Whisper of Waves (14 page)

On the polished wood floor all around him were the components and foci it had taken him tendays to collect. Two of his spellbooks lay open in front of him, and three scrolls were unfurled, held down with stones. The writing was in half a dozen languages, Draconic being the least exotic of them. He looked at the script, the drawings and diagrams, and he tried to sort out whether the shaking in his hands, the sweat on his palms, and his inability to take a deep breath were signs of fear or excitement.

The first series of spells would protect him from at least some of what he imagined he might encounter. He would be able to withstand extremes of heat and cold and be protected from things that might be able to drain his life-force or sap his will. He also knew there could be any of a million other things he hadn’t planned for.

The next spell, a complex one he’d cast only once before, made the very reality around him fade away. The walls melted into a gray nothing, the floor below him slipped into eternity, and he stood in the thin air of a separate reality.

A gray the color of an overcast sky surrounded him on all sides and quaint conceits like up, down, left, and right lost all meaning.

“Welcome to the Astral,” he whispered to himself.

Marek drew in a deep breath and took stock of the things floating in the air around him. The scrolls were there, but they no longer needed stones to hold them open. The foci he required were all there too. Thus far everything had happened the way he’d planned it, so he had no excuses for not continuing. Still, he hesitated, but only long enough to remind himself why he was doing what he was doing. The black firedrakes, those fierce beasts he was so proud of and so terrified by, were his greatest creation and his most valuable commodity. The correct application of their feral strength would cement his position in the city, would buy him a ransar, and would help complete his mission. The Red Wizards would have Innarlith, for whatever good it might do them.

The firedrakes needed space. He needed a refuge from the city—not just for breeding half-dragons but a place he could go where his work would be safe from prying eyes and escapes, and what better place than a little plane of existence he could call his own.

With a smile, Marek bent about the task of doing just that. Through a series of powerful spells, and the focused magic of the items that floated in the Astral aether around him, he sifted through the fabric of the multi-verse itself, thumbing through an array of environments until he found the right one.

“Fury’s Heart,” he said aloud, letting the words mix with the feeling of the plane that rolled in his head and burned in his veins.

He could see into the depths of that universe of chaos from the safety of the Astral, and what he saw frightened him but excited him too. There were things there, terrible things, things that were alive but hated life, things that lived on fear, panic, lust, and rage the way humans lived on food, water, and air. There were gods there too, and they weren’t the sort of entities anyone, even other gods, would think to trifle with, black forces named

Umberlee, Malar, and others with names never spoken by human tongues.

Marek Rymiit borrowed a piece of their domain, hoping it was a small enough piece that they wouldn’t notice, or if they noticed, they wouldn’t care. For beings made from the very stuff of chaos, who could know what they would care about from one moment to the next?

He did as much as he could do without actually stepping across the unreal threshold between the Astral and his little pocket dimension. When he pinched off a bubble of that space he’d brought some of the things from Fury’s Heart with it, he knew, and prepared as he was, he didn’t want to face all of them right away and certainly not alone.

Instead he drew a series of protective spells around the outside of the dimension, which from where he floated appeared as a perfect sphere of swirling indigo and violet light small enough that he could hold it with both hands. He would leave it floating in the Astral but only he would know where. Only Marek Rymiit would ever be able to see it, and when he was done weaving a thread of magic around it like a web of shimmering light only he would be able to come and go from it—he and whoever he wanted to bring with him.

He would come back with Insithryllax and some of the black firedrakes, and he would tame that finite piece of the infinite expanse of Fury’s Heart. Perhaps he’d tame a few of the things that called it home, too, but the rest of them he’d destroy.

The space inside the little ball of light was bigger than the city-state of Innarlith itself, and when he let his consciousness peek inside it he saw a lake, something like mountains, and a swamp. Insithryllax would like that. Black dragons liked swamps.

It was all the room he’d need, and it was all his.

The effort of what he’d done had so exhausted him that by the time the walls of his house in Innarlith

slid back into the reality around him and the floor once more supported his weight, he was already half asleep. He struggled to his bed and collapsed, there to sleep for a full day and night, smiling all the while, at rest on a cushion of self-satisfaction that would have sustained a lesser man for decades.

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16 Marpenoth, the Year of Maidens (1361 DR) Second Quarter, Innarlith

They had begun to meet at a discreet little inn in the Second Quarter. With Willem’s mother living with him and Halina living with her uncle, it was the only way to ensure their privacy. Though it had become a drain on Willem’s always just-full-enough personal coffers, he had come to look forward to their occasional afternoon or evening together. The gold would come back, but those stolen moments felt more precious to him than anything.

He stood in front of the door, his body already beginning to anticipate the afternoon’s pleasures. He took a deep breath then knocked twice on the door, paused, then knocked three more times in rapid succession. The playful little signal they’d created bolstered the illusion that they were doing something they should be ashamed of, something they should keep secret, though neither of them seemed able to explain why they felt that way.

Halina opened the door, hiding behind it so all he could see was the side of her face, one gently blushing cheek and one eye.

“May I help you?” she purred, her cheek and eye being drawn up by a sly smile.

“I’ve come to check the floorboards,” he said, letting a smile of his own spread across his face. “The innkeeper has been complaining of a loud, regular squeaking sound.”

“I’m sure I don’t know what you mean, sir,” she replied, then opened the door a bit wider, “but do come in and… satisfy yourself.”

Willem felt his face burn from within, and he walked with a stiff gait into the little room. She’d had a fire lit in the small fireplace though it was warm outside. The curtains were drawn and the bedclothes turned down. It had been some time since they’d bothered with real pretensions.

She closed the door behind him and leaned against it. He turned to her, standing a couple steps away, and just drank the sight of her in. She was dressed in a long gown, simply cut but elaborately decorated with lace that left holes to reveal her soft, pale skin, though the rest of it, dyed a pale pink, was transparent enough that there was no doubt she wore nothing else. Her lips parted and she stood in silence, watching his eyes roam her body, and waiting for him to have his fill of the sight of her.

“Your hair…” he said, the dim light and quiet anticipation that weighed the air in the room made his voice low and quiet.

Halina touched the hair at her temple and let a fingertip trace a slow path down along her ear and to her neck. She looked down, away from his eyes.

“My uncle—” she whispered, then cleared her throat in a dainty, artificial way. “My uncle suggested it.”

Her hair was shorter and done in a style not unlike some men wore theirs. It was not unattractive, but Willem preferred it long.

“Your uncle is a man of impeccable taste,” he said, “or so I’ve heard.”

She smiled and let a sigh of relief pass her lips.

“It pleases me that you like it,” she said, then met his eyes again.

Willem unbuttoned his long tunic and at the same time kicked off his shoes. She watched him with an

amused smile, like a child watching a puppet show. He laughed a little, and so did she.

When he reached out a hand to her she crossed the space faster than he’d expected. Before he could take a breath their mouths came together then their tongues. His hands explored the richness of the lace she wore while hers relieved him of the rest of his clothes.

“Tell me something,” she whispered into his ear.

She had come to know that Willem told her things he told no one else, and he knew that she kept his trust. He felt open to her, vulnerable, but unlike any other person he’d ever known, with her that feeling was a pleasant one.

“They’re building it,” he whispered into her neck.

She took his hand, placed it gently on one of her breasts, and said, “The keep?”

He nodded, the tip of his tongue tracing an arc on her neck as he moved and replied, “Precisely where Devorast wanted it.”

“And the master builder?” she asked as she turned him so that she was between him and the bed.

He stepped closer to the bed, gently pushing her along with him and he said, “Taking all the credit as usual.”

“But spending time there,” she whispered as she sat on the edge of the bed.

“Leaving my afternoons free,” he said, looking down on her.

They shared a smile, and he ran the fingers of his free hand through her soft hair.

“Someday,” she said, a hopeful glint sparkling in her eyes, “you can tell him yourself that you like it.”

“Your uncle?” he asked, and she nodded.

He bent to kiss her, and as he did her hands found his thighs.

“We’ll meet in time,” he said.

“When you’re better established,” she replied, repeating the lines they’d spoken to each other over and over

again since the Claws of the Cold, “and I’ll meet your mother then to.”

“And we’ll be married,” he said, drawing the thin silk strap of her negligee down along her shoulder.

“And we’ll be together,” she whispered, then started to kiss his stomach, her warm, full lips teasing his flesh.

“Forever,” he said, then stopped talking when her playful kisses became something else entirely.

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8 Uktar, the Year of Maidens (1361 DR) First Quarter, Innarlith

F^haraud eventually stopped being surprised by how much pain someone could get used to. Even then, some days were better than others. He had grown accustomed to other things, too, including the smell of his own sick room.

What he couldn’t get used to, what he hoped more than anything he would never get used to, was being cared for by others.

Djeserka was a slightly better than average pupil who had become simply an average shipbuilder. He designed the same coasters, cogs, and fishing boats they’d been building in Innarlith for a century or more, and they were seaworthy, and Fharaud had heard his customers were satisfied, so there it was. Fharaud tried to convince himself that he’d done a good thing making Djeserka the shipbuilder he was. After all, without the mediocre setting a sort of sea level, how could one recognize greatness?

“Is there anything else I can get for you, Fharaud?” Djeserka asked.

Fharaud looked up and met the younger man’s pitying gaze. Djeserka looked at him with doe eyes, wet and sentimental.

“Is someone else…?” Djeserka started, uncomfortable making eye contact with his former mentor.

“Yes, yes,” Fharaud said, “someone else is coming to look in on me. Thank you.”

Djeserka nodded, still uncomfortable.

“You are kind to look in on your old employer,” said Fharaud, “and to help pack my things.”

Djeserka nodded and forced a little smile.

“But there may be…” Fharaud started.

Djeserka said, “Anything, Fharaud, really. You know I owe my career to your advice and for your taking a chance on me at all all those years ago.”

Fharaud waved him off with a painfully weak twist of a wrist and said, “A small favor, then, though in truth I think it’s I who will be doing you a favor in the long run.”

Djeserka pulled up a low stool and sat at Fharaud’s bedside, curiosity overcoming his discomfort so he could finally look his old master in the eyes.

“I’m all ears,” Djeserka said.

“There’s a young man,” Fharaud said. “He’s no older now than you were when we first started working together. He helped me to build Everwind.”

“Devorast?” Djeserka guessed.

Fharaud nodded—and that hurt—and said, “He’s stayed with me through … all that’s happened, and it’s been hard on him. He’s too young to be where I am, though—at the end of his career—and he needs… he needs…”

Djeserka smiled and nodded, then so did Fharaud.

Though no more was said on the subject, Fharaud felt they had an understanding. The rest of the afternoon was spent on vapid small talk, and finally Djeserka stood to go. He opened the door just as Devorast walked up. After a few minutes’ worth of uncomfortable greetings and introductions, both of Fharaud’s former students sat at the small round table, their chairs turned to face Fharaud’s sick bed in the old shipbuilder’s one-room quayside hovel.

“So, Devorast,” Djeserka said, “Fharaud tells me that with his … retiring … your services are available to other shipbuilders.”

Devorast looked at Fharaud—of course he was smart enough to know that Fharaud was behind this sudden turn of events. Fharaud just winked at him.

Devorast looked at Djeserka and nodded.

“We’ve been very busy of late,” Djeserka went on, “and we’ve developed quite a tight-knit shop. Fharaud’s recommendation is more than enough for me. If you’re prepared to be a part of our team, to satisfy the needs of our customers be they a grand foreign navy or a simple smelt fisherman, well… what do you say?”

Fharaud held his breath. He’d completely forgotten to speak with Djeserka about Ivar Devorast’s iconoclastic personality, and the man had gone and said precisely the wrong things.