Breathing life into them) were complex, careful, and meticulous. They were far better servants than the scouts made from Midnight Essence. While they were on duty, they would form a barrier to prevent any kind of landing. Even from the deck, wet firing rod in hand, Ann could see why the king’s forces had never had any luck against them. Musket balls would bounce off them, and cannonballs…well, those might knock one of the creatures down and leave a dent. But they’d be up again soon after. Tress’s designs though—they would work. Ann’s hand trembled anyway as she rammed the firing stick into the cannon and launched a cannonball. The metal men didn’t flinch. In part because the cannonball went wide, smashing through a tree, bouncing along the stones, then vanishing into the spores in the near distance. Sweating profusely from the stress, Ann loaded another cannonball. She didn’t turn around and look at the crew. She knew what they were thinking. It wasn’t only eyesight that had been Ann’s problem. Something else was wrong with her. And she was right. But it wasn’t bad luck, or some mystical curse. It
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was something far more mundane, but equally pernicious. Ann didn’t miss just because she had poor eyesight. She missed because of momentum. There’s an opposite force in life to the avalanche Tress was feeling. There’s always an opposition, you see. A Push for every Pull, an old adversary of mine always says. Sometimes the moments in our life pile up and become an unstoppable force that makes us change. But at other times they become a mountain impossible to surmount. Everyone misses shots now and then. But if you become known as the person who misses—if you internalize it—well, suddenly every miss becomes another rock in that pile. While every hit gets ignored. Eventually you become Ann: arm shaking, sweat pouring down your face, clutched by the invisible but very real claws of self-fulfilling determination. Then you start missing not because your aim is bad, or your eyesight is poor, but because your arm is shaking and sweat is pouring down your face. And because missing is what you do. Dreading what she’d once loved, Ann raised the stick to the side of the cannon. A calm voice interrupted her. “Hold your fire, shipmate Ann,” Laggart said, one hand on the forestay rope to keep his balance as he squinted at the shore. Ann hesitated. “Three degrees to aft and one up, shipmate Ann,” Laggart said, his voice calm and firm. She hesitated only a moment, then began cranking the cannon as he indicated. The ship continued to rock in the shallow waves of the bay, moving alongside the shore. “Hold,” Laggart said as she put the firing rod in place. “Hold. FIRE!” An explosion of spores and force blasted the cannonball on its way. As she’d imagined, it hit one of the metal men in the chest and knocked it down, but didn’t destroy it. However, the vines that burst out grabbed and enveloped all the metal men nearby. They, in turn, were completely flummoxed. On the ship, Ann took one step toward her mountain and found it quite a bit smaller than she’d imagined. “Reload and reset,” Laggart said. “Reloading and resetting, sir!” Ann said, moving with an efficiency that would have impressed any naval officer. “Two degrees up,” Laggart said. “Two degrees up!” she said. “And one to port!” “Aye,” Laggart said, surprised. “And one to port. Now hold. Hold…” “Fire!” Ann said at the exact same moment he did. This shot flew true as well, catching another group of metal men. “Reloading and resetting, sir!” Ann cried before he could give the order. She had the next blast off in quick succession. She looked to him, breathing quickly. “Damn fine shooting,” Laggart said, with a nod. “Damn fine. Assistant Cannonmaster.” And standing there on the summit of her mountain, Ann wondered at how tiny it suddenly seemed. Back in the tower, Tress was still a captive. It was humiliating, yes, but somehow…also gratifying? In that this was what she had expected to happen. From the moment she’d launched from the Rock, she’d anticipated grand failure. She had gone
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not because she’d assumed she would succeed, but because something had to be done. And though many things had gone wrong on her quest, she’d somehow always managed to make them go right too. She had found her repeated success almost uncomfortably consistent. In the same way that if you keep rolling sixes, you start to worry that something is wrong with the dice. Failing here, getting captured, being immobilized and unable to help… Well, she wasn’t happy about it. But a part of her was relieved. It had finally happened. As it should have. She wasn’t a King’s Mask or a pirate. She was a window washer. With hair that really needed to be pulled back into its tail, because she could barely see through it at the moment. Unfortunately, the Sorceress’s bonds had locked her hands in those glowing bands of light, pressed to the wall. Through her hair, she was able to watch the Sorceress’s annoyance as the cannons completely immobilized her troops. This wasn’t supposed to happen. She had designed the men to withstand cannon fire. She’d designed them to be unstoppable. They could march right out into the ocean, and even had grappling hooks that let them climb aboard ships—often spearing them from underneath first, puncturing the hulls. They were impervious to basically every weapon available to a preindustrial culture. Fearsome, destructive, deadly. They didn’t know what to do about vines though. Even a semi-self-aware construct like an Awakened soldier relies on its instructions. They’re far more versatile than something running on a traditional computer program, but they’re also not fully alive. And these, confronted by vines holding them down, were baffled. Their instructions told them not to be afraid of weapons brandished by interlopers. So they kept trying to march forward. The cannonballs continued to explode around them, causing more vines to spring out. When immobilized, the metal men had instructions to call for support. Normally that was a valid line of programming. In this case though, it sent the entire group into chaos. They’d alternate from trying to march on the ship to trying to free one another, to locking up as they tried to decide what to do when neither was possible. In short, the cannonballs worked. Blessed moons, they worked. Despite her situation, Tress couldn’t help grinning as she saw her designs incapacitating an entire legion of supposedly unstoppable foes. Charlie climbed up her leg, clinging to her trousers as the cat prowled below. He was puffing from exertion. “I…am having a little trouble with the beast.” “It’s all right, Charlie,” Tress said, still watching the cannon fire. “Hey,” he said, “don’t you cry. There’s a maritime law against that.” “Sorry,” she said as another cannonball exploded, vines reaching out like some unholy hybrid of an octopus and a bag of lawn clippings. “It’s just…they’re beautiful.” A short time later the crew was on shore, running past the immobilized troops—Fort leading the charge, and carrying me overhead. I’ll pretend it was in a dignified fashion. But if Charlie didn’t open the door, they’d
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be trapped outside the tower. And the story would end there. Tress looked to Charlie. “I’m sorry. That in the end, we got captured. It’s like we said would happen, isn’t it?” He nodded. “But Tress,” he said, “I remember another part of that conversation. Something about shining armor.” “I don’t think they make armor in rat sizes, Charlie.” Charlie saw something on the floor. His eyes narrowed. “Distract her,” he said. Then he drew upon every ounce of courage he had remaining—it wasn’t much, but when you’re in such a small body, courage (like booze) goes further than you expect. Charlie leaped. The cat gave chase immediately, bearing down on him as he dashed for something lying on the floor near the stairs. A large pewter tankard. The Sorceress was turning her attention to the tower’s defenses. She might well have figured out what was happening if Tress hadn’t done as Charlie asked. “Sorceress,” she said, “have you heard those stories? About the fare maiden who gets captured?” “Thinking about your fate?” the Sorceress said, never one to pass on inflicting a little misery. “Thinking about how you traveled all this way only to end up in chains?” “Yes,” Tress said. “And thinking that…well, it’s not that bad, actually.” “Not that bad!” the Sorceress said, stalking forward, ignoring the clinking sound from behind—like something metal going down the steps. “Dear, you’re powerless! You wanted to save your love, but can’t even save your own self! You thought yourself a powerful pirate, yet here you are. At the end of your quest. You’ve ended up like every girl from any story. Needing to be rescued.” Freeze that moment. Imagine it: Charlie the rat, spinning in the air within a pewter cup, bouncing down the stairs. Observed by a bemused cat from above, who had given the swat that sent the cup tumbling. Fort, Ann, and Salay reaching the tower with me hoisted high overhead. Tress. Bound by glowing bonds. Held to the wall. Confident. “Those stories always leave something out,” Tress said. “It’s really not a problem that someone needs to be saved. Everyone needs help. It’s hard to be the person who makes trouble, but the thing is, everyone makes trouble. How would we help anyone if nobody ever needed help?” “And you?” the Sorceress asked, starting to draw runes in the air. “You’re going to have quite the curse, I’ll tell you. I’ve been saving this one for a special occasion. You will spend the next several decades in misery, child.” Down below, a tiny voice echoed up from the hallway. “Magic door, please open!” “The part the stories leave out,” Tress said as the Sorceress’s runes formed into a vibrant wall, “is everything that comes before. You see, I’ve discovered that it’s all right to need help. So long as you’ve lived your life as the kind of person who deserves to be rescued.” The Sorceress released her curse, a blast of light and energy meant to enwrap Tress and transform her. Instead, the runes exploded in a blinding
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shower of light. Filling the room with white energy that momentarily blotted out all possible sensation. When it faded, I stood between Tress and the Sorceress—with the key officers of the Crow’s Song behind me and a little rat on my shoulder—my hands pressed forward, having created an Invested shield of light to shelter Tress. It was constructed of Aons. Which I could now draw. The mechanics might bore you. The results, though, were spectacular. I was wearing a floral buttoned shirt, shorts that were way too short, and sandals. With socks. “Hello, Riina,” I said. “I hope your last few years have been exactly as lovely as you are.” She lowered her hands, her jaw dropping. “Why, yes,” I said, gesturing to my current clothing, “I do know this outfit is awful. I realize one should never bring up politics at dinner with one’s in-laws. And I know that you, my dear, are living proof that someone doesn’t need to be the least bit funny to be an utter clown.” A deep glow pulsed beneath my skin. Finally. Turns out that to get this particular set of powers to work, you couldn’t simply fake Connection. You needed an invitation and adoption into a very select group. My only chance had been to find one smart enough to be a member of that group, stupid enough for me to toy with, and sadistic enough to trade membership for the opportunity to see me cursed. “Damn you,” she muttered. My curse was broken. My senses restored. She could see it as easily as I could. I’d won. “Excellent work, cabin boy,” Tress said, still attached to the wall. “We’re going to have to promote you after this.” “Wait…we won?” Salay asked. “Hoid, you’re…um… What are you?” “The term ‘sorcerer’ will do,” I told her. “I have won our bet.” “Wait,” Charlie said from his shoulder. “It was really a bet? You let her curse you for a simple bet?” “Please,” I said. “Was anything about what we just did simple?” The Sorceress waved her hand, dropping Tress from the wall. “Go,” she said. “Before I change my mind.” Fort helped Tress as she stumbled, and she nodded in thanks. Then she turned to the Sorceress. “First,” she said, “end Charlie’s curse.” “I can’t,” the Sorceress said. “I can’t break a curse unless the terms are met. It’s impossible.” Tress looked to me. There were ways, but the Sorceress probably wasn’t capable of them. So I nodded. It was true enough. Tress took a deep breath, then looked back at the Sorceress, her face becoming like steel. “We’re not leaving,” Tress said. “You are.” “Excuse me?” the Sorceress snapped. “You’ve cursed people who only wanted to talk to you,” Tress said. “You’ve taken prisoners, robbed merchants, and destroyed fleets. You are a scourge upon this sea. This planet.” She drew herself up, partially to intimidate the side of her that was shocked by her own audacity. “I demand that you leave this world. Go away, and never return.” “Oh please,” the Sorceress said. “Who
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are you to make demands of me?” In response, Salay and Fort pulled pistols on her. Ann somehow got out three at once. Charlie growled. It wasn’t very intimidating, but it made him feel good to contribute. Tress didn’t bother with a gun. She nudged me. “Cabin boy,” she said, “zap her or something.” “You’re giving me orders?” I said softly. “You’re on my crew, aren’t you?” she said. At least she had the good graces to blush about it. I sighed and, as ordered, stepped forward and raised my hands. I met the Sorceress’s eyes, and knew what she was thinking. She, like most of her kind, was very good at something we call risk/reward projections. She’d come to this planet because nothing here could threaten her. Then she’d found a dragon living here. Then I’d arrived. She might have been able to beat me. Curse me again. But she might not have been able to. Even if the odds were only one in five that she’d lose, you didn’t live long by frequently taking one-in-five chances that you’ll die. And Riina had lived a very, very long time. A short time later, we all stood on the deck of the Crow’s Song, looking up at a twinkling speck of light as it vanished in the sky. The tower was gone, taking the Sorceress with it. I have that effect on people. Stay around too long, and you’ll inevitably envy those who have never met me. Behind us, the Dougs started to whoop and cheer. Fort rolled out something wonderful to drink, which he’d been saving for such an occasion. Ann decided their cannons needed names, much to Laggart’s lamentation. Salay put her hand to her pocket—and the letter from her father—and suffered it all for now. She even let herself enjoy the celebration. Tress stepped up to me, holding Charlie. Who was still a rat. “Is there…nothing you can do?” she asked. “No way to break the curse?” Both of them looked to me with hope in their eyes. “I can’t undo the curse,” I said. “Not at my current skill with the arts. No one can.” “Oh,” Charlie said. “But perhaps,” I said, inspecting the runes I could make out surrounding him, “I can change the parameters a little…” This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. TRESS OF THE EMERALD SEA Copyright © 2023 by Dragonsteel Entertainment, LLC Symbols and illustrations by Howard LyonCopyright © 2023 by Dragonsteel Entertainment, LLC All rights reserved. Edited by Peter Ahlstrom Ebook design by Kristy S. Gilbert A Dragonsteel Press Book Published by Dragonsteel Entertainment, LLC American Fork, UT BrandonSanderson.com Brandon Sanderson®, The Stormlight Archive®, Mistborn®, Cosmere®, Reckoners®, Dragonsteel Entertainment®, and the Dragonsteel logo are registered trademarks of Dragonsteel Entertainment, LLC. ISBN 978-1-938570-34-6 First Edition: January 2023 FOR EMILY Who has all my love Five months later, a ship arrived at the Rock that was not a rock. That ship bumped the
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docks as it slowed, on account of its new apprentice helmsman being inexperienced. Salay’s father looked chagrined, but Salay merely smiled and gave him a few pointers. The ship was not the Crow’s Song. The crew had decided that a fresh start would help them in their new lives, and besides, the captain had wanted a few extra cabins. So after receiving their pardons, they’d sold the old ship and bought a new one. With a brand-new name. The captain soon emerged onto the deck of the Two Cups sporting a long captain’s jacket and a hat with a plume. She made a few hand signs toward the helm—some of the ones Fort had been teaching the crew. Turns out, it’s handy for multiple reasons to be able to communicate with signs on a ship: you can talk to sailors on the rigging or give a direction to the helm without needing to yell over the sounds of the spores or wind. In this case, she congratulated the apprentice helmsman on his first steer into port. Bumps notwithstanding. After that, Tress walked to the rail and took a sip from her cup. One with a butterfly, which had obviously been glued back together after being shattered into many pieces. The captain didn’t mind the breaks. Cups with chips, or dings, or even cracks had stories. She particularly liked the one this cup told. The dockmaster and dock inspector arrived, and Salay soon presented them with quite the royal writ detailing the important nature of this vessel. Single-handedly stopping the Sorceress had earned Tress and the crew a tad more than a pardon. Plus there was the matter of their exclusive ability to trade through the Crimson and Midnight Seas, opening new opportunities with once-distant seas. Every person on that ship would, within a few years, become fantastically wealthy. (I knew them when they were all just Dougs.) The king had of course insisted that he’d always intended for this to happen—that he’d believed in Charlie, and his chosen bride, from the beginning. If that sounds like hypocrisy to you, well, we prefer to call it politics. While the dockmaster and inspector were rereading the writ, Charlie finally emerged on deck. Fully human again. The curse had said he needed to bring the person he loved most to the Sorceress’s home, to be cursed, in exchange for his freedom. My modifications allowed him instead to bring the person he loved to her home, to be versed, in exchange for his freedom. A good, sensible, non-slant rhyme. Tress had left their cabin at his request so he could transform in private. Now he strode out, holding the poem he’d written for her, a stupid grin on his face. She loved that one. Also, the only thing he was wearing was a tiny pirate hat. As he stepped up beside her, she leaned in. “Love,” she whispered, “clothing. Humans wear clothing.” He looked down. “That is going to take getting used to,” he said. “Um…excuse me.” Yes, they stayed together. The two of them had
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both been changed by their journeys—but in complementary ways. Tress remained captain and expert sprouter, while Charlie turned out to be an extremely capable valet and a passable ship’s storyteller and musician, a well-versed man indeed. With a few tips, he wasn’t so boring after all. Secretly, I’ll tell you that you aren’t either. Anyone who tells you otherwise is trying to lower your value. Don’t trust them. They know they can’t afford you otherwise. The crew began to climb from the ship, excited for some shore leave, even if it was on the Rock. They all made an appearance, except for Laggart, who was currently in the brig for starting a bar fight at the last port. You’ll be happy to know that, as I’ve kept track of the crew over the years, even he has shown some growth. It’s beginning to look like instead of following his family’s tradition of being an unpleasant snarl of misery until you get yourself killed, he’s on track to do…well, basically anything else. As Charlie was getting dressed, Tress read his poem, the verse that broke the curse. It is only for her. I’m sorry. Once she looked up, she spotted something exhilarating. Her parents were stumbling down toward the docks, her little brother in tow. Tress’s mother had spent most nights since she’d left watching the sea for any signs, but even with the eventual letters Tress had been able to send, she hadn’t quite believed Tress would return. Neither of them had, until they saw her standing there. Tress strode down onto the dock, then onto the once-familiar stone ground—salty and black. Odd, how foreign the place felt. How could something feel both familiar and foreign? As her family arrived to embrace her though, she discovered that was exquisitely familiar. Not foreign in the least. They’d brought their luggage. And their cabin was ready. She ushered them toward the ship, but was interrupted as the duke arrived at last. Red faced. Bearing his scowl. He had only one, Tress had decided. For while you needed a smile for every occasion, a scowl needed no variety. “What is this?” he said, slapping the writ in his hand. “What have you done?” “I’ve rescued your son. The real one. Not the walking chin with a six-word vocabulary.” “I meant what have you done to the island!” the duke said, gesturing at the king’s words. “Anyone can leave if they want? The island will soon be completely depopulated.” “Read the next part,” she said, and took a sip of her tea, then walked off, not waiting for him. He had to read it several times to put it together. The king had proclaimed that a generous stipend would be paid to anyone who lived and worked on the Rock for twenty years. If you’re so lucky as to get a job on Diggen’s Point, you’ll retire with a sizable nest egg. But be warned, positions there are hard to come by these days. No one wants to leave. The beer is great, the company passable,
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and the pay…well, it makes up for the rest. Tress stepped back onto the deck of her ship, meeting a newly beclothed Charlie. She nodded down toward his father on the dock. “Want to say hello?” “No thank you,” Charlie said. “Did you leave Mother’s letter?” (The duchess, it should be noted, had moved away from the island—and more importantly from her husband—several months before. Turns out that abandoning your only son to certain doom is not a path to a healthy marriage.) “It’s in the stack,” Tress said. “He’ll find it, assuming he bothers to keep reading. Ah, look. He’s scowling again.” “Life is easier for him that way,” Charlie said. “He only has to maintain one expression.” He wrapped his arms around her and put his head on her shoulder. “It’s going to be annoying to no longer have fur, but the other perks are certainly going to outweigh that loss.” “I wonder,” she said idly, resting her hand on his as he held her, “if there’s a maritime law against a captain dating her valet. What will people say?” “They will say,” he replied softly, “what a lucky, lucky man he is.” They didn’t stay long. Just enough time to gather some supplies and for Tress to give another thanks to those who had helped her escape all those months ago. And then the ship left to sail the ocean with a girl and a rat on board. The rat, it turns out, was not actually a rat. In more ways than one. The girl, you may have discovered, was not actually a girl. She was seven ways a woman, regardless of her age. The ocean, however, was now as you hopefully imagine it. Assuming you imagine it as emerald green, made up of spores, and bearing endless possibilities. THE END I’m certain this Kickstarter campaign will become a defining moment of my career. So it’s strange to think of how humble its beginnings were. As is usual for me, the book was born out of a mashup of a couple of ideas. Stories grow out of the friction points between thoughts, like mountains being pushed up by tectonic movement. The first idea for this one is probably obvious: I wanted to do a full-length story told in Hoid’s voice. Someday I’m going to write Hoid’s backstory, and I wanted to get fluent and practiced at writing from his viewpoint. I don’t think this voice (the way he tells a story like this) will be where I land for his own story—that will need to be more raw, less whimsical. However, I wanted to start with a book that felt like one he’d tell—a full-length version of something like “Wandersail” or “The Dog and the Dragon.” So, I knew this book would have one foot in a whimsical space. I didn’t want a fairy tale, but I wanted something adjacent. However, I also didn’t want it to be too childlike. I wanted something my fans would enjoy: a grown-up fairy tale, so to speak. And so, my mind went
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to William Goldman’s incredible book The Princess Bride. It’s the closest thing I know of to the tone I was trying for. (Though Good Omens by the late Sir Terry Pratchett and Neil Gaiman is another really good comparison book for what I wanted to accomplish.) I showed the film of The Princess Bride to my family during the COVID-19 lockdown. I didn’t know at the time that I’d end up writing this book; I wasn’t really even thinking about doing so. I was just tinkering in the back of my head with ideas—as I often do. Usually they take years or decades to mature. The film holds up wonderfully, of course, though one thing has always bothered me. The princess who the book and film are both named after just...doesn’t get to do much. My wife, Emily, noticed the same thing, and mentioned after the film something along the lines of, “What would that story have been like if Buttercup had gone searching for Westley, instead of immediately giving him up for dead?” And that was my seed. The idea that started worming about and growing like verdant aether in my brain. Oh, I should mention the aethers. For years, I’d been thinking of a world where people sailed on oceans of something that wasn’t water. (Non-liquid oceans are something my brain keeps going to.) I started with people just skidding across the surface, pulled by kites. That wasn’t working, but then I remembered the process of fluidization, where sand becomes like a liquid when air is pushed through it from below. This landed me on my oceans. But for a worldbuilding element like this, I want it to be more relevant than just a substance swap. If there are oceans of spores, but they behave exactly like water, then what’s the point? It’s a cool visual—and that is sometimes enough. But I wanted something that really affected the story. So, I reached back to an idea I’d had some twenty-five years ago—a group of primal elements known as aethers. I’d hinted at their existence in the Cosmere; mentions or Easter eggs about them show up in other Cosmere novels. This felt like the right time to introduce them, and their explosive potential. There will be more talk of aethers in the future, as this isn’t the primary planet they originate upon. The idea of spores that react to water in dangerous ways making up these oceans gave me just the hook I needed for the setting. And thus I had three pieces. A magic system, evoking an entire setting. A tone, as a story told by Hoid. And a plot: a quest to save a loved one who had vanished at sea. But what about the character? Well, in this case I did what I often do. I started writing. And I explored who this young woman would be. I like to discover characters, and build the story around their choices. I probably shouldn’t have done what I did, which was start writing this book in secret. Telling nobody, even
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saving the files in a hidden place on the cloud where my team couldn’t see them. But I wanted something that was just for me and for my wife. Something I could share with her, and not worry about deadlines or expectations. I just wanted to write, free of business constraints or fan expectations. To see where the story took me, and build something like I did long ago, in the days before I had quite so many constraints. I kept it hidden for almost two years, shared only with Emily. But now I have given it to you as well. I hope that you enjoyed the journey, and will join me for the next three of these projects—which are each unique in their own way. Brandon Sanderson Elantris Brandon Sanderson PROLOGUE ELANTRIS was beautiful, once. It was called the city of the gods: a place of power, radiance, and magic. Visitors say that the very stones glowed with an inner light, and that the city contained wondrous arcane marvels. At night, Elantris shone like a great silvery fire, visible even from a great distance. Yet, as magnificent as Elantris was, its inhabitants were more so. Their hair a brilliant white, their skin an almost metallic silver, the Elantrians seemed to shine like the city itself. Legends claim that they were immortal, or at least nearly so. Their bodies healed quickly, and they were blessed with great strength, insight, and speed. They could perform magics with a bare wave of the hand: men visited Elantris from all across Opelon to receive Elantrian healings, food, or wisdom. They were divinities. And anyone could become one. The Shaod, it was called. The Transformation. It struck randomly-usually at night, during the mysterious hours when life slowed to rest. The Shaod could take beggar, craftsman, nobleman, or warrior. When it came, the fortunate person's life ended and began anew; he would discard his old, mundane existence, and move to Elantris. Elantris, where he could live in bliss, rule in wisdom, and be worshipped for eternity. Eternity ended ten years ago. CHAPTER 1 PRINCE Raoden of Arelon awoke early that morning, completely unaware that he had been damned for all eternity. Still drowsy, Raoden sat up, blinking in the soft morning light. Just outside his open balcony windows he could see the enormous city of Elantris in the distance, its stark walls casting a deep shadow over the smaller city of Kae, where Raoden lived. Elantris's walls were incredibly high, but Raoden could see the tops of black towers rising behind them, their broken spires a clue to the fallen majesty hidden within. The abandoned city seemed darker than usual. Raoden stared at it for a moment, then glanced away. The huge Elantrian walls were impossible to ignore, but people of Kae tried very hard to do just that. It was painful to remember the city's beauty, to wonder how ten years ago the blessing of the Shaod had become a curse instead.... Raoden shook his head, climbing out of bed. It was unusually warm for such
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an early hour; he didn't feel even a bit chilly as he threw on his robe, then pulled the servant's cord beside his bed, indicating that he wanted breakfast. That was another odd thing. He was hungry-very hungry. Almost ravenous. He had never liked large breakfasts, but this morning he found himself waiting impatiently for his meal to arrive. Finally, he decided to send someone to see what was taking so long. “Ien?” he called in the unlit chambers. There was no response. Raoden frowned slightly at the Seon's absence. Where could Ien be? Raoden stood, and as he did, his eyes fell on Elantris again. Resting in the great city's shadow, Kae seemed like an insignificant village by comparison. Elantris. An enormous, ebony block-not really a city anymore, just the corpse of one. Raoden shivered slightly. A knock came at his door. “Finally.” Raoden said, walking over to pull open the door. Old Elao stood outside with a tray of fruit and warm bread. The tray dropped to the ground with a crash, slipping from the stunned maid's fingers even as Raoden reached out to accept it. Raoden froze, the tray's metallic ring echoing through the silent morning hallway. “Merciful Domi!” Elao whispered, her eyes horrified and her hand trembling as she reached up to grab the Korathi pendant at her neck. Raoden reached out, but the maid took a quivering step away, stumbling on a small melon in her haste to escape. “What?” Raoden asked. Then he saw his hand. What had been hidden in the shadows of his darkened room was now illuminated by the hallway's flickering lantern. Raoden turned, throwing furniture out of his way as he stumbled to the tall mirror at the side of his chambers. The dawn's light had grown just strong enough for him to see the reflection that stared back at him. A stranger's reflection. His blue eyes were the same, though they were wide with terror. His hair, however, had changed from sandy brown to limp gray. The skin was the worst. The mirrored face was covered with sickly black patches, like dark bruises. The splotches could mean only one thing. The Shaod had come upon him. The Elantris city gate boomed shut behind him with a shocking sound of finality. Raoden slumped against it, thoughts numbed by the day's events. It was as if his memories belonged to another person. His father, King Iadon, hadn't met Raoden's gaze as he ordered the priests to prepare his son and throw him into Elantris. It had been done swiftly and quietly: Iadon couldn't afford to let it be known that the crown prince was an Elantrian. Ten years ago, the Shaod would have made Raoden a god. Now, instead of making people into silver-skinned deities, it changed them into sickly monstrosities. Raoden shook his head in disbelief. The Shaod was a thing that happened to other people-distant people. People who deserved to be cursed. Not the crown prince of Arelon. Not Raoden. The city of Elantris stretched out before him. Its high walls
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were lined with guardhouses and soldiers-men intended not to keep enemies out of the city, but to keep its inhabitants from escaping. Since the Reod,1 every person taken by the Shaod had been thrown into Elantris to rot: the fallen city had become an expansive tomb for those whose bodies had forgotten how to die. Raoden could remember standing on those walls, looking down on Elantris's dread inhabitants, just as the guards now looked down on him. The city had seemed far away then, even though he had been standing just outside of it. He had wondered, philosophically, what it would be like to walk those blackened streets. Now he was going to find out. Raoden pushed against the gate for a moment, as if to force his body through, to cleanse his flesh of its taint. He lowered his head, releasing a quiet moan. He felt like curling into a ball on the grimy stones and waiting until he woke from this dream. Except, he knew he would never awaken. The priests said that this nightmare would never end. But, somewhere, something within urged him forward. He knew he had to keep moving-for if he stopped, he feared he'd simply give up. The Shaod had taken his body. He couldn't let it take his mind as well. So, using his pride like a shield against despair, dejection, and-most important-self-pity, Raoden raised his head to stare damnation in the eyes. Before, when Raoden had stood on the walls of Elantris to look down-both literally and figuratively-on its inhabitants, he had seen the filth that covered the city. Now he stood in it. Every surface-from the walls of the buildings to the numerous cracks in the cobblestones-was coated with a patina of grime. The slick, oily substance had an equalizing effect on Elantris's colors, blending them all into a single, depressing hue-a color that mixed the pessimism of black with the polluted greens and browns of sewage. Before, Raoden had been able to see a few of the city's inhabitants. Now he could hear them as well. A dozen or so Elantrians lay scattered across the courtyard's fetid cobblestones. Many sat uncaringly, or unknowingly, in pools of dark water, the remains of the night's rainstorm. And they were moaning. Most of them were quiet about it, mumbling to themselves or whimpering with some unseen pain. One woman at the far end of the courtyard, however, screamed with a sound of raw anguish. She fell silent after a moment, her breath or her strength giving out. Most of them wore what looked like rags-dark, loose-fitting garments that were as soiled as the streets. Looking closely, however, Raoden recognized the clothing. He glanced down at his own white burial cloths. They were long and flowing, like ribbons sewn together into a loose robe. The linen on his arms and legs was already stained with grime from brushing up against the city gate and stone pillars. Raoden suspected they would soon be indistinguishable from the other Elantrians' garb. This is what I will become, Raoden thought.
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It has already begun. In a few weeks I will be nothing more than a dejected body, a corpse whimpering in the corner. A slight motion on the other side of the courtyard brought Raoden out of his self-pity. Some Elantrians were crouching in a shadowed doorway across from him. He couldn't make out much from their silhouetted forms, but they seemed to be waiting for something. He could feel their eyes on him. Raoden raised an arm to shade his eyes, and only then did he remember the small thatch basket in his hands. It held the ritual Korathi sacrifice sent with the dead into the next life-or, in this case, into Elantris. The basket contained a loaf of bread, a few thin vegetables, a handful of grain, and a small flask of wine. Normal death sacrifices were far more extensive, but even a victim of the Shaod had to be given something. Raoden glanced back at the figures in the doorway, his mind flashing to rumors he'd heard on the outside-stories of Elantrian brutality. The shadowed figures had yet to move, but their study of him was unnerving. Taking a deep breath, Raoden took a step to the side, moving along the city wall toward the east side of the courtyard. The forms still seemed to be watching him, but they didn't follow. In a moment, he could no longer see through the doorway, and a second later he had safely passed into one of the side streets. Raoden released his breath, feeling that he had escaped something, though he didn't know what. After a few moments, he was certain that no one followed, and he began to feel foolish for his alarm. So far, he had yet to see anything that corroborated the rumors about Elantris. Raoden shook his head and continued moving. The stench was almost overwhelming. The omnipresent sludge had a musty, rotten scent, like that of dying fungus. Raoden was so bothered by the smell that he nearly stepped directly on the gnarled form of an old man huddled next to a building's wall. The man moaned piteously, reaching up with a thin arm. Raoden looked down, and felt a sudden chill. The “old man' was no more than sixteen years old. The creature's soot-covered skin was dark and spotted, but his face was that of a child, not a man. Raoden took an involuntary step backward. The boy, as if realizing that his chance would soon pass, stretched his arm forward with the sudden strength of desperation. “Food?” he mumbled through a mouth only half full of teeth. “Please?” Then the arm fell, its endurance expended, and the body slumped back against the cold stone wall. His eyes, however, continued to watch Raoden. Sorrowful, pained eyes. Raoden had seen beggars before in the Outer Cities, and he had probably been fooled by charlatans a number of times. This boy, however, was not faking. Raoden reached up and pulled the loaf of bread from his sacrificial offerings, then handed it to the boy. The look of
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disbelief that ran across the boy's face was somehow more disturbing than the despair it had replaced. This creature had given up hope long ago; he probably begged out of habit rather than expectation. Raoden left the boy behind, turning to continue down the small street. He had hoped that the city would grow less gruesome as he left the main courtyard-thinking, perhaps, that the dirt was a result of the area's relatively frequent use. He had been wrong; the alley was covered with just as much filth as the courtyard, if not more. A muffled thump sounded from behind. Raoden turned with surprise. A group of dark forms stood near the mouth of the side street, huddled around an object on the ground. The beggar. Raoden watched with a shiver as five men devoured his loaf of bread, fighting among themselves and ignoring the boy's despairing cries. Eventually, one of the n1ewcomers-obviously annoyed-brought a makeshift club down on the boy's head with a crunch that resounded through the small alley. The men finished the bread, then turned to regard Raoden. He took an apprehensive step backward; it appeared that he had been hasty in assuming he hadn't been followed. The five men slowly stalked forward, and Raoden spun, taking off at a run. Sounds of pursuit came from behind. Raoden scrambled away in fear-something that, as a prince, he had never needed to do before. He ran madly, expecting his breath to run short and a pain to stab him in the side, as usually happened when he overextended himself. Neither occurred. Instead, he simply began to feel horribly tired, weak to the point that he knew he would soon collapse. It was a harrowing feeling, as if his life were slowly seeping away. Desperate, Raoden tossed the sacrificial basket over his head. The awkward motion threw him off balance, and an unseen schism in the cobblestones sent him into a maladroit skip that didn't end until he collided with a rotting mass of wood. The wood-which might once have been a pile of crates-squished, breaking his fall. Raoden sat up quickly, the motion tossing shreds of wood pulp across the damp alleyway. His assailants, however, were no longer concerned with him. The five men crouched in the street's muck, picking scattered vegetables and grain off the cobblestones and out of the dark pools. Raoden felt his stomach churn as one of the men slid his finger down a crack, scraped up a dark handful that was more sludge than corn, then rammed the entire mass between eager lips. Brackish spittle dribbled down the man's chin, dropping from a mouth that resembled a mud-filled pot boiling on the stove. One man saw Raoden watching. The creature growled, reaching down to grab the almost-forgotten cudgel at his side. Raoden searched frantically for a weapon, finding a length of wood that was slightly less rotten than the rest. He held the weapon in uncertain hands, trying to project an air of danger. The thug paused. A second later, a cry of joy from
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behind drew his attention: one of the others had located the tiny skin of wine. The struggle that ensued apparently drove all thoughts of Raoden From the men's minds, and the five were soon gone-four chasing after the one who had been fortunate, or foolish, enough to escape with the precious liquor. Raoden sat in the debris, overwhelmed. This is what you will become. . . . “Looks like they forgot about you, sule,” a voice observed. Raoden jumped, looking toward the sound of the voice. A man, his smooth bald head reflecting the morning light, reclined lazily on a set of steps a short distance away. He was definitely an Elantrian, but before the transformation he must have been of a different race-not from Arelon, like Raoden. The man's skin bore the telltale black splotches of the Shaod, but the unaffected patches weren't pale, they were a deep brown instead. Raoden tensed against possible danger, but this man showed no signs of the primal wildness or the decrepit weakness Raoden had seen in the others. Tall and firm-framed, the man had wide hands and keen eyes set in a dark-skinned face. He studied Raoden with a thoughtful attitude. Raoden breathed a sigh of relief. “Whoever you are. I'm glad to see you. I was beginning to think everyone in here was either dying or insane.” “We can't be dying,” the man responded with a snort. “We're already dead, Kolo?” “Kolo.” The foreign word was vaguely familiar, as was the man's strong accent. “You're not from Arelon?” The man shook his head. “I'm Galladon, from the sovereign realm of Duladel. I'm most recently from Elantris, land of sludge, insanity, and eternal perdition. Nice to meet you.” “Duladel?” Raoden said. “But the Shaod only affects people from Arelon.” He picked himself up, brushing away pieces of wood in various stages of decomposition, grimacing at the pain in his stubbed toe. He was covered with slime, and the raw stench of Elantris now rose from him as well. “Duladel is of mixed blood, sule. Arelish, Fjordell, Teoish-you'll find them all. I-” Raoden cursed quietly, interrupting the man. Galladon raised an eyebrow. “What is it, stile? Get a splinter in the wrong place? There aren't many right places for that, I suppose.” “It's my toe!” Raoden said, limping across the slippery cobblestones. “There's something wrong with it-I stubbed it when I fell, but the pain isn't going away.” Galladon shook his head ruefully. “Welcome to Elantris, sule. You're dead-your body won't repair itself like it should.” “What?” Raoden flopped to the ground next to Galladon's steps. His toe continued to hurt with a pain as sharp as the moment he stubbed it. “Every pain, sule,” Galladon whispered. “Every cut, every nick, every bruise, and every ache-they will stay with you until you go mad from the suffering. As I said, welcome to Elantris.” “How do you stand it?” Raoden asked, massaging his toe, an action that didn't help. It was such a silly little injury, but he had to fight to keep the pained tears
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from his eyes. “We don't. We're either very careful, or we end up like those rulos you saw in the courtyard.” “In the courtyard.... Idos Domi!” Raoden pulled himself to his feet and hobbled toward the courtyard. He found the beggar boy in the same location, near the mouth of the alley. He was still alive ... in a way. The boy's eyes stared blankly into the air, the pupils quivering. His lips worked silently, no sound escaping. The boy's neck had been completely crushed, and there was a massive gash in its side, exposing the vertebrae and throat. The boy tried without success to breathe through the mess. Suddenly Raoden's toe didn't seem so bad. “Idos Domi .” Raoden whispered, turning his head as his stomach lurched. He reached out and grabbed the side of a buiIding to steady himself, his head bowed, as he tried to keep from adding to t1he sludge on the cobblestones. “There isn't much left for this one,” Galladon said with a matter-of-fact tone, crouching down next to the beggar. “How ?” Raoden began, then stopped as his stomach threatened him again. He sat down in the slime with a plop and, after a few deep breaths, continued. “How long will he live like that?” “You still don't understand, sule.” Galladon said, his accented voice sorrowful. “He isn't alive-none of us are. That's why we're here. Kolo? The boy will stay like this forever. That is, after all, the typical length of eternal damnation.” “Is there nothing we can do?” Galladon shrugged. “We could try burning him, assuming we could make a fire. Elantrian bodies seem to burn better than those of regular people, and some think that's a fitting death for our kind.” “And ...” Raoden said, still unable to look at the boy. “And if we do that, what happens to him-his soul?” “He doesn't have a soul,” Galladon said. “Or so the priests tell us. Korathi, Derethi, Jesker-they all say the same thing. We're damned.” “That doesn't answer my question. Will the pain stop if he is burned?” Galladon looked down at the boy. Eventually, he just shrugged. “Some say that if you burn us, or cut off our head, or do anything that completely destroys the body, we'll just stop existing. Others, they say the pain goes on-that we become pain. They think we'd float thoughtlessly, unable to feel anything but agony. I don't like either option, so I just try to keep myself in one piece. Kolo?” “Yes,” Raoden whispered. “I kolo.” He turned, finally getting the courage to look back at the wounded boy. The enormous gash stared back at him. Blood seeped slowly from the wound-as if the liquid were just sitting in the veins, like stagnant water in a pool. With a sudden chill Raoden reached up and felt his chest. “I don't have a heartbeat,” he realized for the first time. Galladon looked at Raoden as if he had made an utterly idiotic statement. “Stile, you're dead. Kolo?” They didn't burn the boy. Not only did they
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lack the proper implements to make fire, but Galladon forbade it. “We can't make a decision like that. What if he really has no soul? What if he stopped existing when we burned his body? To many, an existence of agony is better than no existence at all.” So, they left the boy where he had fallen-Galladon doing so without a second thought, Raoden following because he couldn't think of anything else to do, though he felt the pain of guilt more sharply than even the pain in his toe. Galladon obviously didn't care whether Raoden followed him, went in another direction, or stood staring at an interesting spot of grime on the wall. The large, dark-skinned man walked back the way they had come, passing the occasional moaning body in a gutter, his back turned toward Raoden with a posture of complete indifference. Watching the Dula go, Raoden tried to gather his thoughts. He had been trained for a life in politics; years of preparation had conditioned him to make quick decisions. He made one just then. He decided to trust Galladon. There was something innately likable about the Dula, something Raoden found indefinably appealing, even if it was covered by a grime of pessimism as thick as the slime on the ground. It was more than Galladon's lucidity, more than just his leisurely attitude. Raoden had seen the man's eyes when he regarded the suffering child. Galladon claimed to accept the inevitable, but he felt sad that he had to do so. The Dula found his former perch on the steps and settled back down. Taking a determined breath, Raoden walked over and stood expectantly in front of the man. Galladon glanced up. “What?” “I need your help, Galladon,” Raoden said, squatting on the ground in front of the steps. Galladon snorted. “This is Elantris, sule. There's no such thing as help. Pain, insanity, and a whole lot of slime are the only things you'll find here.” “You almost sound like you believe that.” “You are asking in the wrong place, sule.” “You're the only noncomatose person I've met in here who hasn't attacked me,” Raoden said. “Your actions speak much more convincingly than your words.” “Perhaps I simply haven't tried to hurt you because I know you don't have anything to take.” “I don't believe that.” Galladon shrugged an “I don't care what you believe” shrug and turned away, leaning back against the side of the building and closing his eyes. “Are you hungry, Galladon?” Raoden asked quietly. The man's eyes snapped open. “I used to wonder when King Iadon fed the Elantrians,” Raoden mused. “I never heard of any supplies entering the city, but I always assumed that they were sent. After all, I thought, the Elantrians stay alive. I never understood. If the people of this city can exist without heartbeats, then they can probably exist without food. Of course, that doesn't mean the hunger goes away. I was ravenous when I awoke this morning, and I still am. From the looks in the eyes of those
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men who attacked me, I'd guess the hunger only gets worse.” Raoden reached under his grime-stained sacrificial robe, pulling out a thin object and holding it up for Galladon to see. A piece of dried meat. Galladon's eyes opened all the way, his face changing from bored to interested. There was a glint in his eyes-a bit of the same wildness that Raoden had seen in the savage men earlier. It was more controlled, but it was there. For the first time, Raoden realized just how much he was gambling on his first impression of the Dula. “Where did that come from?” Galladon asked slowly. “It fell out of my basket when the priests were leading me here, so I stuffed it under my sash. Do you want it or not?” Galladon didn't answer for a moment. “What makes you think I won't simply attack you and take it?” The words were not hypothetical: Raoden could tell that a part of Galladon was actually considering such an action. How large a part was still indeterminable. “You called me 'sule,' Galladon. How could you kill one you've dubbed a friend?” Galladon sat, transfixed by the tiny piece of meat. A thin drop of spittle ran unnoticed from the side of his mouth. He looked up at Raoden, who was growing increasingly anxious. When their eyes met, something sparked in Galladon, and the tension snapped. The Dula suddenly bellowed a deep, resounding laugh. “You speak Duladen, sule?” “Only a few words.” Raoden said modestly. “An educated man? Rich offerings for Elantris today! All right, you conniving rulo, what do you want?” “Thirty days,” Raoden said. “For thirty days you will show me around and tell me what you know.” “Thirty days? Sule, you're kayana.” “The way I see it,” Raoden said, moving to tuck the meat back in his sash, “the only food that ever enters this place arrives with the newcomers. One must get pretty hungry with so few offerings and so many mouths to feed. One would think the hunger would be almost maddening.” “Twenty days,” Galladon said, a hint of his former intensity showing again. “Thirty, Galladon. If you won't help me, someone else will.” Galladon ground his teeth for a moment. “Rulo,” he muttered, then held out his hand. “Thirty days. Fortunately, I wasn't planning any extended trips during the next month.” Raoden tossed him the meat with a laugh. Galladon snatched the meat. Then, though his hand jerked reflexively toward his mouth, he stopped. With a careful motion he tucked the meat into a pocket and stood up. “So, what should I call you?” Raoden paused. Probably best if people don't know I'm royalty, for now. “Sule works just fine for me.” Galladon chuckled. “The private type, I see. Well, let's go then. It's time for you to get the grand tour.” CHAPTER 2 Sarene stepped off of the ship to discover that she was a widow. It was shocking news, of course, but not as devastating as it could have been. After all, she had never met her
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husband. In fact, when Sarene had left her homeland, she and Raoden had only been engaged. She had assumed that the kingdom of Arelon would wait to hold the wedding until she actually arrived. Where she came from, at least, it was expected that both partners would be present when they were married. “I never liked that clause in the wedding contract, my lady,” said Sarene's companion—a melon-sized ball of light hovering at her side. Sarene tapped her foot in annoyance as she watched the packmen load her luggage onto a carriage. The wedding contract had been a fifty-page beast of a document, and one of its many stipulations made her betrothal legally binding if either she or her fiancé died before the actual wedding ceremony. “It's fairly common clause, Ashe,” she said. “That way, the treaty of a political marriage isn't voided if something happens to one of the participants. I've never seen it invoked.” “Until today,” the ball of light replied, its voice deep words and well-enunciated. “Until today,” Sarene admitted. “How was I to know Prince Raoden wouldn't last the five days it took us to cross the Sea of Fjorden?” She paused, frowning in thought. “Quote the clause to me, Ashe. I need to know exactly what it says.” “'If it happens that one member of the aforementioned couple is called home to Merciful Domi before the prearranged wedding time,'“ Ashe said, “'then the engagement will be considered equivalent to marriage in all legal and social respects.'“ “Not much room for argument, is there?” “Afraid not, my lady.” Sarene frowned distractedly, folding her arms and tapping her cheek with her index finger, watching the packmen. A tall, gaunt man directed the work with bored eyes and a resigned expression. The man, an Arelish court attendant named Ketol, was the only reception King Iadon had seen fit to send her. Ketol had been the one to “regretfully inform her” that her fiancé had “died of an unexpected disease during her journey.” He had made the declaration with the same dull, uninterested tone that he used to command the packmen. “So,” Sarene clarified, “as far as the law is concerned, I'm now a princess of Arelon.” “That is correct, my lady.” “And the widowed bride of a man I never met.” “Again, correct.” Sarene shook her head. “Father is going to laugh himself sick when he hears about this. I'll never live it down.” Ashe pulsed slightly in annoyance. “My lady, the king would never take such a solemn event with levity. The death of Prince Raoden has undoubtedly brought great grief to the sovereign family of Arelon.” “Yes. So much grief, in fact, that they couldn't even spare the effort it would take to come meet their new daughter.” “Perhaps, my lady,” Ashe noted, “King Iadon would have come himself if he'd had had more warning of our arrival. . . .” Sarene frowned, but the Seon had a point. Her early arrival, several days ahead of the main wedding party, had been intended as a pre-wedding surprise for
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Prince Raoden. She'd wanted a few1 days, at least, to spend time with him privately and in person. Her secrecy, however, had worked against her. “Tell me, Ashe,” she said. “How long do Arelish people customarily wait between a person's death and their burial?” “I'm not sure, my lady,” Ashe confessed. “I left Arelon long ago, and I lived here for such a short time that I can't remember many specifics. However, my studies tell me that Arelish customs are generally similar to those of your homeland.” Sarene nodded, then waved over King Iadon's attendant. “Yes, my lady?” Ketol asked in a lazy tone. “Is a funeral wake being held for the prince?” Sarene asked. “Yes, my lady,” the attendant replied. “Outside the Korathi chapel. The burial will happen this evening.” “I want to go see the casket.” Ketol paused. “Uh . . . his majesty asked that you be brought to him immediately. . . .” “Then I won't spend long at the funeral tent,” Sarene said, walking toward her carriage. Sarene surveyed the busy funeral tent with a critical eye, waiting as Ketol and a few of the packmen cleared a way for her to approach the casket. She had to admit, everything was irreproachable—the flowers, the offerings, the praying Korathi priests. The only oddity about the event was how crowded the tent was. “There certainly are a lot of people here,” she noted to Ashe. “The prince was very well liked, my lady,” the Seon replied, floating beside her. “According to our reports, he was the most popular public figure in the country.” Sarene nodded, walking down the passageway Ketol had made for her. Prince Raoden's casket sat at the very center of the tent, guarded by a ring of soldiers who only let the masses approach so far. As she walked, she sensed true grief in the faces of those in attendance. So it is true, she thought. The people did love him. The soldiers made way for her, and she approached the casket. It was carved with Aons—most of them symbols of hope and peace—after the Korathi way. The entire wooden casket was surrounded by a ring of lavish foods—an offering made on behalf of the deceased. “Can I see him?” she asked, turning toward one of the Korathi priests—a small, kindly-looking man. “I'm sorry, child,” the priest said. “But the prince's disease was unpleasantly disfiguring. The king has asked that the prince be allowed dignity in death.” Sarene nodded, turning back to the casket. She wasn't sure what she had expected to feel, standing before the dead man she would have married. She was oddly . . . angry. She pushed that emotion away for the moment, instead turning to look around the tent. It almost seemed too formal. Though1 the visiting people were obviously grieved, there tent, the offerings, and the decorations seemed sterile. A man of Raoden's age and supposed vigor, she thought. Dead of the coughing shivers. It could happen—but it certainly doesn't seem likely. “My . . . lady?” Ashe said quietly.
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“Is something wrong?” Sarene waved to the Seon and walked back toward their carriage. “I don't know,” she said quietly. “Something just doesn't feel right here, Ashe.” “You have a suspicious nature, my lady,” Ashe pointed out. “Why isn't Iadon having a vigil for his son? Ketol said he was holding court, as if his own son's death didn't even bother him.” Sarene shook her head. “I spoke with Raoden just before I left Teod, and he seemed fine. Something is wrong, Ashe, and I want to know what it is.” “Oh, dear . . .” Ashe said. “You know, my lady, your father did ask me to try and keep you out of trouble.” Sarene smiled. “Now there's an impossible task. Come on, we need to go meet my new father.” Sarene leaned against the carriage window, watching the city pass as she rode toward the palace. She sat in silence for the moment, a single thought crowding everything else out of her mind. What am I doing here? Her words to Ashe had been confident, but she had always been good at hiding her worries. True, she was curious about the prince's death, but Sarene knew herself very well. A large part of that curiosity was an attempt to take her mind off of her feelings of inferiority and awkwardness—anything to keep from acknowledging what she was: a lanky, brusque woman who was almost past her prime. She was twenty-five years old; she should have been married years ago. Raoden had been her last chance. How dare you die on me, prince of Arelon! Sarene thought indignantly. Yet, the irony did not escape her. It was fitting that this man, one she had thought she might actually grow to like, would die before she even got to meet him. Now she was alone in an unfamiliar country, politically bound to a king she did not trust. It was a daunting, lonely feeling. You've been lonely before, Sarene, she reminded herself. You'll get through it. Just find something to occupy your mind. You have an entire new court to explore. Enjoy it. With a sigh, Sarene turned her attention back to the city. Despite considerable experience serving in her father's diplomatic corps, she had never visited Arelon. Ever since the fall of Elantris, Arelon had been unofficially quarantined by most other kingdoms—no one knew why the mystical city had been cursed, and everyone worried that the Elantrian disease might spread. Sarene was surprised, however, by the lushness she saw in Kae. The city thoroughfares were wide and well-maintained. The people on the street were well-dressed, and she didn't see a single beggar. To one side, a group of blue-robed Korathi priests walked quietly through the crowd, leading an odd, white-robed person. She watched the procession, wondering what it could be, until the group disappeared around a corner. From her vantage, Kae reflected none of the economic hardship Arelon was supposed to be suffering. The carriage passed dozens of fenced-in mansions, each one built in a different style of architecture. Some were
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expansive, with large wings and pointed roofs, following Duladen construction. Others were more like castles, their stone walls looking as if they had been directly transported from the militaristic countryside of Fjorden. The mansions all shared one thing, however—wealth. The people of this country might be starving, but Kae—seat of Arelon's aristocracy—didn't appear to have noticed. Of course, one disturbing shadow still hung over the city. The enormous wall of Elantris rose in the distance, and Sarene shivered as she glanced at its stark imposing stones. She had heard stories about Elantris for most of her adult life, tales of the magics it had once produced, and the monstrosities that now inhabited its dark streets. No matter how gaudy the houses, no matter how wealthy the streets, this one monument stood as a testament that all was not well in Arelon. “Why do they even live here, I wonder?” Sarene asked. “My lady?” Ashe asked. “Why did King Iadon build his palace in Kae? Why choose a city that is so close to Elantris?” “I suspect the reasons are primarily economic, my lady,” Ashe said. “There are only a couple of viable ports on the northern Arelish coast, and this is the finest.” Sarene nodded—the bay formed by the merging of the Aredel River with the ocean made for an enviable harbor. But even still . . . “Perhaps the reasons are political,” Sarene mused. “Iadon took power during turbulent times—maybe he thinks that remaining close to the old capital will lend him authority.” “Perhaps, my lady,” Ashe said. It's not like it really matters that much, she thought. Apparently, proximity to Elantris—or Elantrians—didn't actually increase one's chances of being taken by the Shaod. She turned away from the window, looking over at Ashe, who hovered above the seat beside her. She had yet to see a Seon in the streets of Kae, though the creatures—said to be the ancient creations of Elantris magic—were supposed to be even more common in Arelon than in her homeland. If she squinted, she could barely make out the glowing Aon at the center of Ashe's light. “At least the treaty is safe,” Sarene finally said. “Assuming you remain in Arelon, my lady,” Ashe said in his deep voice, “at least, that is what the wedding contract says. As long as you stay here, and 'remain faithful to your husband,' King Iadon must honor his alliance with Teod.” “Remain faithful to a dead man,” Sarene mumbled with a sigh. “Well, that means I have to stay, husband or no husband.” “If you say so, my lady.” “We need this treaty, Ashe,” Sarene said. “Fjorden is expanding its influence at an incredible rate. Five years ago I would h1ave said we didn't need to worry, that Fjorden's priests would never be a power in Arelon. But now . . .” Sarene shook her head. The collapse of the Duladen Republic had changed so much. “We shouldn't have kept ourselves so removed from Arelon these last ten years, Ashe,” she said. “I probably wouldn't be in this predicament
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if we had forged strong ties with the new Arelish government ten years ago.” “Your father was afraid their political turmoil would infect Teod,” Ashe said. “Not to mention the Reod—no one was certain that whatever struck the Elantrians wouldn't affect normal people as well.” The carriage slowed, and Sarene sighed, letting the topic drop. Her father knew Fjorden was a danger, and he understood that old allegiances needed to be reforged—that was why she was in Arelon. Ahead of them, the palace gates swung open. Friendless or not, she had arrived, and Teod was depending on her. She had to prepare Arelon for the war that was coming—a war that had become inevitable the moment Elantris fell. Sarene's new father, King Iadon of Arelon, was a thin man with a shrewd face. He was conferring with several of his administrators when Sarene entered the throne room, and she stood unnoticed for nearly fifteen minutes before he even nodded to her. Personally, she didn't mind the wait—it gave her a chance to observe the man she was now sworn to obey—but her dignity couldn't help being a little offended by the treatment. Her station as a princess of Teod alone should have earned her a reception that was, if not grand, at least punctual. As she waited, one thing struck her immediately. Iadon did not look like a man mourning the passing of his son and heir. There were no signs of grief in his eyes, none of the haggard fatigue that generally accompanied the passing of a loved one. In fact, the air of the court itself seemed remarkably free of mourning signs. Is Iadon a heartless man, then? Sarene wondered curiously. Or is he simply one who knows how to control his emotions? Years spent in her father's court had taught Sarene to be a connoisseur of noble character. Though she couldn't hear what Iadon was saying—she had been told to stay near the back of the room and wait for permission to approach—the king's actions and mannerisms gave her an idea of his character. Iadon spoke firmly, giving direct instruction, occasionally pausing to stab his table-map with a thin finger. He was a man with a strong personality, she decided—one with a definite idea of how he wanted things done. It wasn't a bad sign. Tentatively, Sarene decided that this was a man with whom she might be able to work. She was to revise that opinion shortly. King Iadon waved her over. She carefully hid her annoyance at the wait, and approached him with the proper air of noble submission. He interrupted her halfway through her curtsy. “No one told me you would be so tall,” he declared. “My lord?” she said, looking up. “Well, I guess the only one who would have cared about that isn't around to see it. Eshen!” he snapped, causing an almost unseen woman near the far side of the room to jump in compliance. “Take this one to her rooms and see that she has plenty of things to keep her occupied.
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Embroidery or whatever else it is that entertains you women.” With that, the king turned to his next appointment—a group of merchants. Sarene stood in midcurtsy, stunned at Iadon's complete lack of courtesy. Only years of courtly training kept her jaw from dropping. Quick but unassertive, the woman Iadon had ordered—Queen Eshen, the king's wife—scuttled over and took Sarene's arm. Eshen was short and slight of frame, her brownish-blonde Aonic hair only beginning to streak with gray. “Come, child,” Eshen said in a high-pitched voice. “We mustn't waste the king's time.” Sarene allowed herself to be pulled through one of the room's side doors. “Merciful Domi,” she muttered to herself. “What have I gotten myself into?” “. . . and you'll love it when the roses come in. I have the gardeners plant them so you can smell them without even leaning out the window. I wish they weren't so big, though.” Sarene frowned in confusion. “The roses?” “No, dear,” the queen continued, barely pausing, “the windows. You can't believe how bright the sun is when it shines through them in the morning. I asked them—the gardeners, that is—to find me some orange ones, because I so adore orange, but so far all they found were some ghastly yellow ones. 'If I wanted yellow,' I said to them, 'I would have had you plant Aberteens.' You should have seen them apologize—I'm sure we'll have some orange ones by the end of next year. Don't you think that would be lovely, dear? Of course, the windows will still be too big. Maybe I can have a couple of them bricked off.” Sarene nodded, fascinated—not by the conversation, but by the queen. Sarene had assumed that the lecturers at her father's Academy had been skilled at saying nothing with lots of words, but Eshen put them all to shame. The queen flitted from one topic to the next like a butterfly looking for a place to land, but never finding one suitable enough for an extended stay. Any one of the topics would have been potential fuel for an interesting conversation, but the queen never let Sarene grab hold of one long enough to do it justice. Sarene took a calming breath, telling herself to be patient. She couldn't blame the queen for being the way she was—Domi taught that all people's personalities were gifts to be enjoyed. The queen was charming, in her own meandering way. Unfortunately, after meeting both king and queen, Sarene was beginning to suspect that she would have trouble finding political allies in Arelon. Something else bothered Sarene—something odd about the way Eshen acted. No one could possibly talk as much as the queen did; she never let a silent moment pass. It was almost like the woman was uncomfortable around Sarene. Then, in a moment of realization, Sarene understood what it was. Eshen spoke on every imaginable topic except for the one most important—the departed prince. Sarene's narrowed her eyes with suspicion. She couldn't be certain—Eshen was, after all, a very flighty person—but it seemed that the Queen
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was acting far too cheerful for a woman who had just lost her son. “Here is your room, dear. We unpacked your things, and added some as well. You have clothing in every color, even yellow, 1though I can't imagine why you would want to wear it. Horrid color. Not that your hair is horrid, of course. Blonde isn't the same as yellow, no. No more than a horse is a vegetable. We don't have a horse for you yet, but you are welcome to use any in the king's stables. We have lots of fine animals, you see, Duladel is beautiful this time of year.” “Of course,” Sarene said, looking over the room. It was small, but suited her tastes. Too much space could be as daunting as too little could be cramped. “Now, you'll be needing these, dear,” Eshen said, pointing a small hand at a pile of clothing that wasn't hanging like the rest—as if it had been delivered more recently. All of the dresses in the pile shared a single attribute. “Black?” Sarene asked. “Of course. You're . . . you're in . . .” Eshen fumbled with the words. “I'm in mourning,” Sarene realized. She tapped her foot with dissatisfaction—black was not one of her favorite colors. Eshen nodded. “You can wear one of those to the funeral this evening. It should be a nice service—I did the arrangements.” She began talking about her favorite flowers again, and the monologue soon degenerated into a discourse on how much she hated Fjordell cooking. Gently, but firmly, Sarene led the woman to the door, nodding pleasantly. As soon as they reached the hallway, Sarene pled fatigue from her travels, and plugged the queen's verbal torrent by closing of the door. “That's going to get old very quickly,” Sarene said to herself. “The queen does have a robust gift for conversation, my lady,” a deep voice agreed. “What did you find out?” Sarene asked, walking over to pick through the pile of dark clothing as Ashe floated in through the open window. “I didn't find as many Seons as I had expected. I seem to recall that this city was once overflowing with us.” “I noticed that too,” Sarene said, holding up a dress in front of the mirror, then discarding it with a shake of her head. “I guess things are different now.” “They are indeed. As per your instructions, I asked the other Seons what they knew of the prince's untimely death. Unfortunately, my lady, they were hesitant to discuss the event—they consider it extremely ill-omened for the prince to die so soon before he was to be married.” “Especially for him,” Sarene mumbled, pulling off her clothing to try on the dress. “Ashe, something strange is going on. I think maybe someone killed the prince.” “Killed, my lady?” Ashe's deep voice was disapproving, and he pulsed slightly at the comment. “Who would do such a thing?” “I don't know, but . . . something feels odd about the prince's death. This doesn't seem like a court that
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is in mourning. Take the queen, for instance. She didn't appear distraught when she spoke to me—you'd think she would be at least a little bothered by the fact that her son died yesterday.” “There is a simple explanation for that, my lady. Queen Eshen is not Prince Raoden's mother. Raoden was born of Iadon's first wife, who died over twelve years ago.” “When did he remarry?” “Right after the Reod,” Ashe said. “Just a few months after he took the throne.” Sarene frowned. “I'm still suspicious,” she decided, reaching around awkwardly to button the back of her dress. Then she regarded herself in the mirror, looking at the dress critically. “Well, at least it fits—even if it does make me look pale. I was half afraid it would cut off at my knees. These Arelish women are all so unnaturally short.” “If you say so, my lady,” Ashe replied. He knew as well as she did that Arelish women weren't that short—even in Teod, Sarene had been a head taller than most of the other women. Her father had called her Leky-stick as a child—borrowing the name of the tall thin post that marked the goal line in his favorite sport. Even after filling out during adolescence, Sarene was still undeniably lanky. “My lady,” Ashe said, interrupting her contemplations. “Yes, Ashe?” “Your father is desperate to talk to you. I think you have some news he deserves to hear.” Sarene nodded, holding in a sigh, and Ashe began to pulse brightly. A moment later the ball of light that formed his essence melted into a bust-like glowing head. King Eventeo of Teod. “'Ene?” her father asked, the glowing head's lips moving. He was a robust man, with a large oval face and a thick chin. “Yes, Father. I'm here.” Her father would be standing beside a similar Seon—probably Dio—who would have changed to resemble a glowing approximation of Sarene's head. “Are you nervous for the wedding?” Eventeo asked anxiously. “Well, about that wedding . . .” she said slowly. “You'll probably want to cancel your plans to come next week. There won't be much for you to see.” “What?” Ashe had been right—her father didn't laugh when he heard Raoden was dead. Instead, his voice turned to one of sharp concern, the glowing face worried. His worry increased when Sarene explained how the death was as binding as an actual wedding. “Oh, 'Ene, I'm sorry,” her father said. “I know how much you were expecting from this marriage.” “Nonsense, Father.” Eventeo knew her far too well. “I hadn't even met the man—how could I have had any expectations?” “You hadn't met him,” said her father's soothing voice, “but you had spoken with him through Seon, and you had written all those letters. I know you, 'Ene—you're a romantic. You would never have decided to go through with this if you hadn't thoroughly convinced yourself that you could love Raoden.” The words rang true, and suddenly Sarene's loneliness 1returned. She had spent the trip across the Sea of Fjorden in a state
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of disbelieving nervousness, both excited and apprehensive at the prospect of meeting the man who was to become her husband. More excited, however, than apprehensive. She had been away from Teod many times, but she had always gone with others from her homeland. This time she had come by herself, traveling ahead of the rest of the wedding party to surprise Raoden. She had read and reread the prince's letters so many times that she had begun to feel she knew him, and the person she'd constructed from those sheets of paper was a complex, compassionate man that she had been very anxious to meet. And now she never would. She felt more than alone, she felt rejected—again. Unwanted. She had waited all these years, suffered by a patient father who didn't know how the men of her homeland avoided her, how they were frightened by her forward, even arrogant, personality. Finally, she had found a man who was willing to have her, and Domi had snatched him away at the last moment. Sarene finally began to let herself feel some of the emotions she had been keeping in a tight noose since stepping off the ship. She was glad the Seon only transferred her features, for she would have been mortified if her father had seen the tear rolling down her cheek. “That's silly, Father,” she said. “This was a simple political marriage, and we all knew it. Now our countries have more in common than just language—our royal lines are related.” “Oh, honey . . .” her father whispered. “My little Sarene. I had so hoped this would work out—you don't know how your mother and I prayed that you would find happiness there. Idos Domi! We shouldn't have gone through with this.” “I would have made you, Father,” Sarene said. “We need the treaty with Arelon far too badly. Our armada won't keep Fjorden off our shores for much longer—the entire Svordish navy is under Wyrn's command.” “Little Sarene, all grown up now,” her father said through the Seon link. “All grown up and fully capable of marrying herself off to a corpse.” Sarene laughed weakly. “It's probably for the best. I don't think Prince Raoden would have turned out as I had imagined—you should meet his father.” “I've heard stories. I hoped they weren't true.” “Oh, they are,” Sarene said, letting her dissatisfaction with the Arelish monarch burn away her sorrow. “King Iadon has to be just about the most disagreeable man I have ever met. He barely even acknowledged me before sending me off to, as he put it, 'go knit, and whatever else you women do.' If Raoden was anything like his father, then I'm better off this way.” There was a momentary pause before her father responded. “Sarene, do you want to come home? I can void the contract if I want, no matter what the laws say.” The offer was tempting—more tempting than she would ever admit. She paused. “No, Father,” she finally said with an unconscious shake of her head. “I have to
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stay. This was my idea, and Raoden's death doesn't change the fact that we need this alliance. Besides, returning home would break tradition—we both know that Iadon is my father now. It woul1d be unseemly for you to take me back into your household.” “I will always be your father, 'Ene. Domi curse the customs—Teod will always be open for you.” “Thank you, Father,” Sarene said quietly. “I needed to hear that. But I still think I should stay. For now, at least. Besides, it could be interesting. I have an entirely new court full of people to play with.” “'Ene . . .” her father said apprehensively. “I know that tone. What are you planning?” “Nothing,” she said. “There's just a few things I want to poke my nose into before I give up completely on this marriage.” There was a pause, then her father chuckled. “Domi protect them—they don't know what we've shipped over there. Go easy on them, Leky-stick. I don't want to get a note from Minister Naolen in a month telling me that King Iadon has run off to join a Korathi monastery and the Arelish people have named you monarch instead.” “All right,” Sarene said with a wan smile. “I'll wait at least two months then.” Her father burst into another round of his characteristic laughter—a sound that did her more good than any of his consolations or counsels. “Wait for a minute, 'Ene,” he said after his laughter subsided. “Let me get your mother—she'll want to speak with you.” Then, after a moment, he chuckled, continuing, “She's going to faint dead away when I tell her you've already killed off poor Raoden.” “Father!” Sarene said—but he was already gone. CHAPTER 3 None of Arelon's people greeted their savior when he arrived. It was an affront, of course, but not an unexpected one. The people of Arelon—especially those living near the infamous city of Elantris—were known for their godless, even heretical, ways. Hrathen had come to change that. He had three months to convert the entire kingdom of Arelon, otherwise Holy Jaddeth—Lord of all creation—would destroy it. The time had finally come for Arelon to accept the truths of the Derethi religion. Hrathen strode down the gangplank. Beyond the docks, with its continuous bustle of loading and unloading, stretched the city of Kae. A short distance beyond Kae, Hrathen could see a towering stone wall—the old city of Elantris. On the other side of Kae, to Hrathen's left, the land sloped steeply, rising to a tall hill—a foothill of what would become the Dathreki Mountains. Behind him was the ocean. Overall, Hrathen was not impressed. In ages past, four small cities had surrounded Elantris, but only Kae—the new capitol of Arelon—was still inhabited. Kae was too unorganized, too spread out, to be defensible, and its only fortification appeared to be a small, five-foot high wall of stones—more a border than anything else. Retreat into Elantris would be difficult, and only marginally effective. Kae's buildings would provide wonderful cover for an invading force, and a few of
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Kae's more peripheral structures looked like they were built almost against Elantris's wall. This was not a nation accustomed to war. Yet, of all the kingdoms on the Syclan 1continent—the land named Opelon by the Arelish people—only Arelon itself had avoided domination by the Fjordell Empire. Of course, that too was something Hrathen would soon change. Hrathen marched away from the ship, his presence causing quite a stir among the people. Workers halted their labors as he passed, staring at him with impressed amazement. Conversations died when eyes fell upon him. Hrathen didn't slow for anyone, but that didn't matter, for people moved quickly from his path. It could have been his eyes, but, more likely, it was his armor. Blood red and glittering in the sunlight, the plate armor of a Derethi imperial high priest was an imposing sight even when one was accustomed to it. He was beginning to think he would have to find his own way to the city's Derethi chapel when he made out a spot of red weaving its way through the crowd. The speck soon resolved into a stumpy balding figure clad in red Derethi robes. “My Lord Hrathen!” the man called. Hrathen stopped, allowing Fjon—Kae's Derethi head arteth—to approach. Fjon puffed and wiped his brow with a silken handkerchief. “I'm terribly sorry, your grace. The register had you scheduled to come in on a different ship. I didn't find out you weren't on board until they were halfway done unloading. I'm afraid I had to leave the carriage behind; I couldn't get it through the crowd.” Hrathen's narrowed his eyes with displeasure, but he said nothing. Fjon continued to blather for a moment before finally deciding to lead Hrathen to the Derethi chapel, apologizing again for the lack of transportation. Hrathen followed his pudgy guide with a measured stride, dissatisfied. Fjon trotted along with a smile on his lips, occasionally waving to passers on the streets, shouting pleasantries. The people responded in kind—at least, until they saw Hrathen, his blood cloak billowing behind him and his exaggerated armor cut with sharp angles and harsh lines. Then they fell silent, greetings withering, their eyes following Hrathen until he passed. Such was as it should be. The chapel was a tall stone structure, complete with bright red tapestries and towering spires. Here, at least, Hrathen found some of the majesty he was accustomed to. Within, however, he was confronted by a disturbing sight—a crowd of people involved in some kind of social activity. People milled around, ignoring the holy structure in which they stood, laughing and joking. It was too much. Hrathen had heard, and believed, the reports. Now he had confirmation. “Arteth Fjon, assemble your priests,” Hrathen said—the first words he had spoken since his arrival on Arelish soil. The arteth jumped, as if surprised to finally hear sounds coming from his distinguished guest. “Yes, my lord,” he said, motioning for the gathering to end. It took a frustratingly long time, but Hrathen endured the process with a flat expression. When the people had left,
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he approached the priests, his armored feet clicking against the chapel's stone floor. When he finally spoke, his words were directed at Fjon. “Arteth,” he said, using the man's Derethi title, “the ship that brought me here will leave for Fjorden in one hour. You are to be on board.” Fjon's jaw dropped in alarm. “Wha—” “Speak Fjordell, man1!” Hrathen snapped. “Surely ten years amongst the Arelish heathens hasn't corrupted you to the point that you have forgotten your native tongue?” “No, no, your grace,” Fjon replied, switching from Aonic to Fjordell. “But I—” “Enough,” Hrathen interrupted again. “I have orders from Wyrn himself. You have spent far too long in the Arelish culture—you have forgotten your holy calling, and are unable to see to the progress of Jaddeth's Empire. These people don't need a friend; they need a priest. A Derethi priest. One would think you were Korathi, watching you fraternize. We're not here to love the people; we are here to help them. You will go.” Fjon slumped back against one of the room's pillars, his eyes widening and his limbs losing their strength. “But who will be head arteth of the chapel in my absence, my lord? The other arteths are so inexperienced.” “These are pivotal times, Arteth,” Hrathen said. “I'll be remaining in Arelon to personally direct the work here. May Jaddeth grant me success.” He had hoped for an office with a better view, but the chapel, majestic as it was, held no second floor. Fortunately, the grounds were well-kept, and his office—Fjon's old room—overlooked nicely trimmed hedges and carefully-arranged flower beds. Now that he had cleared the walls of paintings—agrarian nature scenes, for the most part—and thrown out Fjon's numerous personal effects, the chamber was approaching a level of dignified orderliness appropriate for a Derethi gyorn. All it needed was a few tapestries and maybe a shield or two. Nodding to himself, Hrathen turned his attention back to the scroll on his desk. His orders. He barely dared hold them in his profane hands. He read the words over and over again in his mind, imprinting both their physical form and their theological meaning on his soul. “My lord . . . your grace?” a quiet voice asked in Fjordell. Hrathen looked up. Fjon entered the room, then crouched in a subservient huddle on the floor, his forehead rubbing the ground. Hrathen allowed himself to smile, knowing the penitent arteth couldn't see his face. Perhaps there was hope for Fjon yet. “Speak,” Hrathen said. “I have done wrong, my lord. I have acted contrary to the plans of our Lord Jaddeth.” “Your sin was complacency, Arteth. Contentment has destroyed more nations than any army, and it has claimed the souls of more men than even Elantris's heresies.” “Yes, my lord.” “You still must leave, Arteth,” Hrathen said. The man's shoulders slumped slightly. “Is there no hope for me then, my lord?” “That is Arelish foolishness speaking, Arteth, not Fjordell pride.” Hrathen reached down, grasping the man's shoulder. “Rise, my brother!” he commanded. Fjon looked up, hope
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returning to his eyes. “Your mind may have become tainted with Arelish thoughts, but your soul is still Fjordell. You are of Jaddeth's chosen people—all of the Fjordell have a place of service in His Empire. Return to our homeland, join a monastery to reacquaint yourself with those things you have forgotten, and you will be given another way to serve the Empire.” “Yes, my lord.” Hrathen's grip grew hard. “Understand this before you leave, Arteth. My arrival is more of a blessing than you can possibly understand. All of Jaddeth's workings are not open to you; do not think to second-guess our God.” He paused, debating his next move. After a moment he decided—this man still had worth. Hrathen had a unique chance to reverse much of Arelon's perversion of Fjon's soul in a single stroke. “Look there on the table, Arteth. Read that scroll.” Fjon looked toward the desk, eyes finding the scroll resting thereon. Hrathen released the man's shoulder, allowing him to walk around the desk and read. “This is the official seal of Wyrn himself!” Fjon said, picking up the scroll. “Not just the seal, Arteth,” Hrathen said. “That is his signature as well. The document you hold was penned by his Holiness himself. That isn't just a letter—it is scripture.” Fjon's eyes opened wide, and his fingers began to quiver. “Wyrn himself?” Then, realizing in full what he was holding in his unworthy hand, he dropped the parchment to the desk with a quiet yelp. His eyes didn't turn away from the letter, however. They were transfixed—reading the words as voraciously as a starving man devoured a joint of beef. Few people actually had an opportunity to read words written by the hand of Jaddeth's prophet and Holy Emperor. Hrathen gave the priest time to read the scroll, then re-read it, and then read it again. When Fjon finally looked up, there was understanding—and gratitude—in his face. The man was intelligent enough. He knew what the orders would have required of him, had he remained in charge of Kae. “Thank you,” Fjon mumbled. Hrathen nodded graciously. “Could you have done it? Could you have followed Wyrn's commands?” Fjon shook his head, eyes darting back to the parchment. “No, your Grace. I could not have . . . I couldn't have functioned—couldn't have even thought—with that on my conscience. I do not envy your place, my lord. Not anymore.” “Return to Fjorden with my blessing, brother,” Hrathen said, taking a small envelope from a bag on the table. “Give this to the priests there. It is a letter from me telling them you accepted your reassignment with the grace befitting a servant of Jaddeth. They will see that you are assigned to a monastery. Perhaps someday you will be allowed to lead a chapel again—one well within Fjorden's borders.” “Yes, my lord. Thank you, my lord.” Fjon withdrew, closing the door behind him. Hrathen walked to his desk and slid another envelope—identical to the one he had given Fjon—from his letter bag. He held it for a few
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moments, then turned it to one of the desk's candles. The words it held—c1ondemning Arteth Fjon as a traitor and an apostate—would never be read, and the poor, pleasant arteth would never know just how much danger he had been in. “With your leave, my Lord Gyorn,” said the bowing priest, a minor dorven who had served under Fjon for over a decade. Hrathen waved his hand, bidding the man to leave. The door shut silently as the priest backed from the room. Fjon had done some serious damage to his underlings. Even a small weakness would build enormous flaws over two decades' time, and Fjon's problems were anything but small. The man had been lenient to the point of flagrancy—he had run a chapel without order, bowing before Arelish culture rather than bringing the people strength and discipline. Half of the priests serving in Kae were hopelessly corrupted—including men as new to the city as six months. Within the next few weeks, Hrathen would be sending a veritable fleet of priests back to Fjorden. He'd have to pick a new head arteth from those who remained, few though they were. A knock came at the door. “Come,” Hrathen said. He had been seeing the priests one at a time, feeling out the extent of their contamination. So far, he had not often been impressed. “Arteth Dilaf,” the priest said, introducing himself as he entered. Hrathen looked up—the name and words were Fjordell, but the accent was slightly off. It sounded almost . . . “You're Arelish?” Hrathen said with surprise. The priest bowed with the proper amount of subservience—his eyes, however, were defiant. “How did you become a priest of Derethi?” Hrathen asked. “I wanted to serve the Empire,” the man replied, his voice quietly intense. “Jaddeth provided a way.” No, Hrathen realized. It isn't defiance in this man's eyes—it's religious fervor. One did not often find zealots in the Derethi religion—such people were more often drawn to the frenzied lawlessness of the Jeskeri Mysteries than the militaristic organization of Shu-Dereth. This man's face, however, burned with fanatical passion. It was not a bad thing—while Hrathen himself spurned such lack of control, he had often found zealots to be useful tools. “Jaddeth always provides a way, Arteth,” Hrathen said carefully. “Be more specific.” “I met a Derethi arteth in Duladel twelve years ago. He preached to me, and I believed. He gave me copies of the Do-Keseg and the Do-Dereth, and I read them both in one night. The holy arteth sent me back to Arelon to help convert those in my home country, and I set up in Rain. I taught there for seven years, until the day I heard that a Derethi chapel had been built in Kae itself. I overcame my loathing for the Elantrians, knowing that Holy Jaddeth had struck them down with an eternal punishment, and came to join with my Fjordell brethren. “I brought my converts with me—fully half of the believers in Kae came with me from Rain. Fjon was impressed with my diligence.
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