“That’s why I’m here,” Fenric said with a smile, “to guide you. And so now I have: be the character, not yourself.”
Rose found herself fighting the idea. Could she still be friends with Tappan if the person befriending him was a fiction? The idea repelled her. “I don’t want to lie all the time.”
“No character should be fully a lie,” Fenric said in agreement. “If they didn’t draw upon all that we are—with slight modifications, of course—they wouldn’t be believable. You must also be yourself.”
Rose nodded, wondering what parts of her own personal history she could let others hear while dreading the thought that anything must be thrown out.
“Good,” Fenric said, pleased to see her deep in thought. He adjusted in his seat, preparing himself to speak. “I’ll go to the Captain in a moment, but first you must tell me: do you bleed?”
“Excuse me?” Rose snapped. Her eyes shot up to his face in shock.
“Monthly,” Fenric clarified, “do you bleed?”
Rose attempted to hide her mortified expression as blood rushed to her cheeks. She mumbled as loud as she dared, “I do not want to discuss that with you.”
“And I don’t want to discuss it with you,” Fenric said in hearty agreement, “but one must sometimes do unpleasant things for the greater good. It’s of the utmost importance to me that your disguise not fail, so tell me, do you bleed?”
“Y-yes,” Rose said, feeling she might die of embarrassment.
“Right,” Fenric said, adjusting in his seat in what Rose recognized as his own discomfort. “This is what has to be done…”
As Fenric talked her through the method of concealing herself in mortifying detail, Rose sunk further down into her seat, cheeks violently red.
* * * * *
The boy called Teagan pushed his oar through the icy water, his cool gray eyes on the broken horizon and his cheeks rosy in the cold, Bruinbak air. He could hear—not through his unused ears but through his skin—the buzzing of his guardian’s deep voice. He did not understand the words, but they soothed him anyway. Briggan was a speaker of quiet intensity: he spoke at the level of the waves, with a calming timbre so in tune with the icy landscape that it juxtaposed his muscular, fur-covered body.
Though his Bruin guardian embodied every semblance of safety and strength the boy had ever known, Teagan viewed him with an empty-eyed indifference. Nothing in this cold landscape had ever held any meaning to him—no person, no place, no thing. All was ice, to the growing boy. All was empty.
The bleached wooden canoe crunched against the icy shore on which they landed, and Briggan’s giant boots soon followed. Letting his body become limp, Teagan allowed himself be lifted from the small boat and set upon the clean white snow. He squinted at the sudden brightness, looking up for the first time at the mountainous glaciers that surrounded them. In contrast to the newly fallen snow, their edges were a deep, eternally cold blue.
Heaving their backpacks from the canoe, Briggan placed the lightest on Teagan’s shoulders and tied it around his waist. Also around his waist, the Bruin attached a short length of cord that connected them at the belt. The boy knew that by Bruinbak standards he was too old to still be traveling with a tether, but he didn’t much care. The Bruin Fjords and the ice fields beyond were lands of constant danger. In the ever-changing landscape of melting and freezing glaciers, it took only one misstep to fall through a fissure and down into the unknown depths of ice and sea. For the absent-minded Teagan, who never paid much attention to one step or another, a cord was still a necessity.
And so they set off, Briggan diligently thrusting his steel-tipped spear into the path ahead of them, checking for hidden hollows. Only when he knew the ground ahead was solid did he take a carefully measured step. Shifting his weight, he again shot out his spear, testing, and the slow process of walking the ice began again.
They’d been hiking for nearly an hour when their quarry was spotted: a brilliantly white Ice Bear and her two small cubs. The creatures were slowly plodding through the camouflaged landscape.
At the sight of them, Teagan smiled. At the thought of what his guardian was about to do, the smile fell.
Quietly setting down his heavy pack and removing Teagan’s with practiced ease, Briggan detached a bow and arrow from each. Still tied together by a tether, the mute boy followed his guardian behind a jutting rock. They watched the bear cubs capering around their mother, who lumbered resolutely seawards.
Briggan nocked an arrow, gesturing for Teagan to do the same. The boy did what he was told, but a small ache grew steadily in his heart. He knew what came next, of course—they would kill the mother and cubs and stain the white snow incongruously red.
Pulling back the arrow with his strong arms, Briggan closed one eye and watched the wind dance through the white fur lining of his heavy hood. He adjusted against it.
Teagan aimed as well, pulling back on his much smaller bow. He aimed it to where he knew the bear’s heart would be, then shifted ever so slightly away. He shifted only enough to miss, but not enough to give the impression that he hadn’t tried. His guardian didn’t like it when he didn’t try.
Briggan grunted his readiness and Teagan let his arrow fly. Fractions of a second later, the Bruin’s arrow was let loose also. Faster than the blink of an eye, Briggan’s arrow pierced the mother bear’s shoulder, sinking deep into her mighty white body. To his surprise and upset, Teagan’s hit one of the cubs, which had tumbled, unexpectedly, into the area he had thought would be empty.
The cub fell instantly under the fatal hit while the mother bear roared in pain and fury. Teagan, frightened by the waves of terror that pulsed from her, stumbled backwards. In so doing, he was seen. He wanted to comfort her—wanted to take away her pain—but she charged at him instead, full of rage.
Heedless of the danger, Briggan took up his spear and strode past the shivering boy. The wounded animal dove into range, and the Bruin shoved his spear into her thick white fur. The bear reared up, roaring. Her pain shot through Teagan’s brain like fire, and he clung to a nearby rock, hiding his face from her inevitable slaughter.
Something else happened, however. As the mother bear dropped her enormous weight onto all fours, there was a sickening sound of cracking ice. The fracture spread swiftly, crumbling and splitting, until—before Bear or Bruin could react—the frozen landscape below them shattered and they were plummeted into an abyss.
His arms still wrapped around the rock, Teagan barely registered the ice’s disappearance before—all at once—the immense weight of Briggan was held solely by the cord around the boy’s waist.
For perhaps the first time, Teagan let out a long, strangled cry. He felt as though his body was being torn in two. His hands tightened instinctively around the rock, but his grip was rapidly failing. As he struggled for breath, he was pulled ever closer to the gaping chasm.
Then, as quickly as the weight had been forced upon his slight body, it disappeared. Teagan sat still, taking deep, ragged breaths. Gradually, his hold on the black stone was relaxed. His eyes never strayed from the edge of the fallen ice. He expected Briggan’s familiar head to pop up over the edge at any moment, but his guardian was nowhere to be seen.
After some time, Teagan slowly stood, inching towards the yawning void. As he drew nearer, he could see the sleek, hard lines of the chasm wall dropping down on all sides. Not sure of what to expect, he continued to inch forward, but the walls fell ever farther, never ending, until they were swallowed by darkness.
Feeling slightly dizzy, Teagan took a steadying breath and leaned himself over the edge, still expecting to see Briggan clinging to the ice—the man of muscle and brawn who had regimented the boy’s every move for as long as his young memory had functioned.
There was nothing there, however—only ice and darkness and the end of their tether, sacrificially cut so that the boy might live.
* * * * *
The cord was ripped from Cricket’s skilled grasp, a pulli
ng of the rough rope over his hands that caused the threads to heat and burn at his palms. Hands on fire, he looked up to see the surly form of Auk McRae leaning over him.
“That’s damned sloppy work, boy,” snarled Auk, examining the braided rope.
Cricket looked down to see that he had indeed been doing a shoddy job of it. The cord bulged in several places, the splice inexpert and unsafe. His palms still smarting, however, he turned to his would-be teacher with a spark of anger already ignited. “I thought you were a monkey trainer these days. No one asked you.”
“It’s any man’s job to look for poor work,” said Auk. “I ain’t got no problem telling ye that. And if I see it more on this ship, I’ll make sure ye ain’t on it no more.”
Cricket stood, blood rushing to his face. “You don’t have that kind of power,” he sassed, his fists forming. “The only reason you were promoted at all was because you knew how to get to that stupid fishmonger’s town.”
“Aye,” Auk agreed, letting the insult slip over him, “and the only reason ye’re not the ship’s Monkey no more is because we took on some boys even more clueless than ye.”
“That ain’t true,” Cricket cried. He pounded his chest. “I’m a great sailor. Everyone says so.”
“Show me one man who’s said any such thing,” Auk demanded with a chuckle. “Ye’re as oh-blivious as a tick on a goat, but ye’ve pride enough to think ye’re the Cap’n of the ship.”
“I don’t—” Cricket began, his face now scarlet.
“Look here, I got my eye on ye,” Auk said, grabbing the boy’s shirt and pulling him close to his own oily green eyes. “And I can’t have ye getting in my way. Now, ye go scrub with the newbies. That’s all ye’re good for.”
Disdainfully, Auk released Cricket’s shirt and walked off. Falling back, the former shipboy smoothed out his clothes, mumbling several less-than-clever retorts as he thought of them. He checked to make sure that no casual observers had seen this exchange.
It had been seen, however, by the silent Ikpek, who was applying tar to a loose board.
Cricket gave his shirt another tug, a deep frown creasing his face. “What’re you looking at?”
The silent Tikaani shook his head rapidly, his eyes wide.
“You think just because you can’t speak people are gonna think you’re part of the deck?” Cricket asked, stepping closer while holding his burning fists aggressively forward. “Lazy savage. You’re as worthless as people say.”
Ikpek sat up, alert. He looked around for help, but there was none in sight.
“Your name sounds like someone spitting,” Cricket said, sending a projectile of this substance towards the startled Tikaani.
The spittle hit Ikpek’s trouser leg and he looked at it in disgust.
Cricket sneered and continued, “Oh, my spit’s not good enough for you? Well I think it might be too good. Maybe I should make you pay for it.”
Cricket lunged towards Ikpek, who stood up with wiry fluidity and sidestepped the red-haired boy’s clumsy grasp. Cricket raised his fists, a bloodthirsty expression coming to his eyes.
“Come on,” he yelled, lunging and finding that his fist had met thin air once more. “Come on, defend yourself! What’s wrong, you too stupid?”
Taking a step back, Cricket allowed Ikpek to regain the center of the deck. He lunged once more, and again the Tikaani rapidly shifted out of the way.
“Come on, stupid savage,” Cricket yelled, forgetting to keep his voice down. “Fight me!”
Cricket made another lunge, but as he moved forward, his body was snapped violently back. This change in momentum dropped him to the deck. He looked up to see that Auk had grabbed him by the back of his shirt. He tried to get up, but the Second’s boot held him down. He fought back tears of indignation.
“The slave boy’s a good worker,” Auk scolded. “Better than ye. Don’t ye be touching him, unless ye’re lookin’ to be tossed overboard.”
Auk sauntered away without demanding a response. Mortified, Cricket squinted at the Tikaani, who’d turned quickly back to his task. He couldn’t forget what the slave boy had seen, however, and his cheeks burned with hatred.
* * * * *
Captain Kaille placed a loving hand on the familiar rise of a wooden eagle’s wing that rose over the rail of his ship before smoothly tapering into curved feathers nearly halfway down the hull. It seemed only a short time ago that, as a child, Kaille had climbed over the rail and onto the bowsprit, riding upon the eagle’s proud head as she soared across the waves. So much of his childhood had been spent on the Turnagain, it felt more like home than any other place he’d ever been.
To his right, however, Jas Hawkesbury stood, incapable of feeling any such reverie for the ship beneath him. His mind was entirely occupied by the absence of the mysterious Fenric.
“Do you think he means to leave us hanging?” Jas said after they’d been waiting for longer than was usually tolerated.
Kaille smiled at his friend’s impatience. It was true that he wouldn’t brook tardiness in his sailors, but Fenric wasn’t one of his sailors. In truth, Fenric was more like his employer. It was an unsettling thought. “I’m sure he was reasonably detained,” said the Captain tactfully.
“Of course,” Jas agreed sardonically. “He must’ve needed time to come up with just the right story to lull us into submission.”
Kaille frowned. He knew his friend had every reason to doubt the self-proclaimed Scribe. Hadn’t Fenric lied to them with every vague word he’d ever suavely uttered? Part of the Captain hoped that he could get the Scribe to his destination without having to figure out whether or not the old man was a murderer. Another part of him had a feeling that the answer was far more complicated than guilt or innocence.
“Patience, old friend,” Kaille said. He motioned across the ship to the limping figure that emerged from below the quarterdeck. “He moves slowly these days.”
The two turned to watch Fenric’s slow approach. The Scribe’s leg had been near fatally crushed when he and Ben had rescued the man from a sinking ship those fateful nights ago. When he was within easy earshot, Kaille gave him a respectful nod. “Thank you for making yourself so readily available.”
“Your company is always welcome, Captain,” Fenric said charmingly. “And yours as well, Master Hawkesbury, if I may be so bold.”
Jas frowned at him, crossing muscled arms over his chest.
“Have you heard of Misero’s Eye?” Kaille asked the Scribe without further ceremony.
“Not as such,” Fenric answered, brow furrowed in confusion. “Misero is the Illian name for the god of the sea…”
“Aye,” Jas said, as though in retort, “and his Eye is the sharp knife of justice at the watery edges of the world.”
Kaille held up a hand to hedge his old friend’s poetic streak. “Every ship that sails does so as a supplication to Misero,” explained the Captain, motioning to the symbol carved into the decks below them. It was a broad, solid circle, and inside another circle made of waves there was a wide eye. “As his gift to us, he has bestowed a gateway to his power.”
“I’ve seen this symbol before on the decks of Illian ships,” Fenric offered, “but I’d never thought to ask what they were.”
“That’s because it’s your worst nightmare, Scribe,” Jas grumbled. Fenric pretended not to hear this and begged his pardon, but the shiphand offered no repetition of his sentiments.
“The Eye is a place of truth, for at sea, truth is of the utmost importance to survival,” said the Captain, taking up the narrative. “Where one is candid, it’s here that he receives Misero’s blessing, but where one deals in deception, this is where he is forever damned.”
“That’s a very colorful superstition,” Fenric said, trying on his most winning smile.
“I’ve seen with my own eyes men who were washed overboard after lying to the Eye,” Jas hissed, puffing out his chest. “And you risk the same for putting taboos and superstitions on level with t
he gods.”
Kaille put a calming hand on his shiphand’s shoulder. “My colleague feels it unwise of me to have waited so long to talk to you,” Kaille explained. “But in my experience, a person’s first reaction to any accusation is defensiveness and denial, even if they’re innocent. I’d rather speak intelligibly and with an audience, for if you answer rashly at the Eye, you may regret it all your life.”
“I see,” Fenric said thoughtfully. “I flatter myself that I’m honest whenever possible, but your concern for my well-being is admirable.”
“Just talk, Scribe,” Jas cut in. “What have you to say about Whyl Winesmith’s testimony against you?”
“I can’t,” Fenric began, “and wouldn’t claim to have left Master Winesmith unmolested.”
“So you did try to kill him,” the shiphand accused.
“Please, Jas…” Kaille begged. He’d considered carefully whether or not to include his friend in the interview, and he was on the edge of regretting his decision to allow it.
“I understand your frustration well, Master Hawkesbury,” Fenric said sympathetically. “And yes, after a fashion, I suppose I did.”
“You suppose?” Jas leapt on this. “Is attempted murder a thing so uncertain in your eyes?”
“Indeed not,” Fenric answered smoothly, “but our quarrel arose from a misunderstanding. Were my suspicions found to be correct, I would’ve been honor-bound to take action.”
“And what were you suspicious of?” Kaille asked seriously.
“Ah, well,” Fenric waved a vague hand, “I happen to have another acquaintance named Whyl Winesmith who I, upon seeing his name on the roster to sail, assumed this man to be. For a time I wondered if he had stolen my friend’s identity in order to get close to me…however, it was only the theory of a paranoid mind.”
Kaille frowned deeply and looked over at Jas, who was equally incredulous.
“That hardly seems a thorough explanation for Whyl’s fear at the very thought of you,” Kaille said generously.
Fenric had the decency to look shamefaced. He ran a nervous hand through his gray hair. “I, uh…I can be threatening when I need to be, Captain, and I have much remorse for my behavior in this instance. I can’t, I’m afraid, claim infallibility.”