Fynro set his trestle table out at his regular spot on the little square, near the twisting trunk of one of the ancient Juniper trees. A little wedge under one of the legs steadied the table on the slightly uneven flagstones. New people were to be seen milling about, but plenty of the regular faces were around: fellow traders behind their tables and local folk, buying and browsing.
Another pleasant but unremarkable market-day. Right up until the girl arrived.
It was approaching mid-day and sunlight gilded everything beyond the shade of the old trees. Swift flying birds wheeled above, like black darts, snatching tiny insect prey from the air. Now and then, through the hubbub of the market, Fyn heard their high calls, at once both sweet and shrill.
The small coastal town of Steeple had plans to enlarge the market square; the recently completed paving on the road to the bay had enabled an increasing number of out-of-towners to visit. No longer was the way from settlements inland an arduous slog along a wagon-track often either slick with mud or hard-baked into ruts and ridges. Outsiders were flowing to it more readily.
Fyn hoped the old square wouldn’t change too much. He’d sat behind his table on over a hundred market-days during the last four years. Yet being there still touched something in him; still made him glad. That was fortunate, because if his joy were only derived from sales made at his table, the market square would bring him scant pleasure.
The flowers in their new troughs positioned about the square were in full bloom. The sturdy wooden troughs themselves looked appealing too. Fyn had made a good job of them, and he’d been grateful for the pay. Occasional work for Steeple’s small but ambitious trade guild helped keep the young craftsman’s head above water.
Despite the lack, he felt privileged. Fyn’s love of the shoreline at his doorstep—and the detritus he gleaned from it—gave him a livelihood. And that seemed to him a kind of magic. From shells, driftwood and scraps of flotsam and jetsam washed ashore, new and beautiful things were created. Things that began in his head, borne up on the high sea of his imagination, made manifest by his clever, diligent hands.
He was getting a bit numb. Setting the tray on the cobbles, Fyn stood and stretched out his back. A man and woman approached his stall. He offered a smile and they returned it, but spared his table only a cursory look over before complimenting his artistry and moving on. That was alright. The things he sold were not everyday goods. Most of it was ornamental; jewellery, keepsake boxes, and beautiful handles that could be fitted to a favourite knife or hand-tool. Friends and neighbours had tried to nudge Fyn towards putting a larger part of his time and considerable skill into more mundane and in-demand goods, if only for his own sake. But he wasn’t ready to abandon his beach-combing and brooch-making. Not yet, at least.
Fyn was a capable fisherman, and sometimes sold a fresh catch. Along with the sporadic carpentry work, the additional income from fishing meant he always seemed to scrape by.
Crouching, he pulled a water flask from his haversack under the table, along with a couple of oatcakes. Nami lifted her head and gave her tail a tentative flick. His dog had dozed on her mat under the trestle table for most of the morning. Fyn broke off half an oatcake and gave it to her. As he straightened up he saw the girl.
She was turning from Ibsen’s fruit stall, 20 yards to the right of Fyn’s spot. He watched the young woman meander in his direction, an immediate captive to her beauty.
He sat and took up his worktray, only taking his eyes off her when she noticed him. Or perhaps his stall. Either way, she came directly over, to Fyn’s relief. The impetuous idea that had leapt up in him would not need to be acted upon: inviting her over with an expansive beckoning gesture, to compete with the market-day bustle. That would have been awkward, out of character for him, and unlikely to have played out as well as the scene that had dashed uninvited through his mind. He wondered at the power of his need to meet her, how it could prompt such a mad thought.
He looked at her again, attempting a casual gaze but failing. He stared; her attention was upon his table of handmade pieces, a tentative smile twitching in the corner of her mouth. She wore the usual sort of plain rough-weave cotton tunic and skirt all but wealthy women wore. It was brightened by a cape coloured with green and ochre hues. A headscarf of the same colours partly tamed her cascade of shining auburn hair.
As she reached the table her long eyelashes flicked up, and dazzling blue eyes pinned Fyn like a catch on his fishing spear. The open smile came now, full and generous.
“Hello,” said Fyn. His smile was as easy and unguarded as hers, but he felt anything but at ease.
“Morning!” she said brightly, delaying freeing him from her gaze, looking into his eyes with unflinching confidence.
Fyn’s throat tightened and he looked down, fiddling to re-position some items on his table that were perfectly fine as they were. He fought to prevent the heat building in his cheeks blooming into a full, deep blush.
“This is beautiful! Did you make this?” the girl asked, pointing at a leather cord strung with a dozen fingernail sized pieces and a single larger item.
“Yes, just last week.” Fyn replied, picking up the necklace. “These are pieces of shore pebble…”
“I’ve not seen any pebbles like that on a beach, with so much sparkle. And the colours!”
Fyn smiled. He was in comfortable territory; his self-consciousness waned. “They are there, on many shores. But you have to pick them out, polish them, or break them to find the quartz inside.” He handed her the necklace.
She took it delicately, examining it with a look of joy on her face.
She’d called it beautiful; that made Fyn very happy. But for him just now, it was the lesser, compared with the hands that held it. It wasn’t a usual day at all. How a woman’s hands could look so lovely, and move so gracefully, wasn’t something he’d wondered before. What an idiot. My head’s loose.
A fellow came to the stall. He tipped his expensive-looking hat at Fyn and proceeded to look over the wares.
The young woman handed the necklace back. “It’s very special. All of it is. I could stay for ages, asking you about everything you’ve made,”
Don’t mind me. Please, do. All day.
“But I have to go meet someone. Perhaps another time you can tell me more.”
“Er, yes, I’m here on most market-days.” Fyn didn’t like the vagueness that had crept in, but the man with the smart hat was pointing to something on the table and trying to catch his eye. The young woman was turning away, a mesmerising glance and smile trailing.
“Can I take a look at this box?” said the man, gesturing.
“Yes, of course. It’s Alerian Ash, with Emerald Clam inlay,” Fyn replied, abruptly handing him the small box. The man’s interest and the prospect of a good sale would usually have Fyn attentive. At the very least, he enjoyed talking with genuinely interested people about the things he made. But right now, the fellow was an intrusion.
In the moment Fyn had turned his head the girl was gone, lost among the shifting throng of the market square.
***
“Come, Nami. I need to stretch my legs!”
Fyn snatched an apple and his water flask as he headed out the door of his cabin, locking his workbench behind it. The jumbled scraps strewn on the bench may have suggested little of promise there. He’d never been a tidy worker. But the abalone marquetry for the handle of Joram’s knife was coming along well. Fyn had delighted to see the realisation of the design he’d envisioned, and he’d been hunched over his bench for hours, oblivious to all but the precise craft. The morning had slipped by unnoticed. It was now well past mid-day.
Nami ran ahead, sniffing out every scent coming her way. Now and again she’d check with Fyn, either turning a pert head in his direction, or running back to frisk excitedly about him. She’d soon trot ahead once more, to explore the path. Knowing it inside out already was of little importance to her.
Fyn gave the apple core a last nibble, and sent it to the field-mice with a flick of the wrist. He downed a few mouthfuls of water, enjoying the freshness but eager for something with flavour. Steeple was a mile from Fyn’s cabin, so the ‘something’ was not far off. It wouldn’t be ale, though. Maybe he’d treat himself to one of those, once the knife was finished and paid for.
Fyn clambered over the stile where the path across the meadows met the coast lane. Nami had waited, briefly. She’d leapt over the stile the moment she could see Fyn following, but had gone the wrong way. Fyn headed left along the lane, towards Steeple. The sea was a calm blue vastness to his right, glinting with ten thousand silver-white diadems under the sun. He whistled for Nami. She caught up with him in moments, and swept passed, ears flapping.
They entered Devan’s large store, just off the square. The merchant excelled as both a storekeeper and a well-loved pillar of Steeple.
“Fyn! You well?”
“I am, thank…”
“Not sure that you’ve met Kara, have you?”
Devan’s broad grin smoothed any burrs left by his interruption. The man was fizzing. A prudent trader, he wasn’t usually given to such exuberance.
Following the merchant’s gaze, Fyn’s eyes widened. His heart skipped. The young woman who’d approached his market stall three days earlier was entering the store area from a back-room doorway.
“My niece! From Alwendale She’s staying a while.”
“Perhaps! It all depends,” said the girl, with a playful look.
“We have met, actually,” mumbled Fyn.
“What’s that, you’ve met?” said Devan
The girl came to stand little more than an arm’s length from Fyn. She rested a hand on the counter. Nami went to her, nudging her nose at the girl’s other hand rested on her hip.
“We met at the market. Fyn. I have a name to go on now. Is that short for anything?” she asked.
“Fynro,” he replied, hoping that she’d know what to say next, as his mind was blank for the moment.
“What are you making today?” she asked, patting Nami.
“Er… I’m doing a handle, for a knife…”
“Joram’s is it? He was telling me when he was in the other day. Very happy he is,” said Devan
Fyn nodded. “I best not keep him waiting too long. Can I have a fruit juice, Devan? Raspberry and lemon, if you have it.”
Kara unleashed that astonishing smile that had felled him at his market stall. “Sounds delightful. Are you rushing back home, then? Or do you have time for me to get one too? We could sit for a little bit. It’s nice, the sun’s coming out.”
“I… yes, I could…”
“Good! I’ll get something else on, and fetch my shawl. It’s not warmed up outside just yet.”
Devan placed two cups on the counter and filled them from a large flask. “Not shy, my niece,” he said, watching her head up the stairs that led to the living area of the store. His smile thinned—lips turning down a touch, Fyn thought.
“Wasn’t always so, mind you. Kara used to be very quiet. With what’s happened, many would hide away. Turn in on themselves. Not her, though. It’s like she’s trying to get the most out of her time.”
Fyn wasn’t sure what to say, again. He nodded slowly.
Devan was prepared to tell more, without being asked. Fyn realised the storekeeper was giving him a warning of sorts: watch how you handle yourself around my niece.
“Kara will be staying here longer than she thinks. She’s all on her own, apart from me. My brother and his wife, Kara’s parent’s, are gone. Both died. Course, she’s old enough to make her own way. But her health… seems it wasn’t enough for the damnable thing to take her mother. Kara’s got the same. Comes and goes though, that’s why she seems alright…”
Kara was almost at the top of the stairs, making her way back to them. Devan leaned closer, talking quietly. “She needs good friends around here. Seems like you’ve been picked for one.”
The merchant’s smile returned.
***
Fyn made a foraging trek further afield than the beaches near his doorstep once a month, sometimes more. He knew this part of Aleria’s coastline better than anyone. Lonely, sheltered coves all but the seabirds ignored were familiar to him.
On his last foray Fyn had gone south, along the coast. Normally he’d head north this time around. But some of the fisherman that roamed the waters southwards had spread the news of a storm they’d fled, a week ago. Such maelstroms presented an important opportunity for Fyn. So he would venture south again, to see what might have been driven ashore in the aftermath. He hoped those who’d heard the news sooner hadn’t claimed all the finds, if there were any to be had.
After rising early and having a quick but sizeable breakfast, Fyn was ready to set off. He worked the handle of his water-well pump, filling his two flasks. Swinging his backpack on, he slipped his arms through the straps. The willow-weave pack was light but tough, and had proven its worth many times over. It had room enough for the provisions Fyn took on his beach treks, and for overnight camp essentials. He’d mastered travelling light: the more room he could leave free, the better.
He rolled and strapped a large, woven blanket to the top of the backpack, wax coated to fend off the rain, should it come. Fyn never rented an overnight room. The cost was beyond his pocket. Besides, the places he went usually had no rooms on offer, being too remote.
Two months had passed since Fynro and Kara had first met. They were growing very close through their time together, which had been almost daily for the last few weeks. Today, they’d arranged to meet at the square, under the tree at Fyn’s market day spot. They wanted to see each other right before he headed off.
But Kara met him on the footpath whilst Fyn and Nami were descending towards Steeple. Nami ran to greet her, long tail whipping back and forth.
“Oh! Am I late? Or you couldn’t bear to be without me?” Fyn called.
Kara kissed his lips when she reached him. “No, and yes.”
“Yes, you could bear…”
She interrupted him with another kiss. “I thought I’d walk with you, instead of you having to come into town. So you can be there sooner and get searching.
“And get back sooner,” Fynn added.
Holding hands, they walked over the headland south of Steeple, along the winding coast lane.
Fyn had been relieved that Devan’s prediction had proved true. Kara had remained in Steeple all the last couple of months, other than for short visits to her home village, Alwendale. He prayed that the reason her uncle had given would turn out to be utterly wrong. Thus far, Kara had continued in good health, and they’d all grown hopeful, praising the sea air, good food—largely thanks to Devan—and the tranquillity in Steeple’s little corner of Aleria’s coast.
Kara did not flee from the shadows trailing her, but, for now at least, she paid them little heed. She told Fyn that when she gave them her attention, they loomed larger… like black clouds hiding the sunlight, she said. But the two of them had talked about her parents.
Her mother had succumbed to some un-named illness half a year ago. Kara had lost her father much earlier, when she was six years old. He’d answered the call to aid the army. Aleria’s north-western lands had long been suffering for Jalyara’s greed and ambition. The powerful Jalyara Empire never seemed to tire of trying to assimilate swathes of Aleria’s borderlands. Kara’s father was one of thousands of defenders killed in the intermittent war.
Fyn thought the day would come when Kara would perhaps need to talk more, and to grieve more. He intended to be at her side when the time came, if she wanted that too.
Kara turned back after about two miles, sending Fyn on his way with a kiss and a lingering embrace. And after extracting his promise to bring her a seashell for her windowsill, and to be back as soon as he could. They were promises for which Fyn needed no persuasion.
***
Fyn made good time, he and Nami reaching Penda Bay by the middle of the afternoon. Finding that there was a skiff he could hire at the harbour, he decided to make for one of the small islands not far from shore. He’d not had opportunity to visit it in the last few years.
He came into shore close enough to be able to just about wade the last yards. Fyn avoided bringing boats in all the way, preferring to reduce the risk that a low tide might leave a hired vessel stranded and too heavy to launch single-handed. A swift departure from the small islands he’d searched over the years was not a common need. But still, Fyn observed the precaution and knew full well its wisdom.
He dropped the bow anchor and removed his clothes, putting them into a leather drawstring bag, along with two of the half dozen fist-sized stones he’d collected before setting off from Farhaven. His vigorous throw carried the bag a good way clear of the shoreline, scattering sand.
“Expertly done, eh Nami?!” Fyn grinned at her. She wagged her tail and jumped up at him, needing no second invitation to help celebrate the miniscule triumph. Fyn had bungled the job once or twice; unless it was high summer, dry clothes were absolutely worth cheering about.
He jumped into the chest-deep water, holding his rucksack high with one hand, clutching the boat’s bow-line in the other. The sea was cold, but not enough to elicit more than a stifled grunt from him. Nami leapt in right after him. In moments they reached a band of shingle and pebbles just short of the water’s edge. Fyn gingerly crossed it, the stabbing in the soles of his feet making him gnash his teeth. Nami leapt it with a splashing bound.
After securing the bow-line to a jutting rock., Fyn dressed quickly, eager to make a start exploring.
The island was very small; even a modest town like Steeple would take up much of the available land. But it’s diminutive size and air of peace did not mean that it was sure to be uninhabited. Fyn saw nothing to indicate the presence of others, but he stayed alert and kept to the beach, not once straying into the trees and undergrowth beyond.
Unfriendly people were not the only consideration. He’d once almost been caught by a wild animal, on a very similar island. Barely had he got started along the beach when the huge lizard-like creature had come from nowhere. He’d thrown his backpack at it. The beast’s curiosity had bought him a few moments; he’d rushed into the water and swam out to his moored boat, as the creature pinned the rucksack under a clawed foot and tore it apart. Thankfully, Nami had obeyed and followed him out to the anchored vessel. She wouldn’t have survived if she’d stayed to fight. To this day, the memory was stubbornly vivid: that broad muzzle, over-stuffed with yellowed, arrow-head teeth, shredding his tough rucksack like it was paper.
It turned out to be a generous place. Shells were always the chief part of any haul from Fyn’s explorations. The ones with coats or linings that shimmered with merging swirls of colour he sought the most. He could use the precious material in all manner of work, particularly for brooches that fetched a good price.
The island surrendered five such shell specimens during the first hours of exploring. One of them was a clam-kind that widened Fyn’s eyes and his smile, when he rinsed it in the surf. Its surface gleamed like liquid silver, shot through with exquisite blooms of blue and purple.
He also collected a decent number of little, interestingly shaped stones, and larger stones with the impressions of tiny fish or shells in them, as if carved by by someone as patient as they were skilled. A few fragments of coloured glass were another welcome find.
Evening came on all too soon, heralding a change in the weather. Cloud massed far off, the white patches uniting and building into towering heaps. The wind picked up. Fyn continued to walk the coastline for just a little while longer whilst the light held.
He added a few more fine shells to his backpack, and was about to take a short rest for something to eat, when he discovered a small triangular wedge protruding from the ground, its appearance suggesting metal rather than stone or wood.
“What’s this then, girl?”
Nami sniffed at the object and looked at Fyn intently. She wagged her tail and sniffed at it more eagerly as he knelt and gently dug around it with his trowel.
“let me get to it, Nam,” he told her when she started digging with her front paws, flinging sand.
Freed from the ground, the wedge revealed itself as the very corner of a square base, almost too broad to sit on one hand. That in turn was attached to an oblong frame of the same metal. A couple of remnants of broken glass were held between the struts of the frame, which in turn was capped by a sloped top, crowned with a steel ring. A lantern. A very expensive one, Fyn knew.
The top-ring affixed it to a wooden post the size of Fyn’s forearm, a ragged break at one end: a remnant of its mounting place and surely a reason for the lantern having not sunk without trace.
Fyn managed to eventually separate the lantern and the wood post. He took his brush from his pocket, and carefully cleaned away sand and dirt. But he recognised the material without needing it any cleaner: copper.
There would be a wooden core underneath, the outer plating expertly overlain, tiny copper nails used to secure it. The lantern was probably much older than him; little shine remained. It had taken on a different kind of beauty to the rich gleam it could once boast. A vivid blue-green patina vied with acorn brown, gilding the lantern with the raw glory of something hanging poised between the craftsmanship of men and the inexorable artistry of the elements. Other than the missing glass, and one or two dents, it was in marvellous condition, considering what it had been through.
He stood to hold the lantern high, thumb hooked through the top ring, whooping and grinning. Nami cocked her head, ears pricked, and barked.
“What kind of ship, eh Nam, what kind of ship?!”
He knelt again and, laying the lantern on the sand, opened his rucksack and delved. “Nothing that comes to Steeple’s harbour, for sure. Not with fittin’s of this quality.”
Fyn retrieved wrappings from his pack. He always took along wads of soft jute-cloth. It was perfect for keeping finds safe. The lantern took up a lot of space in his rucksack, but many of the small items he’d gathered and wrapped could be packed within its frame.
***
The sky grew more threatening; the heavy cloud turning ash-grey. Rain came, but light and intermittent, as Fyn sat and took some much needed food. He gave Nami some of hers too: barley biscuits, and some carrot. Nami looked at her master expectantly, but quickly accepted that she wouldn’t be getting milk in her bowl; a not uncommon addition at home. When she’d wolfed the biscuits Fyn upended his flask over her bowl.
“Just got room to bring water, but it’s fresh and good,” he said.
He shared some strips of the dried, smoked chicken with her, along with a nub or two of his fruit loaf.
With the daylight faltering fast now, Fyn hurried back to the location of the boat; he needed to check the vessel was still secure. He expected it to be fine, the water was more restless, but not rough, and the anchor and bow-line were effective measures.
Finding all was well with the skiff, he set his night shelter, fashioned from his waxed sheet and branches he’d scavenged. Nami curled up against his side. To the lulling of the tide, Fyn lay down, scenes parading on the threshold of his sleep. He imagined the lantern, swinging gently on it’s mounting, casting warm light about a captain’s cabin. A large ship, sails raised, whitewater surging at the prow, under an ornately carved bow figurehead… a fantastical representation of an animal, or the bust of a mighty warrior.
With Nami at his side—apart from her occasional short diversions to follow some scent too interesting to ignore—Fyn combed the island’s coastline the whole of the second day, resting little. Once again he was rewarded for his efforts, beyond all expectation.
He added a few more shells to his rucksack, including a perfect Morodin Moonshell for Kara. A small collection of amber pieces also had him celebrating all over again. The misshapen nuggets, looking like pebbles of hardened honey, were prone to getting washed ashore after a stormy spell. Fyn had learned how to clean and polish amber, and was a more than decent carver of the prized material. He’d get the best from each piece.
Along with the lantern and the choice shells, the amber put these two days among his very best coast treks. Yet, there was one more stroke of luck.
The following morning they headed back along the coastline, making their way to where the boat was moored. Fyn stayed alert, keeping a lookout for any last finds. He was surprised by what he discovered.
He spotted a box shape, some way off. He squinted to try make it out better, puzzled at how he’d not noticed it before. It looked stuck between some rocks, just clear of the surf.
Fyn stood stock still for a few moments, indecision anchoring him. The exploration had already been more fruitful than he could have dreamed, and he was eager to get back home. Back to kara.
Maybe the box shape was nothing more than an empty cargo crate. Fyn had come across those useless things more than once in the past. He was yet to find one worth salvaging for its looks. But he’d not endured untold hours in all weathers, combing the region’s coastline, without the spur of a relentless curiosity. Truth be told, the years of searching hadn’t been a trial to endure… he was a captive to the joy of it. His boundless curiosity was fuel for a fire that already burned bright. Not sparing a few minutes to take a closer look was unreasonable to him.
As he drew nearer he could see that it was indeed a cargo crate, about the size of the wooden fruit boxes to be seen at Steeple market. On closer inspection he found that the lid was still firmly fastened shut. A well put-together storage box, for sure. Unlike others he’d found, this one was black. Even before Fyn touched it he recognised that there was a protective coat of tar, most likely the same birch-bark tar used to seal boats. With no knotty planks and wood-grain showing, it lacked even the hint of interest those few other crates had aspired to.
Fyn wrangled the box loose with the help of a few kicks with his boot heel: a little pay-back for wasted time. Nami seemed to agree. She barked at it, rather more than Fyn would expect, in fact.
The black box was heavy. He had to cradle it in both arms to carry it to where the skiff was anchored. He came close to abandoning it. But it was a sealed secret, one that had journeyed the inscrutable paths of the sea to converge with his own. The same spur that made Fyn such a tireless beach forager compelled him to keep it.
Thankfully the crate floated well, when it came to getting it out to the boat.
***
The first thing Fyn did when back home was have a thorough wash. The sea was his usual spot, but now and again a couple of buckets of fresh water from his well were called for. He allowed himself a generous amount of honey-soap on his cloth, and for washing his hair. He was feeling that he could spare it; the future looked a little less frugal, he thought. And He was off to meet Kara.
The labours of the island forage lost their grip on his limbs as he scrubbed. The fresh water was followed by equally satisfying fresh clothes. He fed Nami, who curled up on her bedding and looked to be settling for a good long while. Fyn was keen for something cooked, but he was impatient to see Kara. He grabbed a lump of walnut loaf, buttered it to disguise its slight staleness, and hurried out the door.
She kissed him and held him, the truth that Kara had missed him written in her eyes and her smile. Fyn wrapped his arms around her, his face buried in her hair at the nape of her neck. Her warmth and scent made his head swim. But her loss of weight did not escape his notice. How could that be, after barely three days? She felt frail, under his embrace.
Kara stepped back to look at him, holding onto his hand.
“How was the exploring? Did you find any good shells!?”
“Yes! Very fine ones. And a lot more, besides. I visited an island.”
“Tell me!” She led him outside. “Let’s go to the river. I want to hear all about it. Wait!”
Kara ran back inside, shouting over her shoulder. “Just getting a blanket!”
She returned with a rolled wool blanket tucked under arm. Her face was a strange collision of happiness and pallor; hurrying up the stairs to her room hadn’t flushed her cheeks, it had drained colour from them. When she reached him she grasped his forearm, brandishing the blanket roll and grinning. She gave a little laugh as she let out a big breath. Through her grip on his arm Fyn sensed a moment of unsteadiness in her. Kara shook her head, as if to dispel a fug.
“Are you alright?” he asked.
“Yes! Now that you are back, and safe.” She wrapped his arm in hers, pulling him out onto the little street, walking briskly. Her energy seemed to be resurfacing.
“Were you worried for me?” he asked.
“Of course! Well, more for Nami. Where is she?”
“At the cabin. She’s tired out. She had a marvellous time though.”
“And seems like you did too! Even if you were missing me so much.”
They were together until dusk, sitting by the river, and walking in the woods. Kara adored the Moonshell Fyn had found for her. He told Kara about his time on the island, and the finds. Except the lantern and the gold box. He mentioned there was more than the shells and amber, but wanted to show her later, rather than divulge more now. Kara prodded him for more details, but soon let him be, realising that he was serious about her having to wait.
They returned to Steeple under a darkening sky, a smouldering sunset scorching its hem. The walk back took much longer than it should, and not because they meandered to delay parting company for the day.
Kara had needed rest, twice. They’d relaxed by the river more than they’d walked; the afternoon had been easy going. Even so, Kara looked suddenly exhausted. During each pause, she sat on the ground. The second rest was quite long, Kara’s light-hearted self reproach giving way to silence, other than her breathing, which came deep and slow. Fyn sensed she was trying to deny the urge to vomit. When he asked her about how she felt, she muttered something he didn’t catch, and held up her hand weakly to still him when he started to ask again.
“Let’s get you back, so you can get to bed,” said Fyn, once Kara rallied and felt ready to walk on. He put a hand to her forehead.
“I don’t feel feverish, just really tired, and a bit off. This is how it comes, now and again,” she said.
“Hm, you don’t feel hot. Still, a good idea to rest.”
Kara smiled and nodded. “Yes. I’ll be alright again soon.”
Despite her resilience, Fyn guessed that Kara surely shared his disappointment that the merits of Steeple looked to be less potent against her illness than they’d hoped.
Fyn left for his cabin once Kara was lying down in her room. She gave him a little wave and a sweet smile as he closed her door. But as he trotted along the coast lane, it was the spectre of sickness he’d glimpsed on her face that kept up with him.
***
The next morning saw Fyn up very early. Once the first hint of dawnlight had nudged him, he couldn’t get back to sleep. He was concerned for Kara, for one thing, shocked by the swiftness of her decline.
The black crate was preying on his mind, too. Its examination couldn’t be put off. He was equally keen to get started on the lantern. That would have to wait just an hour or two longer. First, get that thing to give up its secret.
It proved a difficult task. The pitch coating was hard to clean off. He set a fire in the small firepit outside his cabin, thinking that getting the substance hot would ease the job, but probably make for some unpleasant smoke.
He was not wrong. The coating turned gummy, acrid smoke harrying him as he worked, the hint of a woody aroma little compensation. He tied a damp cloth to cover his nose and mouth; he had to douse his protesting eyes with water several times.
Fyn used a knife on what he guessed was an edge that could be opened up. Eventually it started to reap rewards. It looked a mess, but there was progress. Once a good amount of the coating was scraped away, Fyn set to work with a narrow chisel, gently prying apart the jointing of the wooden box that lay under the black shell. He kept reminding himself to go slowly; to not damage anything. The ugly outer case had little value beyond its protective role, he thought. Even so, best not to be ham-fisted and end up damaging the contents, whatever they may be. Perhaps it was too late, what with kicking the thing free from the rocks where he’d found it.
A lot of straw.
That was all Fyn could see, at first. Dry straw too, packed into the box so that it was a firm, gap-free insulating envelope. The pitch coated crate had done its job well. Amazingly, it seemed that even a shipwrecking storm and the assault of rocks and surf had been repulsed.
A little tremor of excitement skipped through Fyn. The realisation that what lay inside was probably very important, to be packed in such a way—and likely in good condition—only added to the anticipation. This was immediately followed by a momentary taunt prodding him: some enormously wealthy person had despatched a gift to a wine-loving lord, and a single bottle of finest whatever was under the straw.
He put forth an exploring hand to push aside the straw. An inner voice urged caution, so he reached for a nearby stick and gently poked it into the crate, trying to do a thorough exploratory search. If there were a nasty little trap only the intended recipient knew how to disarm, Fyn would hopefully discover it and make it do its worst, without losing or injuring any fingers.
So it was that he felt it with the end of the stick before he saw it: something hard and unyielding in there.
“Damn, it IS a bottle,” he muttered.
Nami, lifted her head to look at Fyn, giving a little wag of her tail. But she didn’t seem keen to move from her spot near the cabin door. That may have not been because of sleepiness or comfort alone; Fyn had noticed Nami’s wary manner towards the crate. She put her head down, between her front paws, blinked a couple of times and surrendered to her dozing once more.
Fyn hooked away some straw with the stick, and stared open-mouthed. The unmistakable gleam of gold winked out from the disturbed mass of packing material.
No bottle, after all. The box contained… another box. Throwing caution to the wind, he lifted it out, and was taken aback by its weight. It was of the same proportions as the outer one, but about half the size.
It could not have been more different, in every other respect.
Instead of a thick coat of pitch, there was lustrous gold, covering its top and every side. Marvellously chased and engraved decoration smothered the whole thing. His eyes narrowed to scrutinise the gold reliefs as the light from the firepit danced over them, elevating their contours. There were curious symbols, interwoven with distinguishable words, though written in a flowing script he did not recognise.
Fyn hadn’t sought wealth through his work. His contentment did not depend on it. But there were times when he’d wondered if he would be left with no choice but to leave his cabin; dragged from it by the pursuit of more warmth and less hunger for him and Nami. The winters in particular exposed the shortcomings of living hand to mouth.
Now, the sea had borne the black crate to him. Things suddenly had a very different outlook.
***
Fyn made a close examination for a latch or keyhole, but it revealed nothing. Putting the box down, he went to the black crate and searched it carefully, deciding to use the stick to probe and sift. Again, nothing, neither ordinary sort of key nor peculiar device.
Taking up the golden box again, Fyn felt around the surfaces, pressing a finger on raised features here and there. His intuition proved right. After more than a dozen attempts at trying to push or slide various decorative elements, one of the sinuous characters gave way under his fingertip. There came a barely audible click; the lid popped open slightly.
Nami’s seeming dislike of the crate nudged at Fyn in that moment. He wondered if he was being a bit reckless. Willing himself to be patient, he laid the box down once more. He decided the stick was too short for the task of opening the narrow gap under the lid. Glancing about to make sure nobody was around, Fyn left the box and ran the half dozen yards to his cabin, grabbing one of the fishing spears he kept propped in a rack near the door. Nami sat up and watched Fyn pass her going in and out, ears pricked.
“Stay, girl, we’ll go on a walk soon,” Fyn said, as he hurried back to the firepit.
Dropping to a knee, Fyn levelled the spear at the box and used its tip to fully open the lid. He stood, and shuffled toward the box, trying to peer inside. Despite his only audience being Nami—and her eyes were again closed—he felt a little foolish, being so cautious.
At first he thought his wariness had been justified. He glimpsed a small dark, shiny lump. But moving closer he saw it was only a pouch, probably goatskin leather, bulging from whatever was inside it.
The fishing spear had been the perfect choice. Fyn carefully cut the pouch with the keen spear tip. Not much, but enough, he surmised, for any poisonous vapours to leak out.
No sign of anything.
He eased the speartip into the pouch. Little papery flecks fell out. Shortening his grip on the spear shaft to examine the end, he saw some flecks caught in the serrations of the tip. Closer still… the leather pouch had given up only leaves. Dry but still retaining a pale touch of green. Perhaps some kind of costly herb or spice? He could only guess. The pouch contents seemed harmless enough. One more test though, he decided.
He used the spear tip to get a bigger sample of the leaf, taking it to the fire. Fyn put the tip near to some embers at the fire’s edge and gave the spear a gentle shake. Burning the substance might reveal it’s identity; better than tasting it or putting it right under his nose, he thought. There was a little flicker of flame and a slight sizzle as the fragments burned. A wisp of smoke. A faint aroma drifted to him. He learned forward, closing his eyes, breathing deeper through flaring nostrils and hoping he wasn’t taking in enough to do himself harm. If it was dangerous, it cloaked its threat in a lovely disguise. The fragrance carried Fyn to the footpaths of Steeplewold forest; to a summer walk beside the tall spruce trees and wild flowers, fresh scents blending in the heat of the day.
The cautious examination of the crate and its contents was getting tiresome, and the benign nature of the leaf was Fyn’s final impetus to change tack. He abruptly put aside his fishing spear, and took the gold box into his cabin.
***
Fyn laid the pouch in a bowl and put it to one side. Faking nonchalance to defy the twinges of trepidation, he stood over the box at his workbench and took out a second pouch he discovered within. It was stitched closed, like the leaf pouch. Working quickly to outrun his apprehension, Fyn cut the leather and removed the half dozen items it contained, one by one. They were meticulously wrapped, the protective wadding very similar to the material Fyn used for his finds.
Four of them were stoppered glass bottles, two were boxes of intricately carved ebony wood. Each was of a size to sit in the palm of his hand. The bottles contained coloured fluid; vermilion, green, or white and murky, having an oily quality. There were glimpses of small, unpleasant looking matter suspended in the fluid.
Opening the ebony boxes thwarted him for a while, until he found and disengaged well-disguised locking latches, enabling him to slide open their small hidden drawer. Inside was sparkling grit, little uneven chips much like the tide-ground shingle he’d see all the time on his beach explorations. Except that the drawers’ contents were colourful, and glinted brighter, as though gems had been pulverised, not shell and stone.
Fyn stood arms crossed, a hand raised to absently tug on his bottom lip. His pondering over what to do with the contents was interrupted by Nami. She padded into the cabin and came over to him, putting her weight against his leg and turning about, tail wagging.
“Alright girl, I know. You’ve been very patient.”
Fyn gathered up the bottles and little boxes, putting them into a crate of odds and ends under his bench. The gold box he took outside and slid into his keepsafe place, a hidden hollow in the stonework near his water pump.
“Let’s go then, Nam.”
She set off running, Fyn threw a stick for her, which she chased down eagerly. He was happy to run too. The need to know how Kara was doing had gnawed at him for much of the night and the early morning. They headed for Steeple, outrunning the wind.
Kara had not risen from her bed, when they got there. Fyn and Nami visited her room; she was happy to see them. But her enthusiasm soon ebbed, and she grew ever more listless, until she could barely keep her eyes open.
“Sorry… I need to…sleep a bit more,” said Kara, blinking slowly. She tried to lift her head, and gave up.
“Don’t say sorry. We’ll let you rest.”
Fyn and Nami returned to the cabin, but not before talking with Devan. The merchant shook his head, fidgeting with the dusting cloth he was tackling some shelves with.
“This is quite a bad spell, must admit. She’ll turn a corner soon, I’m sure. Kara’s got more fight in her than both us two put together. Tough as my brother, tough as her… mother… too…” he trailed off, cornered by his own words.
“Has Miriela told you anything new? What has she tried?”
“Nothing new, no. Tried everything, I think. She’s the best healer around. We don’t know of any other herbalists that can hold a candle to Miriela. Otherwise they’d be sent for. All Steeple would pitch in and pay for a… I don’t know… one of them Novanta scholars to attend her, if we could. If there was one around here. Not sure if they are around anywhere, nowadays, mind.”
Fyn stripped the gold overlay from the box. He wrapped the gleaming bundle and put it in his keepsafe niche. It belonged to him; beach-combing was a finders-keepers enterprise, most of the time. Very rarely was there was any practical way to identify the original owner of man-made finds. Even so, he hoped to avoid attracting attention and would be careful in his handling of the gold. He was on friendly terms with a smithy out at Ketting, whom he could trust. Turning the overlay into ingots would be feasible with his help.
He dug a deep hole and buried the four small bottles. The two ebony-wood boxes he burned at his firepit. Afterward’s, he wondered why; on reflection, it seemed a rash move. The crushed gem-like stuff they’d held was not much use, but the skillfully carved boxes themselves he could have sold for quite a price.
Strangely, the buried bottles preyed on his mind in the coming days. It wasn’t long before he dug them up, their contents following the boxes into the fire, the bottles crushed almost to powder, then burned too. The cloud of foreboding was carried off with the smoke.
At his workbench, Fyn set to work on the lantern. It didn’t need hours; he wanted to preserve its appearance rather than spoil it with embellishments or too much cleaning. He mused over the irony of having such remarkable newfound wealth, but not being able to buy glass for the lantern’s empty panels. He lacked enough usable tender. He could snip off a little piece of the gold overlay and trade it, but was keen to avoid the ripples of gossip he’d probably cause, with the dropping of such a shiny rare pebble in his local community. Glass wasn’t for sale in Steeple, anyway, not even at Devan’s store, though he did not doubt the merchant could get it in if Fyn asked. It did not matter, for what he had planned the lantern having no glass was quite acceptable.
***
Nami sat, nose high, eagerly eyeing the door handle of Kara’s room.
“No going mad, Nami,” warned Fyn.
As soon as he started to open the door, Nami pushed past and slipped through the gap.
“Nami! Enough! You only saw her yesterday.”
Kara made a small gesture and Nami calmed down.
“Good girl. I’m happy to see you, too!” said Kara, rubbing Nami behind the ears and patting her sides. “And yes, you as well, my sweet man. What’s that!? You didn’t go and buy one of those silly bird cages that are supposed to be the best new thing, did you?” she exclaimed in mock disdain. Kara knew he’d never keep one of those little warblers caged, to show off to visitors, as was the fashion in some circles.
Fyn shut the door and set the bundle on the room’s small table.
He took something from his satchel and offered it to her. “I finally got Joram’s knife done. I’m on my way to him. What do you think?”
Kara took the knife. “Oh, Fyn, that is wonderful!” She drew it from it’s sheath and held it up, catching the light from the room’s window on the polished blade. She did the same with the shell inlaid handle. “Look how the colours change! Can you see that? I love it!”
Fyn was pleased with what he’d done with the knife, but his eyes were on Kara; it was more precious to witness her joy, to get a glimpse of her as she was, before the sickness had clamped its fetters ever tighter. What he’d give to free her always, not just for a moment.
“Well, I can’t let you have it. But I do have something for you,” said Fyn, removing the cotton wrappings from the object on the table.
“This is for me!? Kara stood close against Fyn at his side, eyes wide, clutching his arm.
“Yes, beautiful isn’t it? Though, I can’t claim to have made it. It’s a lantern, from a ship!”
Kara picked it up with reverent care. “It is so beautiful, yes!”
“It was on the island. All I’ve done is cleaned it a little and fixed one or two dents.”
“I wonder where it’s from,” said Kara.
“And think of all the years and years at sea… all the places it’s been. Now it has a home, with you.”
She held the lantern to herself and threw her free arm around Fyn’s neck and pulled him to her kiss.
“Thank you Fyn! I shall treasure it as much as you do. How can you give this up, it must be one of the most special finds you’ve made!?”
“Because it’s for you. And actually there’s a bit more. Do you want to sit down? I’m wearing you out.”
“I do nothing but lie in my bed, mostly. But, yes, best if I do sit for a while.”
Kara’s smile touched her eyes, giving them a glimmer of their old brilliance. But they sat in dark hollows now, and the tiredness could never be fully chased from them these last few days.
He reached into his satchel and gave her the cylindrical shaped parcel he pulled from it. “Open this.”
Kara set down the lantern carefully on the table, and with eyes wide, unwrapped the object.
“Ah! One of your candles! I’ve secretly been wishing for one!”
Fyn laughed. “Yes, I did notice. This one is different. I’ve not made one like it before, and won’t again.”
“It’s like you, Fyn, a one off! It smells so lovely, and looks beautiful too!” Kara said, her nose pressed up to the candle in her hand.
“As you said, like me, smells good and looks good”, said Fyn.
“Some of the time, at least!”
Fyn laughed. “Here, let’s light it.”
He took a tinderbox from the satchel. “This kit is yours. Watch what I do. You’ll be able to light it yourself then.”
He worked quickly with the flint, fire-steel and touchwood, soon getting a flame going in the steel box. After lighting the candle wick he extinguished the tiny fire with the damper plate.
“You made that look easy. I’ll be there all day, trying to do that.”
“You’ll soon get the knack of it,” said Fyn, placing the lit candle in the cradle on the lantern’s base.
They stood holding hands, smiling, not saying anything for the moment. Soon, the marvellous fragrance of the candle permeated the room. Nami had settled on the floor, and seemed as lulled into the calm as they were.
Kara closed her eyes and tilted back her head. “Mmm! It’s… How did you make that!? It’s like… it reminds me of the meadows along the river. Did you use the flowers from there?
“No, but it is probably from the beeswax. If the bees visited the meadows, or the same sorts of flowers…”
“Oh, it’s magical, Fyn. Thank you!”
“There’s also something special in the candle. Crushed leaves that… I found. I think that’s most of what gives such a good smell. Seems to carry you off, like no other fragrance I know of, doesn’t it?”
“Yes, so wonderful! That’s what you meant by not making more like this? Did you use all the leaves?”
Fyn nodded. “There wasn’t much, and I thought one good sized candle that’ll last well was best. The lantern would have had glass in the four sides, of course. But, for now at least…”
“All the better for the candle scent!” exclaimed Kara.
Fyn nodded. “Yes. The lantern has these slots… there, you see? So the candle would burn fine if the glass was fitted. But as long as you take care, when it’s lit…”
“I will. It’s perfect!” said Kara.
***
Fyn walked the beaches frequently, in the following days. He also ventured inland, drifting along the footpaths. He tried to savour his surroundings in both places. Despite his best attempts to shake the despondency, it haunted him constantly.
Nami was at his side always; her playfulness and affection a much needed comfort. He worked at his bench late into the nights, after long, quiet hours at Kara’s bedside. Black thoughts pursued him on his own bed, as sleep slipped his grasp, but for brief spells.
Kara’s condition worsened, the sickness scorning both Miriela’s efforts and Fyn’s prayers. Devan’s, too. She remained confined to her bed, unconscious, drained of almost all warmth and colour, from head to toe.
The day came when she faded further still, so that she seemed to be at the very edge. Her breathing became yet more shallow. Fyn abandoned the idea of carrying on with any work for now, wanting to stay with Kara.
Nami lay against her, upon the bed. Fyn sat on a stool at the bed side, holding Kara’s limp hand. Her uncle sat in the room’s old armchair until dusk, when he retired to the room next door, trusting Fyn to fetch him should anything change further.
Darkness came on. The candle Fyn had made burned in the lantern, on a small bedside table, as it had done for many hours in recent days. It was only a valiant stub now, but its sure and steady flame rebuffed the gathering gloom. The warm light and the candle’s precious scent were like laughter at a burial ceremony: the vitality of both jarred with the circumstances. Despite its ever diminishing size preying on his mind—a cheery little herald of imminent darkness and finality—Fyn found solace in the candle.
While it lasted, he hoped.
Before dawn, Devan brought a tray to Kara’s room.
“Thought you’d be ready for something, Fyn. I’ve got a bowl for Nami too. Just my oats, raisins and milk porridge, but there’s more if you have the appetite. Anything in the store, whatever you want. Oh, the candles gone out. Marvellous smell still, though, in here.”
“Thank you, Devan” Fyn found that he could smile. The merchant had a way of lifting his spirit without really doing much more than being his sure-footed self. And, Kara yet breathed, confounding the morbid thoughts that had harrassed Fyn as he’d watched the candle die out, more than an hour earlier.
“You should go back to your cabin, lad. Just for a bit. Or at least get in the armchair there, whilst I keep watch at bedside.”
Devan lit the room’s lamp. Thankfully, in the well-off merchant’s house it burned olive oil rather than fish oil. He came over to Kara.
“How was her night? she looks a touch better.”
Fyn frowned and leaned forward. He’d not noticed any change. But now that he looked closely, in the lamplight…
“She isn’t quite as pale, maybe?” He wasn’t at all sure.
Devan gave a circumspect nod. “Hm, I reckon, Fyn. Maybe she’s through the worst.”
Fyn made room for Devan at the bedside, and flopped into the armchair. Sleep soon overcame his efforts to keep his eyes open.
***
When he stirred some time later, the window was bright with a fine morning. Nami got up from somewhere near his feet, excited to greet him.
“Hello, girl.” Fyn gave her muzzle and neck a rough-up.
“Glad you nodded off, young man. You needed it!” said the merchant, almost in a whisper.
Fyn pulled himself out the chair. He was afraid of what the new day had bought, despite the sunlight. But there was nothing to be done other than face it.
Devan stood. “She’s doing well!”
“She is?” Fyn said softly. He took Kara’s hand in his, looking at her intently. Her hand was warmer than before, and there was a subtle response to his grasp. All pallor had left her face. Fyn’s filled with astonishment.
“She’s… she looks…”
Devan held onto his quiet tone, just. “The picture of health! I know. Can’t barely believe it! I didn’t wake you, sorry. But she was changing before my eyes, and I just sat, hardly daring to breath. I was anxious about disturbing her…”
“Of course, don’t worry.”
“She’s still fast asleep though, but now that’s all it looks like… sleep, and sweet at that.”
Fyn nodded. “I think she’s aware of us! Take her hand, give it a gentle squeeze,” he whispered.
Devan’s eyes widened. “She is! I felt it. Look, you can see, she’s holding my hand.”
Nami made to get onto the bed.
“Not yet, Nami. You can say hello soon,” said Fyn, looking to Devan, who’s eyes met his.
“I think so, my lad. I think so.”
Incredibly, the waiting was over by the evening of that same day. And Kara did not merely wake up feeling improved. She was on her feet and lively.
After eagerly taking food and drink, bathing and washing her hair, she was radiant. No lingering trace of the sickness remained, she was convinced.
“I am more than better! I… I could outrun you to the cabin, Fyn… outrun Nami, even !” she told him.
As the days passed Kara’s new-found strength remained. Her uncle and Fyn were not the only ones to celebrate. Amongst their friends, and others in Steeple who’d known the seriousness of her illness, there was much relief. Joy had unseated the mourning they’d prepared for. Quiet amazement, too, rippled out across Steeple.
***
That which had taken her mother never could claim Kara. She suffered no more bouts of the illness. Nothing seemed to trouble her health. Even bearing children, when the time came a while after she and Fyn were married.
They kept Fyn’s cabin, even though they lived happily in the rooms at the store. The cabin could not be bettered as a workshop, and for a refuge when the family wanted to exchange the town for the beach. Not that Steeple was much further from the sea: a bow-shot or two instead of a stone’s throw. And even with the road that had been built, Steeple remained peaceful.
There were times when Fyn and Kara would get visitors, out the blue. These occasional interruptions, sometimes in the middle of the night, were more than tolerated; they were welcomed.
It would usually be a local person or family, but not always.
There were never any bells rung, nor trumpets sounded. That didn’t seem wise. But now and again, when it seemed like the right thing, others from beyond the town were allowed to meet with Kara.
Miriel’s skill as a healer remained vital, and much-praised throughout the region. But when something very serious refused to budge, the sufferer would be brought to Kara.
Fyn never saw it take more than a touch of her hand.
Her uncle said it best, and it stuck with Fyn, all of his days.
“The reaper himself’s the only one who can abide where Kara is. He has to come in person, and one day he surely will. Meantime, his emissaries are chaff before the storm, lad. Leaves on the wind, when Kara is about.”
***
Captain Senzariq walked briskly; even so, crossing the plaza took time. With its expanse of pristine flagstones and immensely tall cypress trees that vied with statues carved in white stone, it was his favourite place in the city. In the whole empire of Jalyara, perhaps. But he had no time to linger today.
At its far end, ascending the many broad steps up to the immense Shrine of Vashka left him short of breath.
Reaching the top, he headed to the eastern side of the shrine’s precincts and took the colonnaded pavement to the Magister’s chambers, passing under the silent gaze of it’s one hundred ebony and gold pillars.
It was a decent stretch of the legs from his quarters, for sure. It gave him time to rehearse the impending meeting, and counsel himself once more: stay calm, keep to what you have prepared, don’t get drawn.
At the Magister’s door he fussed with his uniform yet again, took in a long slow breath, and knocked.
After a moment it opened, and Magister Crav’s attendant peered out, deep-set black beads glinting in his narrow, pallid face. Senzariq suppressed a compulsion to offer Jarif support to stay upright. The man had always looked frail of body; today he seemed to be at death’s door as well as the Magister’s threshold.
Probably run ragged, what with the situation, thought Senzariq. Even so, even he’s better off. At least his job is vaguely possible. Then again, he has to see a lot more of the Magister.
As soon as the attendant left, closing the door behind him, the onslaught began.
“You failed me, Senzariq!” sulked Crav, his tone as cold and hard as the marble floor of the lavish room.
The official’s manner abruptly turned to venom and fire. “Did I not say that the crate had to be recovered, no matter what!?” he screeched.
“You did, sir…”
Crav lurched out of his elaborate high-backed chair and hauled his big frame around the desk.
“Then, why have you not done as I ordered!? Why are you even back here, if you come empty-handed?” he thundered, spittle flecks flying, marching to within a stride of his captain.
Senzariq had prepared himself for this childish rant; he was well acquainted with the Magister’s temper, just as every high official in Jalyara was. But this arrogant red face, bawling irrational questions at him… the captain’s mouth and jaw twitched from a sudden impulse to drive his fist under Crav’s chin, accompanied by a wish to snap his superior’s neck with the blow. He satisfied himself with the theatre of his mind, and masked his face with what he hoped was the perfect marrying of contrition and steely determination.
The captain cleared his throat. “We haven’t given up the search. I will not rest until the crate is recovered. But I thought it best to keep you informed of progress. And I do so personally, so as to take full responsibility for the slow progress and assure you of our continued commitment.”
Senzariq felt like a half-wit for saying the words. He had no power over the outcome of the search for the damn crate. What was he meant to do? Go stand on the shore and demand that the sea return what it has claimed? Bear it to me on the foam of the waves?
Uttering empty promises might have jarred with Senzariq, but a man like Crav could be placated with them, to some extent. The Magister had once been a clever governor—wise, even. Now, his monumental pride led him to expect all circumstances to eventually fall into line, however bad the odds.
Senzariq would play to Crav’s delusion whilst working on finding a way to extricate himself from the impossible assignment. This thankless business could see all his years of successful service forgotten; swept down the drain, like so much silt driven before the torrent of blame coming his way. No honour and wealth, just his head on the block.
The Magister returned to his seat, but didn’t use it. He planted the heels of his hands on the desk edge and glowered across it, head jutting forward.
“I’d have been more impressed if you had sent a courier, and remained out there getting on with it.”
“The search is ceaseless, Magister, rest assured. My men press on, and are keenly aware of the urgency, and as impatient as everyone…”
“Is that so? As impatient as me… as the empress herself?”
Granted, nobody is as impatient as you. Nor as deaf and blind.
“Lord, if I can say, we may not appreciate the full implications of the loss of the Zorossa, but my company grieves deeply. They’re determined that the crew’s deaths be not in vain, and their families get the…”
Crav sat down, holding up a hand. “Yes, yes. They will be recompensed. And the memorial is commissioned and underway. Paid for out of my own pocket, you know?”
Very deep pockets. And there are always enough bribes and ‘expenses’ to refill them. And about time. It’s been half a year since the Zorossa disappeared.
“But it is the crate that matters, above all else! It is irreplaceable. Do you know how long it took to get our hands on the Falaxis?” ranted the Magister.
Senzariq flinched. He opened his mouth, but was off-guard and didn’t know what to say. The contents of the crate were meant to be a most protected secret, known to only a handful of the Imperium.
But he did not have to reply. Crav, elbows on the desk edge, was looking down at his own hands, fingers interlaced, thumbs slowly wrestling each other.
“Thirty two years,” muttered the Magister. The man wasn’t sulking this time. More… despairing. He seemed, to Senzariq, to be deflating in his chair, like an emptying wineskin. And it all came gushing out, secret or not.
“Nobody else knew of it, except perhaps the Novanta. But we were the ones to find the last of it. We bled for it, sacrificed everything to get it.” Crav gave a snort. “Funny how something so restorative, so beneficial, led to so much…” he trailed off.
Perhaps you shouldn’t have put it in a crate and sent it over the sea. But then, the arrogant over-reach more than the foolish. And, I’ll grant him, a storm that could wreck the Zarossa should not exist; not at that time of year…
“The other elements we can get again. It will deplete Jalyara’s treasury somewhat, but we could…” Crav continued, still fixated on his own thumbs. In his morose frustration he seemed to have forgotten Senzariq and rambled as though thinking aloud. “The Falaxis, though. That cannot be bought at any price. You can’t buy what does not exist anymore. How are we going to take Aleria without it?”
Ah, Barrasus’ Oath. Should have known it played a part. That ancient burden always does. Is the crate a weapon, then? And is he accepting that it’s impossible to recover, after all?
The Magister looked up. “Senzariq, take another company with you when you return.”
“My lord, I’m not sure…”
“Two companies. Don’t concern yourself about the authorisations, I’ll see to that, and the cost.”
You’re backing me into a corner, you dumb oaf. Well, if this business is going to make me a traitor and a homeless fugitive, I at least want to know what it’s all about.
“So, the crate holds something vital for the conquest? If it’s a weapon, could someone else use it?” the captain demanded. His tone insisted on an answer.
Crav ceased fidgeting his thumbs. He folded his arms and took a long look at Senzariq. His captain met his gaze, matching it’s hardness.
Eventually, the Magister’s chest heaved and he let out a slow breath. The currency of Senzariq’s formidable leadership skills—and the loyalty he elicited from the many under his command—had worth that could not be dismissed, even by members of the Imperium. And Crav needed to prod awake the captain’s singular tenacity.
“It is vital for taking Aleria, but it’s not a weapon. It is much more. It’s an army. One that only we can summon. The Falaxis and the minerals are useless without the necessary art to employ their power. And only our chosen allies have that art, along with the means to decipher our incantations. The arrangements we have with Lazmira will give us forces that even Aleria cannot withstand.”
Senzariq knew enough of the Lazmiran priests to not doubt Crav’s claim.
The Magister continued, “Trisaya did not fall to our armies. We were the ones facing utter defeat, not them. Yet their lands are ours, to this day.”
Long before my time. But of course, I know the history. “Vashka answered our prayers,” said Senzariq.
“Indeed. They died by her hand, not ours. But she used soldiers.” Crav held up his little finger. “Infantry so small… a war-party could form up on my fingernail. A regiment in the palms of my hands!”
Senzariq frowned. “Spirits? Made by Vashka, in the crate?” Crav’s rambling had him baffled.
“Not spirits. Animals, of a sort, and made by us—with a little help from the priests. Creatures with the poison of disease in their tiny jaws. Trisaya was greatly weakened by plague. So it shall be with the rest of Aleria. My gift to Lazmira was everything they needed to create the creatures we need, and bind them to our will.”
Crav read the astonished look on his captain’s face. “Hm, hard to believe, even for a veteran like you, who’s seen so much of the world. It takes an inordinate amount of power to catalyse the enchantment, certainly. That is where the Falaxis comes in.”
“What is this Falaxis? I’ve never heard of it.”
The hint of a sneer shifted across Crav’s face. “No, you won’t have done. It’s leaves, only leaves. From a very particular tree; one that no longer exists. A small amount was preserved. The Imperium sought this remnant for more than a generation. Now it’s out there, somewhere!”
Crav smeared a hand over his face, blowing out a sigh that seemed to teeter on the edge of a tearful shriek.
Senzariq raised his eyebrows. Of all the theories he’d considered regarding his wretched mission, hunting a crate of ancient tree foliage hadn’t been among them.
“And these leaves come from Vashka?” the captain asked.
The Magister shrugged. “Its origins are unknown. I find it hard to believe that Vashka has much to do with it, though. The Falaxis is a giver of life. Our city’s patron is a mistress of war, is she not? A god that glories in the ending of things, not beginnings. Those little leaves are life and healing, with virtue to make anew. Without it, the other elements and our enchantments can barely stitch together the pieces. Only the leaf can make alive, and strong. Aleria has nothing to fear from a vast swarm of lethal little horrors that… well, can’t swarm anywhere, because they’re broken. Dead.”
Senzariq looked down, staring eyes fixed on nothing. It was quite something to take in. He had to admit, the crate’s loss was rather more serious than he’d thought. If it truly held the key to finally conquering Aleria, then it was indeed irreplaceable.
Despite his reservations, and his hatred of Crav—and the assignment the blasted man had handed down—the captain couldn’t help the old dreams stirring. Burning ambitions long since gone to frail embers, given a new spark.
Crav stood. “Look, you know almost as much as I do, now. Don’t forget my generosity, captain. I expect complete secrecy. You have more than adequate motivation for your assignment, don’t you think?”
The Magister clasped his hands behind his back, levelling another stern look at his subordinate. The meeting was over.
Senzariq gave a firm nod. “I will honour your trust, sir, by bringing it to a swift and successful conclusion.”
He meant it, this time.
The thought that he could be so pivotal to the fulfilment of Barrasus’ Oath… that kind of legacy ensured a glorious welcome into Vashka’s presence, come the end. It meant his likeness, tall and noble in white stone, standing at the great plaza he so loved, to be celebrated by all Jalyara.
He marched back to his quarters, fire in his belly and a grin on his face. His euphoria stayed with him as he fell asleep that night.
It lingered the next day. That is, until he rode out to the city’s huge port, to oversee embarkation preparations for the two companies he’d take back to rejoin his own.
The high headland road offered a spectacular panorama of the endless sea, chopped to uncounted white-crested ruts marching landwards under the brisk wind.
He reined his horse to a halt. For a long time, he gazed.
It’s too big. Who can command the wind, and the waves? Tell the sea to give it back? I’m as stupid as Crav. The box is lost, and that leaf with it.
Yesterday’s optimism, sparked by a wild hope, faltered and died.
“Leave it to the seabirds and the beach-foragers. The fish, most likely.”
He spat on the ground, as if to expel the bitterness, and with it, his part in the whole business.
Senzariq kept his appointment with the port, but not with the quartermaster he was due to meet. He had better things to do. Starting with finding a departing trade-ship, with room for a generous paying passenger, and a course plotted for the other side of anywhere.
Maybe someone out there could use a man of his talents, his experience. Someone equally dis-inclined to fool’s errands.
