Keys of Awakening
Flax Harbour

MARBA ( S E E M I N G )

The Fourth Power of the Arcanum

Marba is a Passive power.

Here, the Seeker learns how they cloak themselves from truth. Once this is understood, the Seeker is able to consciously conjure up illusions. This power does not change the objective reality but rather works on the mind and perception of those under its influence.

Application: Marba is the power that either creates a phantasm where, in fact, there is nothing, or the illusion of an existing thing being other than it is.

A practitioner of Marba is known as a Conjurer.

From The Arcanum of Wisdom – Introduction for the Initiate

Illiom and Tarmel walked together through the afternoon bustle of Calestor’s streets and for some time barely spoke a word.

Illiom was aware that this was the first opportunity they had had to spend time alone since the night Tarmel had kissed her in the Iolan desert. She had avoided any mention of the incident and yet it stood between them like an invisible wall; a barrier much easier to ignore while they were in the company of others, but not so easy now they were by themselves.

They walked side by side and the silence stretched between them.

She wondered if Tarmel, too, was thinking along similar lines. She felt torn between the need to talk and the fear of what might arise if she did. It was not as though Illiom had not thought about that night; on the contrary. Despite the many exotic distractions here in Calestor the incident had slid readily back into her awareness, time and again, to fill her mind with all manner of musings, creating emotional swings that ranged between ecstasy and terror. It had crept between her and a decent night’s sleep every night, as her imagination played out different scenarios and outcomes, none of them conclusive, none terribly satisfying, and none even remotely real.

His kiss had been a precious, sweet and gratifying thing. Her feelings for him were strong and went beyond attraction or need: she felt a deep and inexplicable kinship to this man.

In the end, Illiom decided that her confusion was not so much about the kiss, but in the timing of its delivery: he had chosen to demonstrate his affection for her only after she had opened herself up and revealed her last remaining secret to him.

She had feared his disgust and rejection; instead, he had kissed her.

Apart from Grael Munn, Illiom had never experienced such an unconditional acceptance from anyone. It swept her away, leaving her feeling breathless with relief. Tarmel had given her something that she had hungered for all her life.

So she walked alongside her Rider, keenly aware of both the man and the acceptance that he embodied, at once completely safe with him but also terrified of her own feelings for him.

They walked through the centre of the capital, responding to the greetings and smiles of strangers.

“Captivating, is it not?” he said after a while. “This complete acceptance and unprovoked friendliness … it could never happen in Kuon.”

Illiom looked at him sharply and then nodded. His comment seemed too close to her musings to be just a coincidence.

“Do you think it is because we are so obviously strangers? I do not see them greeting each other with such warmth …” she mused.

“Hmm, maybe. I think it would be safe to say that, given Calestor’s remoteness and the condition of the road, they would not get as many strangers visiting here as we do in Kuon … so they have not yet had time to become disenchanted …”

Illiom glanced at him.

“Ah, a streak of cynicism …”

Tarmel shook his head and looked around appraisingly.

“Cynicism or realism?”

They passed by an old woman who smiled at them, simultaneously bringing one hand to rest over her heart.

Illiom responded in kind. It seemed to be a commonplace greeting in Iol, one that she had found very easy to adopt. Yet one more thing that drew her to this place.

She looked at Tarmel.

He was looking away. She felt a sudden overwhelming urge to take his face between her hands and kiss him again. Instead, when he turned towards her, it was she who looked away.

She stepped over a goat, sprawled asleep in the shade of a leafy palm tree, and set aside her tangled feelings.

“So the day after tomorrow we sail for Evárudas,” Tarmel said, in a matter-of-fact tone. “I wonder if the fifth Key will be waiting for us there.”

“I hope so. Each of the Draca has held a Key so far … who is the Draca in Evárudas?”

“Her name is Memester, but I know nothing more about her other than her name. I have never seen her.”

Illiom looked sidelong at her Rider.

“Have you met any of the others?”

He shook his head.

“Just Menalor, and now Provan ... oh, yes, I did see Abdora, once; but it was from afar, so I do not think that really counts as a meeting. She has long white hair and is reputed to be very beautiful.”

“Ah, the Altran Draca … I guess we will have to meet her as well. I hope this means that we will get to travel to Altra …”

Tarmel smiled at her.

“You are quite taken with that land.”

He was not asking - just stating his observation. Illiom felt no need to respond. They walked on.

“I wonder what became of Draca Sconder’s Key?” the Rider mused after a few moments.

Illiom had wondered the same thing. Again, she did not respond and the silence stretched between them.

They reached a narrow road teeming with people and decided to immerse themselves in the vibrant display of humanity. It was a market street, one of several that lined the urban landscape of the Iolan capital.

As they walked, a sudden movement caught Illiom’s eye. She glanced up to discover a monkey staring intently at her, his head swivelling slowly around as they passed right beneath him. Illiom peeked back to replace his gaze upon her still and wondered briefly at what it was about her that had drawn the creature’s attention. She saw several monkeys up on the rooftops: preening each other, basking in Iod’s warmth, or simply gazing sleepily at the sea of humanity that swelled noisily in the street below.

Illiom and Tarmel looked at different wares, but did not buy anything much: just a few steaming pies and a half dozen exotic fruit with tough green skins and an exquisite red pulp within. Illiom had asked the vendor what they were, but had then forgotten the name almost immediately.

She stopped to watch a man weaving at a loom. His tapestry was colourful and complex in design. As she stood there, an old, silver-haired woman caught her eye. The old one smiled at her and beckoned her to approach. Unsure if she was the one being singled out, Illiom pointed to herself questioningly.

The crone nodded vigorously and Illiom moved closer.

“You are from Kuon, yes?” the woman asked in Common. “You sit with me; I tell you what Gods have for you in store, yes?”

“Really? How much?”

The woman made a show of looking affronted. She made a cutting gesture with a hand.

“No money! You come. You sit. Here sit …”

Illiom turned to call Tarmel, but the old woman tugged her sleeve.

“Not man, just you,” she instructed, shooing the Rider away just as he started moving towards them. “He wait over there … you say to him, ‘wait there!’”

She jabbed the air in the direction of Tarmel and cackled happily at her own wit. Illiom laughed as she turned to Tarmel.

“I will be here for a moment; you go ahead and I will catch up.”

Tarmel looked at the old woman with a puzzled expression, but smiled when she shooed him off again with a wizened hand.

Once the Rider had been dispensed with, the woman gestured towards a short stool.

“You sit. See me, in eye. Look! In eye!” She pointed repeatedly towards her left eye.

Illiom sniffed, cleared her throat, and did as the crone instructed.

The woman’s eye was unusually bright and clear for one so old. Her iris sparkled with green flecks and Illiom blinked as she prepared to gaze into its depths.

“Sit quiet! Not move. Not speak. Let Mordia see what is to see …”

The skin around the eye had suffered the devastation that comes with old age, but the eye itself had been spared. It seemed to belong to one much younger.

Illiom gazed into the woman’s eye and tried to be as still as she could. Mordia took her hand into her own and began massaging it, pressing it in different places, exploring its bone structure, gradually working her way to Illiom’s wrist.

“Many, many faces Mordia see!” she said. Illiom was about to ask her what she meant, but the woman brought a finger up to her dry old lips. “Listen! Not speak. Look into eye!” she commanded again.

“Many, many faces,” she repeated after a while. By then Illiom was beginning to feel quite dazed from staring at the crone. She was starting to see different faces flash momentarily before her as well. The old woman’s aspect shifted unexpectedly into that of a very old man, then into a young woman. At one point she found herself gazing into the eye of a child of no more than five, and later, into the bright, pale-blue eye of a crow.

But each face did not linger long, and every time she blinked it was always the old woman who sat there, gazing back at her.

“Too many! In too many bodies this soul has been, too long time, and still not know who you is?”

She shook her head disapprovingly.

“Why so many faces … no … not faces these … mask! I see mask, not faces! Why you wear mask? Same soul, too many mask.”

The old woman suddenly seemed unsure of herself, but the uncertainty did not last very long. Soon she was smiling again, and nodding.

“Man have eye and heart for you,” she said, nodding her head slightly in the direction Tarmel had gone. “Only for you, not for other. You have luck with this man!”

Illiom caught her breath.

“Who?” she asked, before she could check herself. Her own voice sounded odd, like a young girl’s.

“Not speak!” chided the other with a frown. “You know who,” she added impatiently. “Yes, he. Man-soldier. You too, eye only for him have you. Heart for him too … but not speak, you not speak all truth. Him not know how feel you, not know …”

Her voice faded as her eyes bore deep into Illiom. She frowned angrily as she brushed grey hair away from her face. “What this I see …? Where you go? Far away you go … to not good this place be. Distant, darkness … fear … evil. This be danger, this be big risk for you …”

She did not complete her sentence.

Her eyes grew wide and all colour leached from her face. She looked at Illiom in complete shock for a moment longer and then pulled away, dropping her gaze, shaking her head.

“Oh! I … I sorry,” she stammered. “I finish, I no can see more …”

She would not meet her eye and so Illiom knew that the woman was lying.

“No,” Illiom snapped, “you cannot do that! You cannot stop now, not like that! Whatever you see you must tell me. Even if it is something bad … even if it frightens you … you MUST finish what you started!”

The old woman cowered; her confidence seemed shattered. She gave Illiom a small, frightened glance and then tried to stand up; move physically away. But Illiom took the crone’s hands into hers and held them firmly.

“Please, please! You must tell me what you see,” she said softly, enunciating each word, as though she was speaking to a frightened child. “You have to. Please.”

The old Iolan woman looked at her again. Her eyes were moist with tears.

“I so sorry …” she said, and tried to pull her hands away but Illiom held them fast.

“You have to,” Illiom repeated. “Just tell me what you saw, and then I will go away and leave you alone.”

The old woman’s chin started trembling.

“… in bad place … you will …”

This time tears overwhelmed her and her sobbing prevented her from speaking. Illiom waited, her eyes never straying from the crone’s.

“I so, so sorry, but I see you … I see … you die. In bad place, you die. I so very sorry …”

The old woman cried some more, then shook her head and pulled away. Illiom let her go. The crone walked off and did not look back.

Illiom stared after her until she was swallowed up by the crowd.

The woman’s words repeated shockingly over and over in her mind.

“So how was that?” Tarmel asked, materialising beside her. Then, noticing Illiom’s expression, his playful smile froze on his lips. “Illiom?”

She turned to search his eyes.

“She said that I am going to die.”

“WHAT? That stupid old …”

Illiom grabbed his wrist before he could leap after the woman.

“No, Tarmel! She really did see something. She did not want to tell me … but I made her. I forced to tell me what she had seen.”

He just looked at her.

“Oh, Illiom ...” he said, after a silence. “But how can she know something like that?”

She could see that he was groping desperately for something reassuring to say. More than that, she saw the fear that filled his eyes. Fear for her, fear for himself.

“We are in Iol, Tarmel. This is not just some two-gelt fortune-teller from the Squat who will spin any tale to part you from your coin. She did not even want any money; she refused it when I offered to pay her!”

Illiom shook her head and stood up wearily.

“I think I would like to go back, now.”

They walked in silence for a time.

“I know what we can do,” he said at last, his eyes not meeting hers. “We will ask Kassargan to scry …”

“No,” Illiom retorted. “We will do no such thing.”

That stopped him, but not for long.

“Maybe it is best not to make any assumptions about what she saw. Did she tell you what happened? How it happened? Did she give you any details? Anything at all?”

Illiom shook her head without looking at her Rider.

“Then you have no way of really knowing what is actually going to happen, or even when … did she say when? Did she say where?”

“Far away from here apparently, in a bad place – an evil place. She did not say when …”

Again Illiom shook her head, and this time she did meet his eye.

She saw the concern that furrowed his brow and now felt a completely different yearning: it was to stroke away his worry and to appease his heart.

What had the woman said? That she was lucky to be with such a man, but that he did not know how she felt …

She took a deep breath to steady herself.

What do I feel? she asked herself.

Inside her, there was only a great emptiness and a longing for things to be other than they were; but no words at all.

How can I talk of what I do not even know myself?

That night, after they had eaten and retired to their rooms in Maularahad’s Keep, Illiom sought out Azulya and asked to speak with her.

They slipped out into the Pentangle and strolled amidst the deep shadows there. Aside from a few torches and the sprawl of stars above the trees, the world was in darkness. Sudra would not show her face until after midnight sometime.

Azulya waited quietly for Illiom to speak. She did not ask anything or prompt her in any way, and Illiom began to wonder if the Kroeni would even notice if she never voiced what was on her mind.

She had intended to talk to Azulya about her unfortunate encounter with the fortune-teller; yet when she spoke, she surprised herself.

“I have … feelings for Tarmel,” she confessed instead, and her words sounded regretful, something else she had not intended.

Azulya sniffed in response.

“Oh, Illiom, not you too?”

“What?” she staggered at the unexpected response. “What do you mean?”

It was as though a rent in the earth had opened up beneath her feet. Did someone else have eyes for her Rider? The mere thought made her feel panicky and suddenly fearful of losing something that was not even hers to claim.

She let out a small, strangled laugh.

“Who else?” she asked, her voice as calm as she could muster it to be.

Azulya’s features were lost in shadow but Illiom could see the Kroeni shaking her head.

“Elan, she came to me a few days ago with very much the same dilemma. She has fallen for her Rider, for Mist, and has sought my counsel just as you have now …”

The relief that flooded Illiom was almost too much to bear.

“Mist? Oh, I see ...” she breathed, managing to keep most of the relief out of her voice. “Of course …”

She felt Azulya’s eyes probing her in the dark.

“Why have you come to me with this?” the Kroeni woman asked at last.

“Because I trust you more than anyone else and … well, I needed to speak to someone about it …”

“Oh, good,” was the unexpected response. “If you just need someone to speak to and share your little secret with, then I can certainly oblige you and listen. But if you want more than that, if you are after any kind of advice, then I would suggest that you steer well clear of me for I have nothing of any value to offer concerning men and matters of the heart.”

Taken aback, Illiom did not know how to respond. Never had she heard the Kroeni speak in such a dismissive way.

“I … I am sorry, Azulya,” she blurted out. “I should not have laid this trifle upon you …”

Azulya stopped walking now. She covered her face with her palms, fingers splayed across her cheeks, and sighed. When she dropped her hands, one of them came up to rest on Illiom’s arm.

“No, it is I who should apologise,” she said quietly, her tone softening. “What I should have said to you is that I do not have a good record in my dealings with men. What is even worse is that now I finally have the man I have always wanted, and I have gone and left him – and for what? For this insanity!”

She looked at Illiom; the light from the torches burning nearby betrayed the trail of tears lining her cheeks.

“I miss him so much and it has already been more than a moon. I do not know when I will see him again …”

“Oh, Azulya ...” Illiom said, placing one hand on the Kroeni woman’s arm and stroking her cheek with the other. She felt awkward comforting someone so tall, but in so doing felt some of her own confusion and uncertainty begin to lift.

“It will all turn out all right,” she whispered, hoping to sound convincing. “You will go home when all this is over and he will be there, waiting for you. You will step right back into your life with him and it will be as if you never left.”

Azulya’s smile was stained with sadness.

“Thank you for your kindness, Illiom. However I do not believe that is possible. I know full well how everything changes us. Nothing that happens leaves us unmarked. I just hope that, as you say, when this is all over, we will still be able to recognise one other enough to at least hear and understand each other’s tales.”

Azulya looked ghostly in the dark of the evening. She released another, longer sigh.

“I must confess, this news of war has unnerved me. I feel ill just at the thought of it. It is affecting my judgement. I am not commonly prone to regret just as I am not usually inclined to seeing the future through such a heavy veil.”

The rest of the night was uneventful, yet far from restful. The encounter with the crone stalked Illiom’s awareness, preventing her from sleep, and when she did manage to slip beneath the turmoil of consciousness she saw the woman’s eyes staring at her.

You are going to die, the woman’s look stare said, jolting Illiom from her restless sleep, time and again.

It was the third hour when the Riders roused them to a hurried breakfast.

They dressed quickly, snatched some food from the dining hall, and emerged from the Keep into the pre-dawn darkness to replace their horses ready and waiting. They rode through the empty streets of the capital, making their way towards the volcano’s rim. Calestor lay glistening under Sudra’s waning light. It had rained, as it always did in the early hours, and everything was wet: the streets, the buildings, and the lush, leafy fronds of palms and ferns. The drone of crickets and frogs was a loud ruckus that escorted them all the way through the city and up the slope, until they left the rich lands contained within Mount Shantan’s basalt rim.

Dawn cast fingers of pale light across the landscape as they descended into the barren lands that surrounded Calestor’s volcano. The sky overhead was like a mirror that had just been cleaned: clear, crisp, and awash with pastel shades that swept from azure to pale rose.

It was not long before the road degenerated into a sandy trail. They continued to ride with a haze of dust trailing behind them like a ribbon of smoke, marking their passage.

Argolan regulated the journey’s pace by alternating between a canter and a sedate trot and, as a result, they reached their destination sooner than Illiom had anticipated. Judging by Iod’s position in the east it could not have been much past the sixth hour when the road suddenly veered westward. After climbing a nearby rise, the ochre hues of earth and stone suddenly dropped away and they feasted their eyes upon a cooling stretch of deep blue sea.

With a yelp of joy, Undina spurred her mount into a headlong gallop down the road, completely heedless of Angar’s call for her to wait; and for once Illiom completely understood the girl’s enthusiasm, for she felt it herself.

Tingles of excitement coursed through Illiom and the dark mood that had enveloped her lifted as she feasted her eyes for the first time on this bright, beautiful, sapphire expanse of water. She had heard stories, of course, and it had been described to her. She had even seen it depicted in the occasional painting, but none of it had prepared her for the breathtaking vastness of it.

She was overwhelmed.

As they followed the trail towards the still distant waters, Illiom looked along the length of Iol’s coastline; dry land came to a sudden end where high cliffs plummeted down into the foaming waves, the transition so abrupt that it seemed as if the earth had been sheared off by a formidable force.

Yet even here, within proximity of so much water, there were no trees at all. The ground closer to the cliffs was dusted with green, but this was the washed-out green of the fat succulents that grow in places where water is scarce; nothing like the wild viridian hues of Calestor’s jungle.

Undina was already a pinpoint careening into the distance, followed closely by Angar, her Rider, who was speeding after her in a valiant attempt to meet his obligations.

The road veered south-west and approached the cliffs cautiously, as though it feared venturing too close in case the edge should unexpectedly crumble away. It then followed the coastline, maintaining a respectful distance until the ground began to drop.

Illiom became aware of a faint, intermittent sound that seemed to emanate from everywhere at once. It was the sort of sound a sleeping giant might make, of air being sucked into vast lungs through enormous lips, a lapse of silence, and then the long, deep release of breath that faded into yet another bout of pervasive silence.

As they rode on, the sound grew perceptibly louder. Alarmed, she looked at her companions’ faces to see if they too could hear the eerie noise, but they showed no sign that they did.

At last she was unable to restrain herself and leaned towards Tarmel.

“What is that sound?”

“What sound?”

Her eyes widened with incredulity.

“That breathing sound!” she said testily, rolling her eyes to include the landscape all around them.

Tarmel frowned, and then, as understanding dawned, his face lit up in amusement.

“Oh, that! Illiom, that is the sea.”

Illiom’s jaw dropped a notch.

“It breathes?” she asked, caught between awe and apprehension.

“What?” he asked, and then laughed out loud. “No! That is just the sound of the waves … there must be a beach at the base of these cliffs.”

The party negotiated a weaving descent into what soon revealed itself as a cove. Here, nestled between two headlands that reached protectively out to sea, an inviting and sheltered landing spread out before them: tall palm trees rose high over a small cluster of buildings and a single pier jutted out into the pristine, green-blue waters.

Flax was really quite small, much smaller than Illiom had expected.

As they descended towards the tiny harbour, she saw two large vessels anchored some distance from the pier, towards the centre of the cove. One was a bulky affair that reminded Illiom of an enormous walnut shell broken in half, just bobbing on the waves. The other was much more striking: slick, trim and long. Even at this distance, Illiom could tell that it was probably half as long as the jetty itself. It sported two masts, as opposed to the three of its broader companion.

Tarmel singled this out as the Evárudani vessel.

When they gained Flax’s golden beach they found Undina’s rider-less mount standing as still as a sculpture, looking out towards the water. The tribal girl’s tanned arms and dark hair - the only visible parts of her – dipped and rose as she swam out purposefully towards the centre of the cove.

Angar was watching her closely.

“How am I supposed to keep up with that?” he remarked as they rode up. They left him there to wait for his ward and continued up the beach towards the buildings. Just before reaching them they crossed a river bed. By its size it was clear that this had once been a great river, but right now it was almost entirely dry, save for a narrow trickle of water down the middle of its channel, wending its way towards the cove.

A score of small, brightly painted fishing boats lay resting where they had been pulled up onto the beach. Most were tethered to poles that had been driven deep into the earth just above the jagged line where turf yielded to sand and marked the reach of the high tide.

Moored at the pier that reached out into the cove were two other vessels, weathered with age and constant use. Both had seen much better days.

“I suspect that the other three ships represent Iol’s entire merchant fleet,” Tarmel commented as they stopped to look at the pier and the people who were busy working around the moored vessels.

Alone, Argolan rode out towards them. Illiom and the others watched as she dismounted and approached the workers on foot.

She soon had a small gathering around her. Illiom saw the Shieldarm point towards the Evárudani ship and watched the workers turn to look in that direction. More discussion followed before one of the men pointed, drawing her attention to the far end of the pier. He walked in that direction, Argolan following him. Soon afterwards she remounted her horse and rode back towards them.

“Five to go and the rest to wait here,” she announced as soon as she had rejoined them. “I was told that there is a well-disguised alehouse up there, just opposite the pier, amidst those warehouses. Those of you who stay behind can go there and have a bite to eat till we come back and join you. Who is coming?”

Undina was still cavorting in the water and Elan had no desire to go. Illiom caught the glance that Mist and the priestess exchanged. Had Azulya not mentioned the affection that Elan had for her Rider, she might not have noticed anything. But as she looked away Illiom was unable to quash the beginnings of a smile. She looked at her Rider; he had caught her look. His eyebrows shot up. What ...? his expression asked, but Illiom just shook her head.

Pell was adamant that he preferred to leave the ordeal of being on water until the next day and Sereth decided to stay with his Rider.

Azulya hesitated.

“I would very much like to come, but I think it wisest that I remain behind, given the nature of the news we are delivering and the importance of securing passage.”

In the end it was just Argolan, Scald, Malco and Illiom who opted to go. As an afterthought, and given that none of the other Chosen wished to join them, Tarmel threw his lot in with Illiom’s small party. They dismounted, left their horses in the care of those remaining behind and walked together towards the pier.

As the group passed, hundreds of seagulls perched along the length of the structure took to the wing, their shrill calls and the beat of their wings shattering the languid peace of the morning.

They walked past the first vessel and climbed the gangplank that led onto the deck of the second. Several rowboats were secured to the exposed side of the ship and they made for one of these. It meant clambering down the rope netting on the ship’s side, but soon all five of them sat in the rowboat fastened near the ship’s stern.

From the moment they had set foot on the pier Illiom had been bombarded by smells, most of them unpleasant in character and all of them overpowering. She could not even begin to guess what some of them were, but the most prominent was the stench of fish. If someone had put a plate that smelled like that in front of her, she would have been tempted to retch.

A man with a ruddy face, hairy arms, and a balding head joined them in the rowboat. He had a sizeable belly that seemed to constantly get in the way of most of his activities. His head was partly covered by a white rag tied fast at the back of his neck.

His first action was to gruffly shoo Illiom away from the seat she had chosen. In her haste to get out of his way she rocked the boat considerably, and might have fallen overboard had Tarmel not steadied her.

The newcomer paid her no heed. Instead, he laboriously retrieved two oars that had been lying under the seats. He yelled out something unintelligible a couple of times until a boy no older than six ran up to the railing of the larger vessel. The lad untied the lines that held the rowboat fast and deftly cast them at the man, who seized them and stowed them under his seat.

Using one of the oars, he pushed their boat away from the ship’s hull. Then, without a word or a glance at any of them, he bent his back to the labour of rowing away from the pier and towards their destination.

Mercifully, as they pulled away from the other vessel, the smell of rotting fish receded rapidly. A breeze blew strong in her face and Illiom breathed in her first lungful of clean sea-air.

The sea itself was like an enormous lake, she mused, one that went on and on. Being on this leaf of a rowboat was very different to looking at the sea from the height of the cliffs; here she felt its immensity.

She peered past the rowing man and fixed her eyes on the Evárudani ship, watching it as they drew closer.

What a beautiful thing it was, elegant and graceful in its construction. It looked capable of great speed, should that be required. The railing, lined with colourful shields, arched gently, following the curve and sweep of the deck. Built into the ship’s sides were a number of narrow openings whose purpose was a mystery to Illiom.

As the rowboat made a pass around the prow of the vessel, Illiom stared at the effigy of a bare-breasted woman with long flowing hair. She was blindfolded, yet still she braced a shield in one hand and thrust out a sword with the other, its tip pointing defiantly ahead.

Illiom’s attention was so focused on the figurehead that she would have missed what was in the water just beneath it had the surly rower not suddenly cussed colourfully, jerking the rowboat away from the Evárudani ship. Something lay half-hidden below the surface, extending away from the ship’s prow.

“What’s dat thing?” he asked no one in particular then accentuated his disdain by spitting at it.

“It is a ram,” answered Scald directly. “All Evárudani ships have one.”

“Ya cudda tol’ me, ’en!” growled the man at the oars.

“Oh, I am sorry,” Scald responded soothingly. “But I was not certain that you could speak …” He paused for a moment and feigned confusion. “Our language I mean …”

The other gave no sign that he had heard or even understood the insult. Argolan looked away from the exchange with a slight smile.

The rowboat stopped alongside the Evárudani vessel, bobbing up and down in the water as Malco and the rower cast lines up to the crew who secured them to the gunwale. Several curious faces appeared, leaning over to inspect the new arrivals. Illiom and her companions climbed up the rope webbing and several hands extended towards them, offering help in negotiating the railing.

As soon as she set foot on the deck Illiom thanked the woman who had helped her and then looked about to replace that a dozen people had gathered around them. They were all women.

“Welcome aboard the Diamantine,” a confident voice greeted them. “Now, who are you and what do you need from me and my ship?”

The speaker was a tall woman with a strong aquiline nose and copper-coloured hair. Like all the women around her she was deeply tanned and, though still young, her skin bore the wear that accompanies long exposure to the elements.

Argolan took the lead.

“We are from Albradan and our purpose here is twofold. We bear a message for the ship’s captain from Draca Provan of Iol, and we also seek passage to Cevaram.”

The woman’s eyes narrowed.

“I am Grena Sarp, captain of this ship,” she said, taking the cylinder from Argolan’s hands. “A message from the Draca, you say? Very well, but you may have a problem replaceing passage to our capital. We arrived only yesterday and have not even finished unloading. We still need to make our way to Calestor, do some trading, and transport everything back here … it will probably be at least a quart before we are ready to set sail again …”

“Maybe it is best that you read the Draca’s message first,” Scald interrupted. “Your plans are certain to change.”

The captain frowned at Scald’s comment but made no reply. Instead, she broke the cylinder’s seal with her fingernail and unrolled the scroll of parchment.

Her eyes widened and her face blanched as she read its message.

Illiom saw a muscle in her jaw tighten and twitch. The captain’s eyes were brimming with fury.

“Gita!” she screamed.

A young woman with short, sandy hair and a freckled face came towards them at a run.

“Yes, captain?”

“Get the boat, go to shore, and get everyone back to the ship, at once.”

“Aye, captain!” said Gita, without a flinch.

“Talar!” the captain called out again.

Two spans away a dark-haired woman responded. Grena Sarp turned towards her.

“Go with Gita, get enough stores to see us …” she stopped, turning to Argolan. “How many in your party?”

“Fifteen,” the Shieldarm answered.

“Enough stores for the usual number, plus sixteen passengers.”

“Sixteen?” asked Illiom.

“There is already one who is awaiting passage,” the captain replied with a nod in the direction of Flax. “I am sure she will be pleased to hear that we will leave sooner rather than later.”

Grena Sarp stepped away from the group and turned her back to the railing.

“Stop whatever you are doing and listen to your captain!” she bellowed.

Her strong voice carried to everyone on the ship. She waited while even more women emerged from below deck.

“All shore leave is cancelled! We leave for home before morning, as soon as the tide turns. I want the hold empty by then. You all know what to do, so hop to it and start doing it, now!”

This announcement was followed by subdued groans. The captain ignored them.

Instead, she spoke to the five new arrivals. “You had better get out of the way now. Go to shore and we will pick you up at dusk …”

“I am afraid that will not be possible,” Argolan cut in. “We must go back to Calestor to honour an arrangement with Draca Provan. We will return as soon as that is done.”

The captain raised her eyebrows, but then simply nodded.

“Fine, do as you must. But if you are not here when the tide comes in we will leave without you.”

“We will be here,” the Shieldarm assured her.

She was about to turn away when Malco spoke.

“Ah, what about our horses?”

Grena Sarp frowned at him.

“No room for horses,” she said bluntly. “You will have to arrange something else for them. Is that all?”

“Just one other thing,” Argolan said. “One in our party is a Kroeni woman who is travelling with us to …”

“As far as I am concerned, she can swim,” snapped Grena before Argolan could finish the sentence. “I will not have one of her kind on my ship, not after the news you have just delivered.”

Argolan’s stance shifted; she suddenly looked taller.

“This is not negotiable, I am afraid,” she said, looking levelly into the captain’s eyes.

“In that case there is nothing I can do for you. Good luck replaceing passage elsewhere.”

“Look, captain, we are not asking this just on some whim …”

“No, you look! I am not carrying a Kroeni on my ship; I will not have it desecrated by one of their kind. You said that this is not negotiable at your end? Fine. It is not negotiable at mine, either. If you bring a Kroeni onto this ship tomorrow I will throw her over the side myself!”

I would like to see you try, Illiom thought.

With that, Captain Grena Sarp turned and walked away.

Scald spoke to her receding back in a voice that carried.

“I wonder if you will be as unyielding when Draca Memester demands to know why you saw fit to undermine a mission endorsed by the assembly of the Draca.”

The Chosen’s words reached their intended mark. The captain slowed and then stopped completely in her tracks. She turned slowly to study Scald.

“How do I know that this is so? That what you say is true?”

Scald looked at her askance.

“Why do you think we bear a message from Draca Provan? Why do you think we have travelled from Kuon to Calestor with Draca Menalor’s blessing? Have you ever known the Draca to be divided in their opinions? What makes you think that Draca Memester will understand your prejudice when the Draca of Iol and Albradan have both endorsed us?”

Scald grew silent. He waited for the captain to reach her own conclusion as her temper slowly reduced to a simmer.

Illiom looked at Scald with a measure of admiration. The man had some qualities that were needed after all.

Grena Sarp bit on her lower lip and finally nodded.

“Very well then, bring her. But she will be your responsibility, and not mine. Some of my crew had friends and relatives on the Brine – friends and family who are now dead, murdered by the Kroeni, or worse. I will not be held accountable if one of them slits your Kroeni’s throat. This is the risk you take if you bring her; you had better be clear about that and you had best keep your Kroeni whore well out of sight.”

For the second time, the captain of the Diamantine turned and walked away.

“She has not even told us how much she wants for the trip,” Malco said in a soft tone.

Argolan released a long sigh.

“That is of no consequence,” she said. “We will pay whatever she wants. Now we must fetch the others and make our way back to Calestor.”

They climbed into the rowboat with their laconic rower who returned them to shore.

The rest of their group were waiting for them at the inn, seated around three trestle tables that had been arranged to form a large square, open on one side. Two maids emerged from an adjacent room and began placing platters of food in front of them as they took their seats. The fare was basic but wholesome: bread, cheese, braised fish, and jugs of local ale.

Azulya was not terribly surprised when they related what had taken place on the Diamantine.

“What Kroen has done to those women is unforgivable; it is the reason why I fled Kroen in the first place. That they may not want a Kroeni on board with them is to be expected; my presence would arouse all their buried grief and anger, as well as their fears …”

She raised her shoulders and showed them the palms of her hands, to illustrate that she had no alternative but to surrender to the circumstances.

Argolan nodded firmly.

“It is a difficult situation and if our task was less urgent I would never dream of imposing this trial upon you or upon the Evárudani crew. However, the task of the Chosen must take precedence over everything and everyone else. We will take passage on the Diamantine. My main concern now is how best to keep you from harm …”

The Shieldarm’s usual calm and contained demeanour was noticeably dismayed by the prospect.

“We can all share the task of protecting Azulya,” Grifor offered. “This is not something that should rest on your shoulders alone …”

The Shieldarm gave the Rider a small nod of acknowledgement.

“Yes, but it is more complicated than that,” she countered. “The women on the Diamantine are not just sailors; they are warriors – as all Evárudani sailors are. If they decide that we are the enemy, we may well replace ourselves with a war of our own on our hands. We must do everything in our power to show them that we are not the enemy and that we are truly on their side. All of us - Azulya included.”

“Hmm, from what I gleaned from the captain’s attitude that will be easier said than done,” Malco remarked.

The Blade’s remark caused Illiom to realise that there was a larger issue.

“What about when we reach Evárudas? If we cannot cope with a few dozen sailors how will we fare in Cevaram when we will be surrounded by tens of thousands? How will we keep Azulya safe then?”

“Oh, I am such an idiot!” Scald said suddenly, slapping his forehead with the heel of his hand. “What about the Arukala! We simply changed our minds - it is as simple as that! For the sake of peace and good relations we have decided to leave the Kroeni behind and bring another in her stead … meet our new companion - her name is Azulya.”

It took Illiom a moment to fully grasp what Scald was saying. When she did, it was such an obvious and simple solution that she laughed.

She saw Malco look towards Scald with a measure of surprised admiration. The Blade stood up, made a show of filling his glass, and raised it above the gathering.

“To Scald!” he toasted, and drained the contents.

Many around the table emulated him and cheered.

Illiom joined in the merriment, yet kept a close watch on Scald; the irascible Chosen was smiling for once, clearly pleased and gratified. But Illiom marked the downcast look that appeared on his face, for just an instant, as he filled his glass.

She knew that look, for it was one that reflected what she had often felt inside herself. It was a look of shame and fear, as though he was undeserving of the spontaneous bout of recognition he had received.