The Hidden Fire (Book 2) (3 page)

They
skipped across the flats, quickly coming to another rocky drop-off.  The
whirling funnel broke apart as it careened over the edge and spilled them out,
and they dropped in a spray of sand towards a pit where it all drained into the
earth.  They plunged into the pit —

—
and deep into cool clear water.

Rolirra
swam up to him, smiling, a bubble escaping from her mouth as she laughed
underwater.  They were in tropical shallows, and she led him deeper, skimming
the sea floor, past glowing purple fan coral, phosphorescent brain coral,
though schools of electrified barracuda.

They
came to a deeper place where encrusted rock formations rose from the floor of
the ocean.  Hundreds of wrecked ships lay broken on the rocks.  They swam among
the wrecks.  None of them were covered with sediment.  The brass fittings still
shone, and the decks looked as clean as the day they launched.

Rolirra
stopped and hovered before a wooden figurehead at the bow of a small caravel. 
Her hair floated around her head like a nest of black snakes.

Like
most of them, this figurehead had been carved in the form of a bare-breasted
woman, but this one wasn’t an idealized mermaid or angel.  It was a Terrulan
woman, eyes closed and naked to the world, worked in such fine detail that
Kyric could see blemishes in her skin.

Then
she opened her eyes.  And they were the cat-like diamond eyes he had seen so
many times, green and glowing, looking at him accusingly.

Suddenly
he was almost out of air.  He looked at Rolirra, pointing to himself, then to
the surface, and started up.  She stopped him and opened her mouth.  She was
taking deep breaths of water, and she signaled him to do the same.  He had
noticed that the water wasn’t salty, but what did that have to do with
anything?  He couldn’t breathe water.  She pried gently on his lips with her
fingers, mouthing,
Go ahead, it will be alright
.

He
couldn’t stay under any longer.  He swam for the surface, but Rolirra grabbed
his ankle at the last instant.  His lungs ached, and the edges of his vision
began to darken.  He desperately tried to kick free.  He clawed at the water as
she pulled him back.  He was suffocating.

He
woke gagging on water, his face and hair wet.  He coughed and spit and was able
to breathe.  Aiyan stood over him with a water skin.

“You
were thrashing all around and wouldn’t wake up,” he said.  “Thought you were
going to hurt yourself.  I tried yanking your leg first, but it didn’t work.”

Kyric
sat up and vomited half a gallon of clear water onto the floor of the cabin. 
“How much of that did you pour into me?”

“I
only splashed a little on your face,” Aiyan answered.  “You must have had a
thirsty night.”

Kyric
slipped into his shirt and reached for his breeches.  “Aiyan.  I’ve had a
couple of dreams that feel very real.  They’re not normal dreams, not even for
me.  There’s this girl that’s taking me places and showing me things.  I don’t
know what it means, but there seems to be little coincidences — the first time,
there was that fire right after I dreamed a firebird set the ship aflame.  And
just now I dreamed that I was drowning.”

Aiyan
shook his head.  “I’m afraid I know little of the dream world.  This would be a
question for Master Zahaias.”

“I’m
probably making too much of this,” Kyric said.  “I most likely sleepwalked and
did
drink a gallon of water.  Anyone might dream that they were drowning after
that.”

“Perhaps,”
said Aiyan.  “I can tell you this much — now is the moment of the sleeping
moon.  It’s a time when dreams can be significant.  I’ve had an interesting one
myself.”

“Yes?”

“I
dreamed that I was seventeen again, fighting in the war against the Jakavians.” 
He fell quiet while he tied his sash.  “I thought I had stopped having that
dream years ago.”

As
they finished morning practice, Kyric said, “If swordsmanship is required, I
suppose it will be many years before I can try for Esaiya again.  How long does
it take to become skilled at this?”

“You’re
at an age where you can take long strides.  If we keep practicing like this for
five hours a day, technical proficiency will come quicker than you think.  I
was little more than a year younger than you the first time I picked up a sword.
 Within a year you’ll know if you can aspire to the highest levels of this
form.  With talent and dedication, you could be stepping onto that level in
three years.  After five years, I can tell you that any improvement comes in
painfully small steps.

“But
technique and training is only part of the reason that we are the best
swordsmen in the world.  If you can open yourself to the weird as you fight,
you gain remarkable insight and intuition within the eternal moment.  With
guidance from the Unknowable, the ultimate goal is to simply hold onto the
sword and allow it to do the fighting.”

Kyric
shook his head.  “How do I learn to do that?”

Aiyan
smiled.  “That is part of a mystery that the masters call the symmetry of
power.  The Way of the Flame is not one of meditation — it is a way of moving. 
Perfecting these simple physical movements will refine your spirit to its
warrior essence, and in turn your warrior essence invites the weird to perfect
your movement.  One comes not before the other.”

“No
beginning and no end?”

“Exactly
so.”

That
afternoon, Aiyan blindfolded himself and handed Kyric his practice sword. 
“Place it somewhere on the main deck, within reach if you please.  Be silent
and give me no clues to where it is.”

When
it was done, Aiyan turned from side to side, his nose held up like he was
trying to smell it.  He struck out for it with a confident stride, stopping and
sidestepping when the scuttlebutt blocked his path.  He walked past the sword,
then turned and came back, bending down and retrieving it with only a little
groping.

Returning,
he handed Kyric the blindfold.  “This is a lesson in the knowing of directions. 
Empty yourself.  Open the correct door and you can do this.”

Kyric
prepared himself as if for a bow shot.  When Aiyan told him to begin, he
breathed out all that was he, and breathed in something greater.  He took one
hesitant step, not really feeling anything.  Then another.  He stopped, and
just let himself go, as if he were floating in water.  Aiyan apparently lost
patience with him then, because he took Kyric by the hand, led him down the
rail, and pulled his fingers straight to the sword.  Kyric picked it up and
stood, tearing the blindfold off and starting to say, “Why did you — ” but
Aiyan was twenty steps away, looking a little nonplussed.

“Took
me a hundred tries before I did it even once,” he said.  “Maybe it was
beginners luck.”

Kyric’s hand began to shake.  “I . . . I
don’t think so, Aiyan.”

The
ship turned eastward the next morning and the ocean turned greener as they
entered the Straits of Terrula.  Kyric had had a restless night, tossing and
turning with the thought of larger forces using him.  It had truly felt like
someone — some
thing
— had taken hold of his hand.

The
passage was far wider than he had expected, and they sailed along the rows of
tumbled down cliffs making up the Alerian shore, the land to the south
remaining out of sight.  They crossed to the other side the next day, sighting
the low-lying shore of Terrula and the small colony that Kandin had founded
there.  A dozen tall ships lay at anchor in the harbor.

“New
Kandin is there to supply the fleets of the Syrolian allies,” Aiyan said. 
“Sevdin and Aeva maintain their squadrons at Ularra, but the Syrolians aren’t
willing to rely on the political circus of the ruling council.”

The
sun had set behind them and deep twilight had come before they sighted Ularra. 
From a distance Kyric could see clearly that it was the tip of a peninsula. 
The city stood on a great flat rock jutting above forested lowlands that ran
southward.  It grew fully dark as they approached, and two bright lights slowly
grew above the faint glow of the harbor.  The sailing master steered between
them, and when they at last entered the port it was through two curving horns
of rocky land, each one tipped by a huge stone tower.  Large fires burned at
the top of each tower, but not so great as Kyric had imagined when he saw them
miles out to sea.

“Why
do they seem so bright?” he asked.

The
sailing master answered.  “They’re each backed by a great bronze mirror.  Makes
them beam.”

Then
Kyric remembered the story in the Eddur.  The first king of Ularra had been the
mage and artificer, Aelat.  He built sets of lenses and magic mirrors that
could focus the light of the sun so that it would set aflame any ship invading
the harbor.  Aelat had been defeated, of course, when his enemy attacked at
night.  Just a story?  Kyric didn’t know anymore.  He wondered if the burned
remains of ancient warships lay beneath the dark waters.

After
the ship had docked, Aiyan led Kyric down the gangplank with his sea chest on
one shoulder and his duffle on the other.  Kyric had no idea of where he kept
the nautical charts.  They went a few blocks in, and a few blocks along and
ended in a street of old houses.

“Look for doors with bells tied to
them.  That means they have a room for rent — the more bells the more rooms.”

After
eighteen days at sea, walking felt strange, and sleeping in a bed that didn’t
move felt even stranger.  But they were up early, and after a breakfast of
buttery corncake and
calat
, hot milk spiked with bitter-tasting roots,
they went out.

“Before
we do anything else,” said Aiyan, “I want to visit an armorer.”

“What
for?”

Aiyan
looked at him.  “Armor.  No, not breastplates and mail skirts.  Just something
that might slow down a spear or an arrow.”

Ularra
was a city of many tongues.  Kyric could hear smatters of Avic, Baskillian, and
Jakavian coming from the market stalls as they passed, but there didn’t seem to
be a Terrulan language.  Terrulan fishermen bartered their catch in Cor’el.  It
was also a city of trees.  Kyric hadn’t noticed in the dark, but tall, skinny
trees grew at the street corners, in the alleys, between the houses — almost
everywhere.  Little marsupial monkeys nested in the high limbs and ran the
rooftops.

The
armorer had the straight black hair of the native Terrulans, along with the
traditional tiny feathers in his pierced ears.  Aiyan signed a greeting in Cor’el
and the man returned it, asking them in perfect Avic what they needed.  He measured
their torsos, taking each measurement with a ball of string, then cutting the
string and tacking it to the wall.  Apparently they were getting vests of
hardened leather that would lace up the sides.  Aiyan paid a little up front,
saying they would return in a couple of days.

“Where
did you get all this money?” asked Kyric when they were back on the street. 
“This is certainly much more than you won at the games.”

“I,
ah . . .“  Aiyan smiled sheepishly.  “Most of it came from Aerlyn, if you must
know.”

“You’ve
seen her since that day on the docks?”

“Well,
yes.  I saw her the, ah, day before we left Aeva.”

It
seemed that they had many other errands to run before they could look for a
ship captain.  The sun had sunk low in the west by the time they made it to the
docks.  They strolled slowly, looking at likely caravels and carracks, signing ‘
no
’
to the charm sellers and dodging the pickpockets.  Aiyan called at almost every
gangplank, speaking to a couple of captains but mostly to the watch officers,
inquiring about the possibility of a charter voyage.

They
paused at a small caravel.  Like most of them it had a squared-rigged main mast,
with lateens on the smaller masts fore and aft, the upper deck surrounded by
solid bulwark in place of a rail.  Other than it being fairly weathered, Kyric
could see nothing special about it and Aiyan made to pass it by.  Then Kyric
noticed the figurehead.  It was a Terrulan woman with cat-like eyes.

He
must have started, because Aiyan turned and asked, “What is it?  Do you have a
feeling about this ship?”

“I
saw this ship in one of the strange dreams.  Look at the eyes of the figure.”

“Interesting,”
said Aiyan.  He went to the plank and called, “Ahoy.  What ship is this?”

“
Calico
. 
In her home port,” answered a woman’s voice.  She leapt onto the gunwales,
balancing lightly as she looked down on them.

She
was tall and athletic, and dressed like a man, with faded grey breeches and a
ruffled silk shirt the color of cream.  She was hardly older than Kyric, and
had the dark brow and straight black hair of a Terrulan, tied back with a thong
sporting bright feathers, but her face had the angular features of a Syrolian. 
And a curious smirk to go with her sparkling eyes, as if she were deciding to
make them her playthings.  She twirled one finger around the butt of her knife
the same way another girl might twist a curl of hair.

“Is
the captain on board?” Aiyan asked.

“How
do you know I’m not the captain?” she returned.

Aiyan
smiled.  “Well, you’re a little young.”

“So
I am,” she said with a quiet laugh.  “I’m Lerica, the second mate.  Captain Lyzuga
isn’t here right now.  May I be of service?”

“I’m
looking to charter a ship for a voyage to the south.  Is
Calico
bound by
a contract?”

“Not
really,” said Lerica.  “We do haul cargo, but we also trade.”

“If
this is your home port, perhaps I could speak with the owner.”

“Captain
Lyzuga is the owner.  He’s playing cards at The Vivace and is likely to be all
night.  Come back tomorrow.”

Aiyan
cocked his head.  “Isn’t lyzuga the local name for the jaguar?”

Lerica’s eyes almost twinkled.  “You
know, I think it is.”

The
music at The Vivace was indeed lively, but not exactly sophisticated.  A small
stage sat at one end of the room where a piano player banged out sour notes and
a line of costumed ladies sang songs about their fannies and then lifted their
skirts to show them.  Kyric stared wide-eyed but the other men hardly noticed,
the din of the room almost drowning out the chorus.

The
air hung so thick with smoke that the patrons at the other end of the room were
but shadow figures.  Over the reek of tobacco, Kyric could smell coffee, rum,
and something fried in dirty oil.  Waiters passed them with huge trays of
little brown crayfish that looked more like boiled waterbugs.

They
passed through a curtain of beaded strings and into the gaming room.  “My guess
is that it’s him,” said Aiyan, pointing to a table of card players.

The
man seated in the corner wore a shirt that could be seen a mile out to sea —
shimmering flame-red satin cut in the Baskillian style, with slashed sleeves
and heavy stitching in gold thread.  The cuffs sparkled with ruby studs.  His
straight black hair hung like curtains from beneath a bone-white bowler that
matched his bone-white sash.  Around his neck lay a choker woven from the claws
of some great predator.

Aiyan
took out his purse and approached the table.  “Good evening gentlemen.  Is this
a private game?”