The man regarded her steadily. It would not be past Holt to do such a thing. “And how do I regain this trade, fine lady?”
“Guarantee your produce. Offer to replace every faulty vessel that you sell – or have sold – with a sound one.”
“But that would cost me –”
Faraday grinned. “Only if you have been trading in faulty vessels, Jarl.”
Jarl wondered how she knew his name. But he thought on what she’d said, then smiled himself. “You have a sharp mind, lady. What should I call you? It is many days travel south to Ysbadd.”
Faraday let him help her climb into a spare space on the cart. “My name is Faraday, Jarl. Have I earned my journey?”
“You have indeed, Faraday, you have indeed.”
Ysbadd left Faraday breathless. If she had been any younger she thought she might have clapped her hands in glee. She nodded goodbye to Jarl in the main square, where he was loudly proclaiming his new idea of guarantee, and she wandered the streets for hours. The city was a riotous mixture of gaudy spires and fat domes, intermixed with cool shaded walks and parks. People thronged the streets and markets, colourful in scarves and beads, and waved from windows, shouting greetings to strangers and family alike.
As a girl Faraday had always been warned to be careful of Nors people by her thin-mouthed mother. Nors morals were not what the staid northerners agreed with. Yet wandering through the streets, Faraday decided that for all their fun-loving and indulgent lives, the Nors people were basically good-hearted.
By dusk she felt hungry, and so picked a food stall where, in return for her fill of beef stew and fresh bread, she told its proprietor where he could find the gold tooth he’d lost during a drunken party several weeks ago.
Having eaten, Faraday asked directions to the port and, once on the wharf, she walked slowly to and fro, eyeing the ships, until she finally climbed aboard a vessel with dusky pink sails and black eyes painted in the centre of each canvas. A deckhand asked her what she wanted, and she said she wanted to see the Master.
“For passage?” the deckhand asked.
“Yes. I have heard you provision for a voyage to the Island of Mist and Memory.”
“Oh aye,” the deckhand muttered. “We provision, alright, but I doubt we’ll be voyaging anywhere in the near future.”
“Nevertheless, I would like to see the Master of the vessel.”
“Very well,” the deckhand said, and led her below.
“Go away!” a voice shouted when Faraday knocked politely on the cabin door.
“I believe,” Faraday said clearly, “that you’ve lost your nerve.”
There was utter silence on the other side of the door.
“I have come to help you find it again,” Faraday said, and folded her hands and waited.
After a moment the door opened.
35
SpikeFeather’s Search
“Send someone else to watch the Star Gate,” SpikeFeather told Caelum, “for Orr has gone.”
That is all he said, for since his apprenticeship to the Ferryman SpikeFeather had developed a secrecy about him that had not been there previously. SpikeFeather knew there was something wrong, and he knew Orr had disappeared, but until he knew exactly what had happened he was not going to waste Caelum’s time with speculations.
Once SpikeFeather had been an ordinary Icarii, not even an Enchanter. Just a birdman who did his best at whatever he’d been assigned to. More by accident than design, SpikeFeather had found himself commanding the Strike Force during the last months of Axis’ campaign against Gorgrael, but he had not truly felt comfortable in the position, and once peace had settled over Tencendor, he’d handed the position of Strike Leader to DareWing FullHeart.
Besides, he owed a life to the Ferryman.
SpikeFeather had spent many years in the Overworld after his pact with the Ferryman in return for Orr transporting the children to safety, but fifteen years ago Orr had summoned SpikeFeather to the waterways.
There, Orr had begun to teach the birdman.
SpikeFeather was never quite sure what the Ferryman taught him.
It was not magic, for SpikeFeather remembered no spells and had no power to wield them in any case.
It was not the explanations to great mysteries, for SpikeFeather never remembered feeling very enlightened.
Orr had mostly just talked, generally about what he had seen and heard over the past millennia – and over fifteen years he had barely managed to scratch the surface of his experiences.
SpikeFeather only spent a few months of each year in the waterways. Orr often told him that he needed to spend as much time reflecting as he did absorbing, so in those months he spent in the Overworld, SpikeFeather wandered about Sigholt, sometimes talking with one or two of the SunSoars, mostly just thinking.
SpikeFeather had been standing atop Sigholt when Orr’s terror struck him. Apart from a few disjointed words, nothing had reached him but that terror.
Terror? SpikeFeather had not known Orr to be capable of such emotion.
Now SpikeFeather sat in a small flat-bottomed boat in the centre of a vast underground violet lake. Above him soared an immense domed roof of multifaceted crystals.
Where was Orr?
SpikeFeather did not know. He had called, but Orr had not appeared.
SpikeFeather could try to look for him, but if the past fifteen years had taught SpikeFeather anything it was that the waterways of the Underworld were so vast that to search for someone without a clear idea of where they might be would be to search in vain.
So SpikeFeather searched for clues in the words that Orr had sent him.
Qeteb. SpikeFeather frowned, rolling the word about his mouth until whispers echoed off the crystal roof.
Qeteb.
He did not know it. Nothing Orr had ever said in the past alluded to a Qeteb. It meant nothing in any of the languages SpikeFeather knew. All he knew was that with the word, Orr had passed across the knowledge of indescribable terror.
SpikeFeather shivered.
Qeteb meant nothing. What else? Grail. Grail King. Beware the Grail King in the Maze.
Only one word had some association for SpikeFeather. Was the repeated Grail a reference to Grail Lake? If so, then what?
SpikeFeather tried to think it through, but found no answers and came to no conclusions. Orr had never mentioned anything about the Sacred Lakes, and yet…yet…wasn’t there a mystery about them?
SpikeFeather sighed, and turned his mind to the other word.
The Maze. Orr had sent the message, “Beware the Grail King in the Maze.” And then, “Attend the Maze!”
The Maze? The Maze?
Where was Orr, where was he? SpikeFeather needed to find him, to get him to explain what this Maze was, and why SpikeFeather had to attend it. And why had Orr been so terrified of this Qeteb, and the Grail King?
SpikeFeather sighed. Even if he was almost certain he would never find Orr amid the meanderings of the waterways, he needed to try. He took hold of the oars and began his search.
The waterways was a world both magical and physical. Thousands of leagues of actual physical waterways wound about underneath Tencendor and the surrounding oceans, but the magical waterways extended far further. Those Icarii Enchanters who knew how, and who commanded enough power, could manipulate the waterways to mirror the various melodies of the Star Dance. If an Enchanter sang a Song to accomplish his or her purpose, then someone with the knowledge could travel a waterway that matched the pattern of the Song to accomplish the same purpose.
It was cumbersome, but possible.
But not for SpikeFeather. He was not an Enchanter, and Orr had never taught him the magical secrets of the waterways. So SpikeFeather travelled the waterways the most difficult way of all, by the strength of his own muscles and the labour of his heart.
He had no idea where to start looking for the ever secretive Orr, or for this Maze, or for any way to approach the Grail Lake via the waterways. The only
one of the Sacred Lakes he knew the path to was the Lake of Life, and that was only because Orr had needed to show him an easy way to travel between Sigholt and the waterways.
So SpikeFeather rowed. He followed his instincts, and when that got him nowhere he followed his frustration and anger.
Where was Orr? What had he been so terrified of? What was wrong?
Who or what was Qeteb? The Grail King? The Maze?
SpikeFeather rowed. He rowed through caverns where grey stone cities lay smothered in cobwebs. He rowed through forests of glass and enamel. He rowed along waterways that were lined with weed, and some that were lined with figures carved from ice. He passed strange creatures embalmed in limestone, and others stranger trapped in petrified wood.
But he did not find Orr.
Finally, after many days, SpikeFeather sat in his flat bottomed boat in the centre of the violet lake and wept. He had failed Orr in his hour of need. He had proven a failure as a pupil, and an even worse failure as a friend.
Orr had trusted him with those words and phrases, as he had trusted him to know he was terrified, perhaps unto death, and yet SpikeFeather could not help him.
Eventually SpikeFeather raised his eyes. There must be something he could do.
Who else had spent time with Orr in the waterways? Axis SunSoar had, but Axis SunSoar would reveal nothing of what he had learned from the Ferryman.
But there were others. The Lake Guard. As children they’d spent a night with Orr on their way from Talon Spike to Sigholt. No-one knew better than SpikeFeather how strangely time passed within the waterways. What if those children had spent one night of Overworld time in the waterways, but a year of Underworld time?
The children had been changed, all agreed on that. They were apparently loyal to Caelum, but did they in fact care more for…
“Orr,” SpikeFeather whispered. The Lake Guard must know something! And if not, then would they not help search for Orr?
Yes, surely.
Suddenly glad-hearted, SpikeFeather grabbed at the oars and rowed for the Lake of Life.
It was an arduous journey, and he was close to exhaustion when he emerged onto the moonlit lake. But once he’d moored the boat close to Sigholt he managed to wing his way to the roof with alacrity. Answers waited, and Orr needed his help.
There was no-one about as SpikeFeather made his way down to the quarters where slept WingRidge CurlClaw, the captain of the Lake Guard.
SpikeFeather tapped at the door gently, not wanting to startle the birdman, but was startled himself when it swung open to reveal WingRidge sitting at a table.
“Greetings, SpikeFeather,” WingRidge said.
“You knew I was coming,” SpikeFeather said, slipping into the room and closing the door behind him.
WingRidge shrugged. “I was merely passing the night with my memories. I thought you had gone back to the waterways, SpikeFeather.”
SpikeFeather was in the act of sitting down opposite the captain when he saw the embroidered device on the birdman’s uniform as if for the first time. A complicated knot – but weren’t all knots simplified mazes?
SpikeFeather slowly sat down and looked WingRidge in the eye. “I had to come back.”
“Really?” WingRidge leaned back and poured them both some wine. “How so?”
SpikeFeather briefly explained what he had experienced atop the roof of Sigholt, and the sense of terror that Orr had passed across to him.
“Terror?” WingRidge became suddenly very watchful. Orr had been standing guard at the Star Gate. What had he seen? Heard?
“I could not understand it. It was a terror so great it was almost formless. With the terror he passed across some words.”
“Yes?”
“Qeteb.”
WingRidge slowly put his glass down and stared at SpikeFeather.
“Beware the Grail King in the Maze.” SpikeFeather watched WingRidge’s reaction carefully, then leaned forward and tapped the birdman on the chest. “You know of what I speak!”
WingRidge nodded, his eyes shifting as he thought quickly. If Orr had been at the Star Gate, and if he knew of Qeteb, then he could only have known by two means. Firstly, he’d discovered Qeteb by a means as yet beyond the Star Gate. But WingRidge didn’t think that the case, for he’d have known – all would have known – if disaster was that close. No, Orr had likely found out via the Sceptre that Drago carried, and that meant the Maze wanted Orr and, through him, SpikeFeather, to know.
It also meant that Drago had likely stepped through the Star Gate. WingRidge almost smiled with satisfaction, then remembered SpikeFeather sitting impatiently before him.
“Then the time is nigh,” he said slowly, and did not know whether to feel excited…or terrified.
“Tell me!”
“Most of it I cannot, SpikeFeather.”
“WingRidge, Orr also told me that I must attend the Maze.”
WingRidge stared at his glass, his eyes carefully veiled.
“Curse you, WingRidge, I need to know where to find this Maze…this Qeteb!”
WingRidge laughed harshly, utterly devoid of humour. “No, no, you never wish to find Qeteb!”
SpikeFeather, exhausted and emotionally drained, lost his temper. “What demon do you owe your cursed loyalty to, WingRidge? What –”
“Never say I owe my loyalty to a demon!” WingRidge screamed. Leaping to his feet, he sent the table crashing to the floor with one furious twist of his wrist. “I owe my loyalty to the StarSon! Not to any damned demon!”
His fury stunned SpikeFeather back into silence.
WingRidge took a deep breath and calmed himself. “I offer my apologies, SpikeFeather. You are closely associated with Orr and the waterways, and it was you who first brought us into contact with the Underworld. For that I, as all the Lake Guard, remain in your debt.”
He paused, and rubbed his eyes. When he looked back at SpikeFeather they were rimmed with dread. “If the Grail King stirs, then so I must speak. Especially since the Maze appears to require your presence. Yes, I owe you some explanation. Please, will you help me right this table so we may sit in comfort again?”
SpikeFeather assisted him, then they sat, each silent on his side of the table.
After a while WingRidge began to speak in a quiet, even tone. “When you left us with Orr we floated only a small distance with the Ferryman before he left us to continue our own way. The boats we sat in were magically guided, and all we had to do was sit and sing to get to the Lake of Life.”
“But –”
“But someone else came to us down in the waterways, SpikeFeather, and told us of a mighty secret.”
“Who?”
Silence for a long time. Then, very quietly, “WolfStar SunSoar.”
“Ah!” SpikeFeather exclaimed. “Will this WolfStar never leave us alone?”
“He showed us a great mystery,” WingRidge said, a trifle defensively.
“He manipulated you.”
“He showed us the Maze,” WingRidge said. “And he showed us our purpose.”
“Your purpose?”
“To serve the StarSon as best we might.”
And well you show it, SpikeFeather thought, for sometimes you barely give Caelum the time of day. “Where is this Maze?”
WingRidge hesitated. “Very well. You have reason enough to know. Look,” and, pulling a piece of parchment to himself, WingRidge drew a plan with swift, dark strokes.
36
Kastaleon
As the autumn thickened with clouds overhead, Zared moved on Kastaleon. He did not want to initiate a war, he did not want to evoke images and memories of invasion or treason, he only wanted to make a point. And so Zared did not invade Kastaleon with an army, or even an armed force, but with a relatively small group of men.
By the first week in Bone-Month Zared had his army stationed at a point some two leagues to the north-west of Kastaleon – a morning’s ride away. Zared was tense and worried, as were Herme and Theod. Had they mana
ged to pass unnoticed through Aldeni, or did the captain of Kastaleon have intelligence of their movements? Would his arrival be a surprise, or quietly awaited? Zared had done his best to keep the army to uninhabited stretches of Aldeni, and Theod had spread the word among his people that the least said about any sightings of Prince Zared and a force moving south the better…but Zared well knew that a single loose tongue could mean a trap awaiting him at Kastaleon.
Even a vengeful Caelum.
A vengeful Leagh was bad enough. After they’d moved away from the almost disastrous river crossing at the Azle, she’d spent days – and long nights – pleading with him to turn back to Severin. Marry me there, she’d said, rubbing her naked body against his, and we will ride out Caelum’s anger. And if there are further disputes between you, then surely Council would be the best place to reason them out.
When he’d continued to refuse to turn for home, Leagh had become angry. Again she’d accused him of lying to her, deceiving her.
“And deceiving your parents’ trust in you,” she said several nights ago, “for they believed you’d remain loyal to the Throne of the Stars.”
That had been too much, and Zared, furious, had moved his sleeping roll away from her for the rest of the night.
His fury was also tinged with guilt. What would she do when she learned that he was intent on reclaiming the Acharite throne, and on regaining the Acharites their pride? She would certainly then believe he only loved her for her inheritance. That was wrong, Zared told himself during the rest of that long, lonely night, for he did love her, and as much for her wit and charm and strength of character (which he currently cursed) as her lands.
Zared admitted to himself that part of Leagh’s appeal lay in her inheritance, and that inheritance could not possibly be divorced from his current crusade. It was naive of her to think otherwise.
But this evening, as he watched his men set up camp above Kastaleon, Zared sighed, and vowed to make peace with Leagh as soon as he could. Gods knew what would happen if she refused to marry him…