Blackthorne Page 6

  Someone pounded on the front door. Blackthorne pressed the second blue tile on the hearth, shutting off the hidden room and Tobias’s frightened face. The knock sounded again. He picked up Mrs. Holton’s knitting and pushed it into her hands, waited for her to resume her knitting, and then answered the door. A paunchy man with two days’ beard growth and a grey-dyed handkerchief tied around his right arm stood on the porch. Three others, each sporting a grey handkerchief, waited in the dooryard, holding their horses by the reins.

  Home Guard. Four of them, Blackthorne thought. Why didn’t I hear them approach?

  “Who the hell are you?” the first Home Guardsman asked.

  “Joshua Archer. Who the hell are you?”

  The Home Guardsman squinted at Blackthorne for a moment before he stepped up with his chest out. He had terrible breath. Blackthorne judged the man had at least ten years on him and possibly another seventy-five pounds. “And what are you doing in Mrs. Holton’s house, Joshua Archer?”

  Blackthorne stood his ground. “Visiting my aunt.”

  “Don’t recall Mrs. Holton’s got a nephew.”

  “Quinton Halsey, is that you?” Mrs. Holton called from the hearth. “Joshua, quit bowing up like a young rooster in front of the henhouse. I got no time for that foolishness.”

  Stepping back, Blackthorne allowed Mr. Halsey through the door. The older man snatched off his tricorne and gave Mrs. Holton the sheepish expression of a schoolboy. Fuzzy brown hair retained the shape of the hat’s interior.

  “Sorry, Mrs. H., but Sergeant Brown says we’re to search your barn.”

  “Didn’t you just do that four days ago?” she asked.

  “We’re to look for an elph,” Quinton said. “Might be dangerous.”

  “Nonsense. Even if such a creature would be stupid enough to set foot on my property, I’m a dead shot and you know it,” Mrs. Holton said.

  “What if he uses magic on you?” Quinton asked. “What would my mum say, I go and let that happen?”

  Mrs. Holton sighed. “Make yourself happy, then. You will anyway. Don’t you disturb Bess, though. You know how upset she gets. There’ll be no milking her until tomorrow afternoon if you’re not careful.”

  “Yes, missus,” Quinton said and tugged a lock of greasy hair on his forehead before fleeing.

  While Quinton and the Home Guard descended upon the barn like bloodhounds after a fox, Blackthorne watched through the window. The muscles in his back tightened. Damn, damn, damn. Why did Slate give me this assignment? Why didn’t he simply put a musket ball in my skull? It would’ve been less dangerous for everyone else. He took a deep breath, held it, and then released it. This isn’t about you.

  Mrs. Holton whispered, “Damn it.”

  “It isn’t dark yet,” Blackthorne said. His voice held a disinterested quality he didn’t feel, but there was no point in worrying about things over which he had no control.

  Mrs. Holton moved to the windows and pulled the curtains. He returned to the fireplace and stared into the flames, willing himself calm with a rigid jaw. Mrs. Holton slipped a bowl of stew through the darkness of the hidden door before settling onto one of the chairs at the hearth. When supper was done, she gathered the dishes. Blackthorne went out to the well in the dooryard for a bucket of water. The noises from the barn indicated that the Home Guard was being thorough—far more thorough than he liked. He wondered how long it would take before they decided to take the same care with the house. When he returned with the water, Mrs. Holton was in her bedroom, rummaging for something, by the sound. He set the bucket by the fire and started on the dishes. It gave him something constructive to do.

  “You didn’t have to wash up,” Mrs. Holton said.

  Toweling the last plate dry, he set the clean dish on the sideboard and shrugged.

  “I’m—I’m going to give you something, and I want you to take it,” she said.

  Turning, he saw she held up a black greatcoat. The wool was thick and new, but the cut was familiar. Blackthorne swallowed shock.

  She whispered, “I cut the gold braid off and dyed it. Emery never lived to wear it. No one will know it used to be blue. Eledorean blue.”

  An Eledorean officer’s long coat, Blackthorne thought.

  “He was promoted just before—before … He was … Emery was at Virens,” she said. Her sharp eyes were shiny.

  Virens. The image of a muddy battlefield filled Blackthorne’s mind. Thousands of crows. Their calls mixed with the agonized cries of the wounded. The stench of death. Sulfur from powder smoke. Prisoners shot with musket balls they’d bought themselves with coins or trinkets that would only have been stolen later. Of the group whose executions he first witnessed, only one prisoner had braved the bayonet. It had been enough to convince the others that a bullet was the better choice. The duke had pulled him from his studies at the Academy in order to serve on the front lines. The duke had insisted he—

  “Is something the matter?” she asked. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

  Blackthorne blinked and swallowed again. Perhaps most in Aurivallis wouldn’t know that coat. But others would, regardless of the dye. “It is a gracious offer and deeply appreciated, but I cannot accept it.”

  “I know you’re proud. I got my own pride. But this isn’t meant as charity. Consider it payment.”

  “I’m deeply honored you think me worthy of such a gift.”

  She frowned. “You know as well as I do this wouldn’t be the first time one of these has seen use after a bit of dye.” She gave him closer scrutiny, then tears welled up in her eyes.

  He didn’t speak. He didn’t trust himself. She sighed and then turned on her heel. The quiet sniff before she shut her bedroom door was like a dagger in his chest. He almost reconsidered but knew he’d be killed if the coat was found in his possession.

  And if I weren’t a coward, that wouldn’t matter. Blackthorne stared at the shelf on the sideboard. A tiny masculine face in a scorched miniature stared back. The serious expression was topped with a shock of black hair. Before thinking, he snatched it up and flipped it to see what was on the back. The lettering was singed but legible.

  Dearest Mother,

  Father won’t allow my likeness in the house, I know. But I thought you could keep this in the garden to frighten badgers. Ginger always did say I had a face that could stop a clock.

  Your loving son,

  Joshua Emery Holton

  Blackthorne read the name with a start, then returned the picture to the shelf before Mrs. Holton could discover his intrusion. Joshua, he thought. You stupid bastard. He didn’t know who he meant it for—the young man in the picture, or himself.

  The last of the daylight gave out. The Home Guard finished with the barn but seemed to have decided to camp in the dooryard. Quinton Halsey hadn’t swayed in his determination to inspect every inch of Mrs. Holton’s farm. Blackthorne didn’t dare look out the curtain, but he passed in front of the windows anyway in the hopes of hearing signs of their leaving.

  “Hard to be too angry,” Mrs. Holton said from her spot in front of the fire. “The damned fool thinks he’s protecting me.”

  “We can always depart tomorrow.”

  “Then perhaps you should stop pacing like a caged wolf and get some rest,” she said. “I’ll wake you once they’ve gone.”

  DYLAN

  ONE

  CORAL STAR, FRIGATE OF CLAN KASK,

  WATERBORNE NATIONS

  150 MILES SOUTHEAST OFF THE COAST OF ACRASIA

  AEGRERIAN OCEAN

  20 AUGUST, 1783

  Thunder punched the air. Flashes of lightning stitched crooked seams into billowing black clouds. Dylan Kask staggered out onto the quarterdeck just as an eighteen-foot wall of water crashed into the side of Coral Star, scouring her boards. Unsecured fishing traps washed over the side, and the deck violently tilted forty-five degrees. Unfortunately, he hadn’t yet fixed himself to the lifeline. So, he scrabbled for a handhold before he went the way of the vani
shed traps. Cold seawater finished the drenching the rain had begun. Lost in the chaos of water and wind, his grip slipped. He slammed into the platform ladder. Pain exploded in his shoulder, arm, and back. He opened his mouth to scream and swallowed seawater. The ocean pulled at his body as if hungry to devour him. He fought for purchase on the ladder rail, finally anchoring himself with both hands. He hugged it with all his might. At last, the wave moved on. The ship righted herself, and he was dropped onto the boards with stinging eyes and nasal passages. Coughing and spitting, he fought to acquire his balance on chilled bare feet. Shoulder-length spirit knots hung in clumps in his face. The clatter of the prayer tokens sewed into his braids was lost in the screaming wind. With his free hand, he searched his belt for the heavy metal clasp used to hook onto the lifeline.

  It wasn’t this bad when I went to my hammock, Dylan thought. What happened?

  The weather had been unseasonably calm over the summer months. That had meant a prosperous fishing and trade season for Clan Kask. However, August marked the start of storm season. Now was the time when Aegrir, for whom that eastern ocean was named, demanded her due.

  We wouldn’t be here, but for the Acrasians, drown them. He felt a little guilty for that sentiment, given the news.

  The Waterborne Nations avoided open hostility as a matter of policy. For Clan Kask, that friendly facade had lasted until the Emperor of Acrasia had discovered Clan Kask’s support of the deposed Eledorean queen. Thus, Coral Star had found herself the target of a vengeful Acrasian fleet. Captain Brian Magaodh had gambled on turning into a squall to lose their tail, and Dylan Kask, serving as weathermaster for this venture, had exhausted himself getting them safely away.

  But this was no squall. It’s a typhoon.

  I won’t let us sink, Dylan thought. Not as long as I have any power left. Coral Star was Kask, and Clan Kask was his family. I can’t let Dar die. I won’t.

  A loud, splintering crack ripped the air. Broken oak pounded the deck beneath his feet with a force he could feel in his teeth. Someone screamed. Another wave pounded the boards—this time from a less dangerous angle. The crew waded in water up to the knee until it passed.

  Captain Magaodh shouted, “Drop the lightning rod chains! And reef the mainsail! Clear that deck! And get that broken hatch secure! Now! Drown you! Now!”

  First, the message, Dylan thought. Nothing I do will make a difference, if I don’t get the message to Dar or Captain Magaodh.

  Sailors rushed to comply with Captain Magaodh’s orders. Dylan squinted against wind and rain, searching among them for the one face he’d risked the storm and his weakened state to find. One of Dar’s message birds had announced its arrival with a crash against the cabin’s window glass. Dar, whose main responsibility was ship’s messenger, hadn’t been present to receive the bird, since there were no idlers during bad weather with the exception of the weathermaster. Dylan had saved the poor creature before the storm had claimed it. However, the bird had returned the favor by depositing a great deal of water into the cabin in the process.

  Rain lashed Dylan’s face, blinding him yet again. He felt someone grab his arm and then a tug at his waist as a tether was anchored to his belt. Dylan flipped long wet braids out of his eyes. That was when he spied Dar’s lighter brown face. His hair, with its short tufts, made him easy to recognize even under these conditions. Dar was the only practicing Leaudancer onboard above the age of twelve with such short spirit knots.

  He’ll never grow them past his ears, will he? Dylan thought with a warm inward smile. My Dar will be forever doing penance.

  Dar glared, his spiked hair emphasizing his displeasure. “What in all the gods’ names are you doing up here?! And without a lifeline?! You know better than to—”

  Dylan shouted against the wind. “You have a visitor!”

  Dar paused. “In this?”

  “Whitewing. She’s half drowned, but she made it, all right.”

  “Must reward her,” Dar said. “Did the message scroll make it?”

  “It did.”

  “I assume it’s urgent.”

  “Captain Argall says Emperor’s Crown foundered. We can finally get out of this swiving storm!”

  “Thank the gods and goddesses and all the seas! Get any rest?”

  “Some.”

  “Enough?”

  Dylan knew what Dar was asking. This was no time for the truth. “Enough.”

  “I know you. That means no. Get yourself safe below,” Dar said, resolve lending a hardness to his expression. “Coral Star can weather this. It isn’t as bad as it seems.”

  In truth, they had weathered worse, but only because Magaodh had been lucky. Dylan didn’t think Aegrir was with them this day. He swallowed Dar’s lie and then gave him a kiss. They both knew the odds. Dylan could feel it in the intensity of his lover’s lips. He tried not to make it too obvious a goodbye. “Be careful!”

  “You too,” Dar said.

  “I love you.”

  “And I love you. Now go!”

  Once Dar had gone, Dylan prepared himself to begin his ritual. His feet were already bare, and he was tethered. He found an out-of-the-way place next to the ladder and put his back against a wall. He didn’t want to interfere with the work of the crew. With that done, he stretched his arms wide, took in a deep breath, and began.

  The first law of magic is thus: energy does not vanish. It transforms. All are born of water. All shall return to water.

  Using the sea washing across the ship’s boards, he extended his consciousness across Coral Star’s wooden surface and around her spotless hull. This close, he could sense the woodmaster at her work as she battled the sea to keep the ship sound. Her workings involved both hardness and flexibility. Beneath her hands, Coral Star was a living entity bound and knit together without nails. They exchanged a quick, wordless blessing, and then he left her to her duty. Feeling his way, he invoked the tension between seawater and hull to anchor his body to the deck through his feet and back. With that done, he let his awareness rise above the ship. He passed through dense clouds as he floated and sensed various air densities. It got colder the higher he got—not that he could’ve said why or how he felt this. His body remained on the ship. He shouldn’t have felt anything at all, yet he did. It wasn’t consistent, these senses. For example, wind had no effect on him, which was a good thing, considering.

  He moved upward through banks of swiftly moving fog until he reached a place where the storm was divided into two parts—the broadest part, stretching out for miles above him in a dense spiral. He felt his heart drop into his stomach. From his new perspective, he understood the typhoon was too big for him to control. The best he could do was to shift the worst of the storm’s force away from Coral Star. Those energies would transfer to another part of the typhoon, forming larger, more dangerous waves and winds.

  Using a distant part of himself, he lowered his arms, widened his stance and pushed his palms out in front of himself with focused grace. Then he tucked in his elbows, bumping them against the ship. He barely registered the pain.

  The second law of magic is thus: the tide which goes out shall return, bringing with it all energy collected in its wake. That was why it was important to keep one’s intent pure. One could choose to ignore the second law, but too much carelessness exacted a high price—one that could be unpredictable. Ultimately, he hoped any nearby ships would have the wherewithal to save themselves. Such phrasing didn’t guarantee to eliminate negative effects. He was only a mortal being, after all, and some forces were far more powerful than the will of one Waterborne weathermaster, but it was best to make allowances in one’s working nonetheless.

  May the Mother of All Waters bless the souls circled in her holy embrace this night. For all are worthy. I, Dylan Kask, beseech the Great Lady Aegrir for her favor. I make this request for Coral Star and her crew. I weave the winds and dance the seas with the intent of the best outcome for those touched by my will.

  With that, he shoved h
is arms forward and used all the magical energy he had to wedge the heaviest winds away from the ship.

  He’d once tried to explain what it was like to weatherwork to his friend, Suvi. He’d told her it was like walking the main royal yard without a tether while carving. During a storm, it was even more intense. His consciousness drifted up and up until the ship seemed like a lost toy. Clouds gathered around him. The wind swirled west-southwest. He’d created a hole in its current like dropping a stone in a fast-running stream. He formed the space around the ship and then extended it into the surrounding water. He flattened the area across the ocean and stretched it bigger and bigger until the violent waves near Coral Star began to dissipate. He steered a helpful wind into the reefed sails to pilot the ship from danger. Coral Star seemed to jump at the chance. She moved with nimble grace northward and away from the worst of the storm. To Dylan, it took no time at all, and he was ready to return to his body when an unexpected shape caught his attention. A kainen shape.

  Aegrir.

  The goddess threw her head back, laughing as she danced among the winds—whirling counterclockwise. Her black hair was cast all around her dark head. Her bare brown arms were likewise flung wide to the storm. She was one with the clouds and yet not. Her gown matched the color of her surroundings and faded from dark to light and back again in patterns Dylan recognized from his mother’s paintings. Flashes of lightning glittered all around her like white-hot silver. Majestic, Aegrir was all at once young and old. She portrayed a sensual beauty and power in her joyfulness that no mortal could’ve matched.

  Not even my Dar can dance like that.

  Dylan had sensed her presence before. As a Waterborne and a practicing Leaudancer, it couldn’t be avoided. He lived on Aegrir’s waters, after all. She embodied crest and trough, expanding and contracting tides. She was both the world’s blood and the world’s heartbeat. However, he’d always visualized her as an abstract concept—the spirit of the ocean, not an actual entity. To see her was a shock. Transfixed, he couldn’t bring himself to turn away. He drifted closer. Mid-whirl, she paused, and turned her attention to him. All at once, he felt caught like an insect on a pin. Her black gaze was brimmed with a presence so vast that he fought an urge to flinch. Terror spurred his faraway heart to beat faster.