Keys of Awakening

SAMAN ( K N O W I N G )

The Sixth Power of the Arcanum

Saman is a Passive power.

The ability to know Truth within oneself is a passive power that nevertheless wields tremendous repercussions. The truth of some things is simple and obvious; the truth of others is devious and intricate. Once the art of discernment is mastered this power becomes available.

Application: Saman allows the Seeker to discern a path of true action within the Swamp of Deceit. Lies, chimeras, and red herrings do not sway the heart that pulses with Truth.

A practitioner of Saman is known as a Seer.

From The Arcanum of Wisdom – Introduction for the Initiate

Illiom felt as though the scaffold beneath her feet wavered and became insubstantial.

“Illiom,” Tarmel’s hand on her arm steadied her, “what is it?”

“The Key …” she whispered.

“Do not fear, Chosen,” Provan said. “Keilon Var is not a scoundrel, though you could be forgiven for believing that he was, given the method he chose to display his prowess …”

The Draca’s voice held a tone of amusement.

“Your Key will be down there, on that table, along with all the other items …” He frowned and hesitated for a moment and then a smile stretched across his face. “Ah, I see! Your true concern is about retrieving your Key without announcing to the world that you are its bearer!”

He laughed quietly and nodded.

“But, my dear, you must have no fear. You are in Iol! No one will hunt you down simply for shining a magical light.”

Illiom stared at the ancient Draca.

Does he know?

His reference to her werelight was unmistakeable.

“You must have faith, child. So go now and get your Key.”

Illiom nodded and rose.

Faith, precisely what I need.

With Tarmel close behind her, she made her way down to the stage. They were about to step onto the dais when the Draca’s voice boomed through the Pentangle.

“My fellow Iolans,” he intoned. “Behold a sight not commonly seen: one of our guests from Albradan has been singled out by Keilon Var and she is now retrieving her item from the stage. Please watch carefully as she does so.”

Illiom felt the focus of the entire audience fix upon her.

Why in Âtras is Provan doing this?

She spotted her Key immediately, even before she reached the table.

She felt exposed and vulnerable.

There was no way that she could conceal what was about to happen, so she surrendered her inhibitions and reached for her Key. It blazed in response to Illiom’s touch, like a small fiery sun in the centre of the Varagan Draal, and she triumphantly raised the glowing artefact aloft, turning slowly so all could see it.

“There is hope yet for our eastern cousins,” Draca Provan proclaimed, and the Pentangle responded to his words with a roar of approval.

As Illiom and Tarmel climbed their way back up towards their seats, Iolans from both sides of the stairs reached out to touch her and she responded to their warmth.

For the first time in her life, Illiom experienced a different kind of freedom.

After the table had been cleared and banished, a tall man of middle years walked onto the stage.

“My name is Matist,” he announced. “I will be performing the last demonstration for this evening. I am master of both the Eilo and the Rahuld and tonight I shall attempt the unprecedented. I will summon a creature from the far northern wastes of Theregon. Some of you may think this an impossible feat, for the creature I intend to summon is one believed by many to be a myth.”

This announcement met with a raucous response. Illiom was unsure if it was incredulity or outrage, but it was evident that his was not only a lofty claim, but a controversial one as well.

“Please, please!” Matist implored, raising both hands to still the crowd. “Do not be concerned! You will be completely safe. A summoning binds the one invoked into complete obedience. Furthermore you will not have to wait long to witness my success or my failure, for a summoning works outside of the constraints of either time or distance.”

When the Pentangle quieted, Matist walked to the edge of the stage, near the stairs, and began his invocation.

Words spilled from him like water, like wind, and like snow borne upon an icy gale. Words spun from his lips, to weave a spell intended to coerce, ensnare and bind. The words themselves were unrecognisable, and yet something deep within Illiom began to stir with a sense of long-forgotten familiarity.

She closed her eyes.

The air around her felt oppressive and her breath became laboured. Something began to feel distinctly wrong and she now wished she was elsewhere.

What is he doing?

As if in answer to her question, a presence filled the air.

Illiom opened her eyes but there was nothing to see. The persistent whirlwind of words now brought with it an icy chill that reached into her bones and set her limbs atremble. She huddled into herself for warmth and noticed that those around her were doing much the same.

Some flinched and others cowered as a deafening thunderclap reverberated overhead. It was immediately followed by a deep, rhythmic sound, like that of a breathing giant, growing louder as it drew closer.

When a vast white shape lowered itself into the Pentangle and came to rest upon the dais, Illiom could have sworn that the platform bowed beneath it and groaned in complaint at the sudden overwhelming weight.

Illiom had never seen an Ice Dragon before, had not until that moment known whether they truly existed or were simply the spawn of someone’s fertile imagination; but she recognised the creature now before her as if it was her kin. The creature’s entrapment at the conjurer’s whim clenched her heart in a spasm of empathy. She knew beyond doubt that such a magnificent being should not be forced to bend to another’s will.

The Ice Dragon came to rest on the dais, closing its great white wings in a complex series of tucks and folds until they were held closely against its body.

The audience was held spell-bound.

The dragon loomed above the assembled humans. Its great body was armoured with scales, each as broad as a shield. These shimmered blue-green and its cold reptilian eyes flashed with vitriol as it turned its head to gaze upon its human captors.

Illiom hoped that Matist’s mastery over the dragon was enough to stop it from freezing them to death with a single blast of gelid breath.

She felt a terrible wrongness in this summoning and it overwhelmed her. The conjurer had dared to summon the dragon away from its abode in the great mountains of the northern wastes, and forced it to come to this place where ice and snow were utterly alien.

It seemed to Illiom that this calling broke ancient laws, exposing all those assembled to an inordinate danger: the danger of the dragon’s righteous wrath.

As if in response to these thoughts, the Ice Dragon raised its horned face towards the night sky and the cold stars and vented its displeasure. The frigid gale that gusted from its mouth rose swiftly, high into the cobalt sky, to then drift down as snow.

Illiom looked towards Provan and saw that the Draca was on his feet, his expression tense, and his blind white eyes straining towards the great creature looming before him.

“Argean sur viterun closs, me draca.”

His words held within them a quality of contrition.

A breath later, he continued in Common speech.

“You have exceeded yourself, Matist,” he said to the conjurer. His voice was soft but Illiom was thankful that his words were not directed at her. “You have shown us the extent of your reach and we have seen your complete disregard for what should be revered as sacred. So now you will release her and let her go. You will do so at once.”

Matist’s head snapped around to stare at the Draca with incredulous outrage.

“I said, now!” Provan commanded.

Unable to deny the power of such a direct order, the conjurer looked at the Ice Dragon regretfully, nodded a few times, and with a heavy sigh reluctantly spoke a single word.

“Adientele.”

That was all it took.

Released, the Ice Dragon looked down at the diminutive conjurer who stood dwarfed beneath it and for just a moment Illiom feared that the creature would just snap him up and swallow him whole. It did not. It simply glared at Matist balefully. A cold mist exuded, like smoke, from its flaring nostrils.

After a moment it squatted low on the stage and then, with a powerful thrust of its hind legs, leapt straight up into the sky.

One, two, three beats of its enormous wings and it was gone. Only the gale of ice and snow that blew down upon the gathering reminded all of the experience they had just had.

The air became still, and the season warm, once more.

With the Ice Dragon’s departure, the Pentangle descended into chaos. Many gathered in clusters at the base of the amphitheatre, animatedly discussing what had just happened. From the snippets of conversation that Illiom could pick up, it was clear that Matist’s efforts had also summoned a hornet’s nest of controversy and anger.

The Chosen tried to make their way down the tiered amphitheatre but found their path blocked by one group after another, each so engrossed in discussion that they paid little heed to anything else.

“Come with me,” Provan said, coming up behind them. “It will be quicker.”

The Draca moved through the crowd easily. He led the way with one hand raised, fingertips cutting a swathe in front of him. The crowd parted before him and the party of the Chosen followed the King of Iol back towards the Keep.

“You will need to move swiftly if you are to reach Flax in time to catch the morning tide,” he said, as he led them to a wing they had not entered before. “I suspect that you will not be getting much sleep at all this night.”

Elan hurried to the Draca’s side.

“Provan, why did you want us to attend the Varagan Draal?” she asked.

The Draca answered the priestess whilst maintaining a swift pace.

“For a few reasons. First and foremost so you may witness what is possible; to stretch your perception to accommodate more than you previously could. When our minds experience something long held to be impossible, we are stretched and become more open to accepting other extraordinary things. There were also other reasons.”

He did not elaborate.

The Draca led them to a hall that was, like every other enclosure within the Keep, shadowless. The walls were lined with shelves filled with weapons, articles of clothing and armour, diadems, gems, rough stones, and even musical instruments. In short, an assortment of widely diverse objects that seemed to share nothing in common with one another.

“This is where I keep the objects of power that have been given to me over the years,” Draca Provan explained.

Illiom recognised only one object clearly imbued with power: a scrying shield carved entirely out of bone and inlaid with silver and gold filigree that had been woven into a most exquisite pattern. She wondered at the size and nature of the creature from which the bone had been sourced.

Provan picked up an unassuming green stone, smaller than Illiom’s fist and shaped like the coiled bud of a fern’s frond, and held it up for the Chosen to see.

“As promised, here is Seren’s breaching stone,” he announced. “I do hope it will prove useful.”

Malco took the proffered item and studied it for a long moment before tucking it away inside a pouch hanging from his belt.

“Would that there was more that I could do to aid you. Unfortunately, most of the objects here require training in order to be of any use. Also, some of the more useful items would only serve to mark you as bearers of power to those who are sensitive to such things. It is best that you continue to travel as furtively as possible for now and not attract any undue attention. In any case, you will undoubtedly now want to be on your own ...”

Provan turned to leave the room but Argolan, who had held back near the hall’s entrance with the rest of the Riders, took a step forward.

“My Lord, there is one thing that I would ask of you, if I may. We are unable to take our horses with us to Evárudas. Would you see to it that they are sent back to Kuon?”

The Draca nodded.

“Of course. How many horses?”

“Twenty three in total.”

Provan pondered for a moment and then nodded slowly.

“I assume that these are your average, Albradani horses?”

Pell looked outraged.

“Seven of them are Danee destriers,” he said, testily. “There is nothing average about them.”

Provan snickered lightly at the Rider’s objection.

“Of course they are,” he said.

“The Riders’ mounts are, as Pell said, destriers,” offered Argolan after giving the Rider a chastising frown. “The Chosen ride geldings on account of their more manageable temperaments.”

“Ah, good! So then there is something else that I can do for you. There is a remarkable breed of horses here in Iol that are raised by the Shakim, our desert tribes. They are the Surmur steeds and have qualities that make them ideal for travel in the desert. If, as I suspect, your journey is to bear you towards the west and into the Forbidden Lands, then you will undoubtedly benefit from riding horses more suited to the conditions you are likely to find there.”

Provan continued speaking as he walked them out of the room.

“Surmur steeds require less than half the amount of water that regular horses do. They can even smell water from as far as twenty leagues away. They are equipped with eye sheaths that allow them to travel even during severe sand storms, and they have astonishing stamina and endurance. So, if you wish, I can arrange to have a number of these mounts sent to intercept you somewhere, perhaps when you leave Evárudas and return to the mainland? Or I could send them to Kuon ahead of you, if you prefer. Kassargan here can let me know your movements …”

Illiom saw that the descrier’s expression betrayed a measure of dismay.

“My Lord …”

But the Draca silenced her with a gesture.

“Is that agreeable to you?” he asked the Shieldarm.

“A most gracious and generous offer, my Lord,” Argolan said. “However, I must tell you that I will not need to consult with my Riders to inform you that they will emphatically refuse any trade. The bond forged between a Rider and his horse is so strong that it is a lifelong commitment. Besides that, I can see the value of swapping the Chosen’s mounts and the pack horses for those more suitable to the journey ahead. Oh, and there is one other consideration: as the destriers are stallions, any horses that you send will have to be either stallions or geldings.”

The Draca agreed and the arrangement was struck.

They continued to walk together towards the Chosen’s quarters and Provan now turned to his descrier.

“Kassargan, it is my wish that you remain in Calestor with me.”

The descrier cocked her head to one side, her expression a mixture of disappointment and confusion.

“My Lord?”

“I ask that you do not go with the Chosen on this leg of their journey; there is important work for you to do right here.”

Kassargan’s mouth opened to reply but for a few moments no sound emerged. When she spoke, it was with an uncharacteristic stammer.

“My Lord, I … I would rather go, if I could.”

It was strange to watch the two interact with one another: both tilted their heads slightly in the other’s direction and, despite their blindness, seemed to be communing more intimately than sighted people.

“I still would prefer that you remain here,” he said.

The descrier lowered her head.

“As you command, my King …”

“Kassargan, surely you know that mine is never a command but always a request,” he replied instantly. “You are free to choose otherwise …”

Kassargan shook her head.

“I would never defy you, my Lord,” she asserted, her voice heavy with regret.

While Illiom was gathering her few belongings, she became aware of a familiar and welcome presence.

So we part ways once more.

Illiom stopped short.

“Who?” she asked, aloud.

Tarmel turned to look questioningly at her. She ignored him and focused on the owl.

I had not thought of it … what will you do? she asked silently, feeling guilty that, once again, she had not spared a thought for him in days.

Who sent her his inimitable thought-equivalent of a shrug.

You have been very busy since arriving here, as have I, he replied. Plenty of succulent mice in Calestor.

You could come with us … she offered tentatively.

He was quick with his response.

Some of my cousins like fish, but myself, I do not care for them: wet, slimy and smelly things. No, I will make my own way back to your people’s colony at the top of the mountain. There, I will wait for you.

Illiom knew he was referring to Kuon.

Will I see you again? she asked all the same.

Who took his time in answering.

Yes, he replied eventually, if we are both still alive.

Within the hour the party that had arrived in Calestor only four days earlier was almost ready to leave. Just one detail remained to be attended to.

“Are you ready?” Argolan asked Azulya.

The Kroeni nodded even though Illiom thought she looked far from ready.

Scald opened a small satchel and poured its contents into a tankard of water. He offered the vessel to Azulya.

“The dwarf said nothing about how long before it takes effect, so best not to wait any longer. Either way, we will know soon enough.”

Azulya took the tankard from Scald and looked dubiously at its contents.

She sighed and drained the mixture of Arukala and water.

No sooner had she finished it than her pupils widened alarmingly. She gagged and with a swift movement clamped a hand over her mouth as her body convulsed in a violent attempt to purge.

She gasped for air, her whole frame shuddering.

“Ah! That is the vilest …” she complained, but left the sentence hanging as waves of nausea coursed through her body.

“Well,” muttered Sereth. “Here is something to look forward to.”

“How did Vardail consume it?” Elan asked.

Scald shrugged.

“With wine, I think.”

“A nice wine might go some way towards making it more palatable …” Malco agreed.

“That was the most putrid thing I have ever tasted!” Azulya spat. “It will desecrate any self-respecting wine. But yes, wine might be better than water. That was worse than sewage.”

As if to underscore her statement she then produced a formidable series of loud, rolling burps.

Illiom smiled. This was such a far cry from the elegant Kroeni woman she had come to know and love. They all watched her intently, not wanting to miss out on the transition when it began. They did not have to wait long.

The change was at first subtle but then progressed swiftly. Azulya’s form shifted before their eyes and yet it seemed to Illiom that it was hard to say what was actually changing. One moment it seemed to be nothing more than a trick of the light and in the next moment they were no longer seeing Azulya but someone else … someone strangely familiar.

“Oh no, you could not …!” Scald looked shocked and affronted. “You used Kassargan? As a model?”

At first Illiom did not understand and then she saw what he was referring to. Azulya was still half there but some of her features were now poised between her Kroeni form and those of the descrier.

“Well, what did you expect,” Azulya began to justify herself, “that I would choose to look like any of you? Anyway, Kassargan is no longer travelling with us, so I do not see any problem. Like me, she is tall. She is very beautiful and ... different. I am used to being treated as different and I am comfortable with that. Besides, would you have preferred that I appear before you as a complete stranger?”

It made sense to Illiom; this was much better than having to get used to a new face altogether.

“Is good,” offered Undina. “Is confusing, but good. I look and see Kassargan, but now must think … no, not Kassargan, is Azulya …”

Elan laughed and stared at Azulya’s new appearance.

“I like it, but it is so strange! I feel like I should call you Azargan …”

Sereth, intent on drinking from his skin, spluttered, doubling over with laughter. Azulya looked at her companions in consternation and shook her head.

“Well I am certainly looking forward to when the rest of you will take this wretched stuff!”

The comment just fuelled Sereth’s mirth and even Argolan was unable to conceal her grin.

During this exchange, Azulya’s transformation continued to unfold: her skin lost its blue hue completely and acquired the tanned and copper tones of the Iolan’s skin. The raven blue-black hair became golden brown and lengthened. The eyes lost their fiery opal quality and became the Iolan’s rich, brown eyes, speckled with green flecks. It was like seeing the descrier as they had first met her, before the tragic incident that had claimed her eyes.

“So what in Âtras do we call you?” Scald asked.

He seemed distressed by the change in the Kroeni. “Azulya or Kassargan?”

“Who do you see when you look at me? Which do you think will be easier to remember?” she asked, and displayed for his benefit the Iolan’s most radiant smile. Her eyes twinkled like rare gems.

Scald turned away.

“I cannot deal with this,” he muttered, and walked off.

Sereth approached Azulya.

“Do not worry about him,” he counselled lightly. “He will get used to it.”

They were soon gathered at the Keep entrance and waited for the stable hands to bring out their horses. Draca Provan wished each a safe and fruitful journey and gave them his blessing. When he came to Azulya, he smiled.

“You and Kassargan have much more in common than you may know,” he told her cryptically. “Good choice of a guise.”

He nodded towards the bridge that led away from the Keep and then addressed them one last time.

“Now go forward, towards your destiny. Ward and swift wings.”

Without another word the party of the Chosen mounted their horses and rode away from Provan’s Keep.

The ride out of Calestor was slow, for the streets were teeming with people walking home or standing about in groups, talking about all that had happened on the first day of the Draal.

The travellers wound their way through the streets of the capital until they left the city behind. They climbed up to the crater’s rim and reached the double gates; only then did they allow the horses to trot down the slopes of Mount Shantan.

The night was dark for Sudra had not yet risen, and the air was warm. The starlight was just bright enough to enable them to make out the road as it meandered down towards the undulating plains that separated Calestor from Flax.

Illiom had just settled into the ride when she felt a wave of cold air wash down over her. She looked up, surprised by the sudden and dramatic drop in temperature, but saw nothing at all. When she peered back over her shoulder she saw Sudra just beginning to crest in the east. The Goddess was waning; she had already half-donned the dark cloak that would soon hide her completely.

“Whoa, stop!” Argolan called out to those behind her, then in an authoritative voice demanded, “Who is there? Reveal yourself!”

She underscored her request by drawing her sword and brandishing it before her.

The Riders emulated their leader, moving forward to place themselves between the unseen threat and their Chosen.

Beyond them Illiom now saw a lone figure.

If a shadow could be white, this one was definitely so. The apparition approached them slowly but without hesitation.

“Shieldarm Argolan Reed of the Black Ward, do you really wish me to identify myself?” asked a woman’s musical voice.

The tip of Argolan’s blade dropped towards the ground, wilting along with the Shieldarm’s protective stance.

“Abdora?” Argolan asked, before amending her greeting. “Draca Abdora?”

The woman did not answer; instead she continued to approach them.

“Seeing as circumstances have brought me here, I deemed it appropriate to meet with these Chosen before they venture further along their journey.”

Sudra chose that moment to rise fully above the crags in the east and shine her light upon the Altran Draca.

She was a resplendent woman. Her hair was as white as Wind’s, only long and luxuriant. It framed a face that might have belonged to the Goddess herself, beautiful and delicate in its balance, and the eyes that brushed Illiom’s were like coalesced starlight: blue, luminous and filled with warmth and bright wisdom.

“I know full well that you are in a hurry to be on your way, so I will not delay you … I also know that you will pass through Altra before you venture into the unknown but, since I am here, I would give you this now, rather than wait for you to come to me.”

She held something out towards them. It was unmistakably one of the Keys.

Elan, Sereth and Scald exchanged glances.

“One of you,” Elan said with a nod in the Draca’s direction. “I doubt that my turn has come yet.”

Sereth shrugged and dismounted.

He bowed to the Draca and took the Key from her hands.

Nothing happened. Sereth grinned, unsurprised, and turned to his two companions with a questioning look. Scald moved his horse forward a few steps and leaned over to take the Key from Sereth.

Pale blue aquamarine light blazed and danced on Scald’s scarred face and the Chosen’s expression was transfixed by that light, as if he had just experienced the sweetest flowering within his heart.

“Its name is Discernment,” Abdora offered without any prompting.

“Discernment …” murmured Scald in response. “That opens the Door of Falsehood and leads into the Hall of Truth …”

Like Illiom, he too had memorised the Seventy Third Fragment. Scald seemed deeply moved as he held the shimmering stone against his chest.

“I thank you, Draca Abdora,” he said.

The Draca responded with a nod.

“When you do come to Altra, you will receive more that cannot be mentioned yet. So do not allow yourselves to become deflected, regardless of what happens along the way.”

Abdora, the beautiful Altran Draca, moved to the side of the road.

“Now go,” she commanded. “The tide waits for no one.”

They resumed their journey and although Illiom looked back a few times, she saw no further sign of the Draca.

Sometime later Azulya, now fully in her guise as Kassargan, rode up alongside Illiom. She was still adjusting to the Kroeni woman’s new appearance; it was proving more challenging than she had imagined.

“What circumstances was she talking about, do you think?”

Even though she knew that this was Azulya, she still found herself responding as if she was talking to Kassargan. Her mind kept insisting that this was the descrier. The only thing that jarred with the illusion was her voice, for that had not changed. Illiom was grateful for that small reminder.

“What?” she asked, in a flurry of confusion.

“Abdora,” was the even more perplexing reply. “She said something about circumstances bringing her here. What circumstances do you think she was talking about? Was she referring to the Varagan Draal?”

Illiom was about to ask her what that had to do with anything when she remembered the Ice Dragon, and the ice winds that had preceded its arrival. She now also recalled the inexplicable wave of cold she had experienced moments before the appearance of the Altran Draca. She had not connected the two events before now.

“Do you mean …” she stammered, “... that Abdora came with the Ice Dragon?”

“Why not?” Azulya asked. “Did you feel the cold that preceded both arrivals? It seems that it is either that, or we have just witnessed … something mysterious.”

“Matist said he would be invoking a creature of myth from the far northern wastes,” said Illiom, remembering the conjurer’s words before performing his summoning.

“You do not get much further north than Altra!”

“But what if she came with the Dragon?” Illiom pressed. “What does that mean?”

“I do not know,” the Kroeni confessed. “But what an incredible thing, if that is so. Not enough that the Ice Dragons do actually exist, but the possibility that they might be in service to the Draca, now that is something that I have not heard mentioned in any of the old stories and myths.”

Illiom gave it some thought and rode in silence for a time.

“Maybe she wanted us to know,” she concluded at last.

Sudra was already half way across the sky by the time they reached Flax. As arranged, they left all the horses with the innkeeper who muttered grumpily about the late hour, poor sleep, and thoughtless travellers as he ushered their mounts into a paddock behind the inn. The clinking of coins seemed to appease him.

Illiom, who had established a truce of sorts with her mount, spent a few moments stroking his mane and thanking him for his service before surrendering the reins into the innkeeper’s hands.

Things were quickly organised and they climbed into the three row boats that would carry them over to the Evárudani vessel. Illiom watched as the few flickering lights that marked the harbour of Flax receded into the darkness behind them. Sudra’s bright face shimmered and wavered across waters as black as pitch as the oars rose and fell in a unified cadence. The rest of the world seemed to be holding its breath.

Before she knew it, they were climbing on board and their saddlebags had already been hoisted up.

The lass by the name of Gita greeted them.

“Welcome aboard,” she said. “I was beginning to wonder if ye’d make it! Well, ye’d best stow yer goods below deck, in the chests under yer bunks; and best ye get some sleep ’fore we leave ’cause, believe ye me, ye won’t get no sleep on this boat once she raises anchor.”

Gita led them to a trapdoor in the rear of the deck. She stopped and turned to address them in a soft tone.

“Once ye go down don’t make no noise or ye’ll wake the rest o’ the crew, an’ then there’ll be hel to pay! ’Fraid there be no private quarters on this boat; we all sleep on the same berth deck, ‘cept for cap’n Sarp, a course. Once below jus’ pick yerself any bunk that hasn’t got a body in it. Most o’ the crew sleep towards the fore, so all the ones at aft will be free – all bar one, that is.”

“Bar one?” Scald repeated, eyebrows raised.

“Aye, there be one other passenger bound fer Cevaram; ye’ll meet her soon enough when we gets movin’.”

Gita brought a finger up to her lips to remind them to be quiet and then watched as they lowered themselves and their gear to the lower deck.

The ‘bunks’ turned out to be nothing more than hammocks with a single wooden chest fastened to the floor directly beneath each one. The hammocks hung so close together that one could easily reach out and touch one’s neighbour.

With a sinking heart, Illiom realized just how quickly she had adapted to the luxurious privacy of palace life, both in Kuon and in Calestor. Even the journey to Calestor had afforded more privacy than this. She sighed and, by the feeble light of a lantern, stowed her few belongings away. Her bow, however, was far too long to fit in the chest, so she tucked it into the netting of her hammock until it held secure.

The smell of old timbers combined with tar, the tang of salt and the oil from the lanterns, all mingled in a most unsettling way. Illiom’s excitement at what she had imagined would be a restful sea journey plummeted. Still there seemed little use in complaining. If nothing else – and if what Tarmel had told her was true – this journey would be much swifter than the one from Kuon.

Utterly exhausted, Illiom climbed into her hammock.

She closed her eyes and became aware of the ship’s noises. Besides the constant soft slap of water against the hull and the groans that accompanied the ship’s gentle rocking, there were the snores and grunts of the sleeping crew. With the detachment that accompanies exhaustion, Illiom realised that these sounds would accompany them all the way to Cevaram. It was her last thought for that day, for in the next breath she was asleep.

She had only just drifted off, it seemed, when she was rudely awoken by a hammering on the roof above her bed.

Only she was not in a bed and that was not a roof over her head.

She suddenly remembered where she was and recognised the hammering noise as the unmistakable sound of running feet slamming down hard on the timbers of the deck.

A voice cried out, “Helbra, raise the anchor! Get someone to help you and put your back into it, girl!”

A few moments later a bell clanged, loud and insistent, then the timbers groaned as the ship made a small sudden lurch forward.

With an involuntary groan, Illiom climbed out of the hammock. She fumbled around in the dim light and eventually managed to climb up on deck. A strong, cool breeze blowing in from the open sea greeted her, whipping her hair back and tugging at her clothes. It was still dark, Sudra having not moved very far from where she had been when they had retired for the night.

A few figures huddled along the nearby railing.

“If ye ‘ave to come up, at least stay out o’ the way,” a woman’s gruff voice spoke from the shadows as Illiom joined the others. “Go to stern, behin’ the wheel‘ouse and stay there, at least ’til we clear the ’eadlands.”

Illiom had no idea what these instructions meant, but she followed the others as they walked towards the rear of the ship where four women were busy hauling a long length of rope up onto the deck.

A gentle hand came to rest on her shoulder.

“Rough night?” Tarmel asked.

“I do not know if I slept for even an hour,” she replied, trying to see his expression in the moonlight. “I hope that we will get a chance to rest once we are underway. I cannot seem to remember what a good night’s sleep feels like.”

The ship was moving: an almost imperceptible motion, accompanied by a rhythmic sound of water splashing. Illiom leaned over the railing and saw oars rise in unison out of the water. They lunged forward by several spans and then dropped as one back into the sea.

A woman came running past them and stopped to pull back a canvas cover to expose a wooden wheel. She fumbled with the stiff fabric, attempting to fold it.

“What are you doing, Telupa? We haven’t got all day!” barked the captain.

The sailor Telupa cursed under her breath, but hastened to obey. She dropped the canvas in an untidy pile and began to turn the wheel, fast. Slowly, ponderously, the Diamantine turned, gradually aligning her prow with the open sea.

Like the rest of the crew, Telupa was a solid lass; Illiom saw the muscles of her shoulders and arms tighten and flex as she laboured over the wheel. She had never seen women like these; they were strong and confident in a way that, until now, Illiom had mostly ascribed to men.

Telupa’s efforts were already yielding noticeable results: up in the dark sky Sudra the moon had moved to the fore side of the main mast as the ship turned to face the cove’s entrance. Her silver light glowed on the waters, creating a luminous path for the ship to follow, one that led out to the open sea.

“She’s free, captain!” Telupa called out. A grunt of acknowledgement was all the reward she received for her efforts.

As soon as the course was set, the rowers bent their backs to their task and fell into rhythm with the steady beat of a lone drum. The Diamantine leapt forward in response.

When it came level with the headlands, the surge of the waves increased and the ship’s prow rose and fell more markedly as the vessel came up against the swell of the open sea. Illiom cast a glance at the harbour behind them but already the half a dozen lights that had defined Flax had grown small and insignificant with distance.

Once clear of the cove, Grena Sarp barked another order and the sailor at the helm turned the ship southward while the oars were withdrawn. The rowers freed up from one task were immediately enlisted into another and were soon engaged in the effort of raising the mainsail.

Within minutes this was up, catching the breeze and billowing out, pregnant with wind. The ropes that held the sail fast snapped taut and the ship leapt forward with sudden enthusiasm, listing dramatically to leeward.

Illiom, who had not expected so many different kinds of movements in something as big and solid as the Diamantine, held onto the railing as if her life depended on it. She looked down at the rushing waves, wondering at their depth and at how she would cope if she fell overboard.

By drowning, she quickly concluded.

Having never lived near a significant body of water meant that Illiom had never learned to swim. So she clamped onto the gunwale so tightly that her knuckles went white, and allowed herself time to become accustomed to what it meant to be at the mercy of sea and wind and the power of these elements.

A commotion near the ladder that led to the lower deck drew her attention.

Someone had emerged, only to be immediately seized by Pell and Angar. Argolan brushed past Illiom to investigate, and Illiom was shocked to see the Shieldarm draw her weapon as she neared the group.

The crew of the Diamantine looked on, their curiosity piqued by the unfolding drama. Illiom finally released her hold of the railing and staggered towards the group.

“What in the five Hels are you doing on board this ship? “ she heard Argolan demand.

A shrill voice answered her.

“Why, nothing! Nothing at all! I am on my way to Cevaram, but … what are you doing? Let me go this instant! Why are you treating me like this?”

Illiom frowned. The woman’s voice sounded familiar. She caught a glimpse of short brown hair and a strange misshapen face.

Shrian! The scholar?

She pushed her way between Argolan and Mist.

“Shrian?” Illiom asked. “What in Âtras are you doing here?”