They climbed hills and traversed woody patches, forded streams and crossed stretches of prairie. Amella chattered endlessly, pointing out how that crumbly-looking dwelling had once been an outpost; or how she liked to camp in that nice hollow on her way back; or how she’d first journeyed along this path coming from Miritown, when she was fourteen and even smaller than Corrin. She told stories, too—about a bear that had nearly decided to eat her, a tangle with a bandit, and a time she saw a firebird.
“There was this wildfire,” said Amella as she gave Oatmuncher’s lead rope a tug. “Devoured the land and chased me straight on to the river, it did. And wildfires are where you see firebirds. Beautiful hawks. Their feathers are this blazing red with oranges and yellows that catch the light of the flames, so they look like fire themselves—and what they do is, they fly close to the flames and pick off the panicked rodents and rabbits. Savage, brilliant opportunists, they are.” Her eyes glinted with admiration. “You ever seen a wildfire yourself, Corrin?”
“No ma’am,” said Corrin, and privately thought she could live without ever seeing one.
“Oy, stop making me feel old.” Before Corrin could stutter an apology, she grinned and said, “Kidding, but really, no need to be formal with me. Anyway, wildfires. They’re beautiful, dangerous things. But let me tell you, they’re not the most dangerous thing. At least you’ll see a wildfire coming. You won’t see the firebird waiting to pluck you off just when your luck’s taken a turn for the worse, and your attention is elsewhere.” She pointed a finger at Corrin’s face. “Tip for the road—when you’re most scared is when you most need to keep your head on your shoulders.”
“So when I’m panicking is when I need to not panic, is what you’re saying.”
“I’m not saying it’s easy. I’m not saying your heart won’t quicken and hammer at your ribcage like it’s trying to break out, or that your hands won’t tremble, or that every bone in your body won’t be screaming at you to flail and run. I’m saying that despite that, you should tryto keep your wits about you. ‘Tis a skill, and a hard-earned one at that.” And out of nowhere, Amella drew her sword and yelled, “HARR!“
Corrin jolted and backpedaled frantically. Her boot caught on a rock, or a clod of dirt, or perhaps nothing but thin air—either way, she fell backward with a shout, arms pinwheeling.
Amella towered over her. She sheathed her sword and chortled. “First step will be not tripping over yourselfwhen you run.”
Oatmuncher stood calmly behind his master. He bore the expression of an animal who had seen too much of Amella’s nonsense to be startled by it. Or perhaps he had no survival instincts, and he’d happily stand in place and munch on grass while someone advanced on him with an axe. Hard to tell with him.
“Maybe if I do that a few more times, I’ll train the stumbling out of you.” Her eyes gained a mischievous glint. Very concerning.
“Please don’t.”
They continued on until nightfall. Corrin’s legs grew weary, and her stomach ached. But Amella showed no signs of needing rest, and Corrin did not ask. She told herself it was because the sooner they reached Miritown, the sooner she would reach her goal. But in truth, that fall of hers had stung what little pride she had, and she didn’t want it stung more.
When the sky turned dark, Amella stopped to set up camp. “I am famished,” she said as the two of them gathered wood. “Starving,” she insisted as Corrin pointed out that the greycaps were edible, unlike the blackcaps; and that herb over there would aid with digestion; and that one next to it did nothing medically, but was sweet and made potions less foul, so it would work nicely with their stew. “Amazing,” said Amella as, at long last, Corrin hoisted Amella’s stewpot off the embers. “Smells good enough to be food of the stars.”
“Stars don’t eat,” said Corrin, bewildered.
“Aah, never heard that figure of speech, have you? You all say food of the spirits. The Miritown folks say food of the stars.”
“Yes, and neither of them make any sense. The dead don’t eat, either.”
Amella laughed. “In Miritown, they also call one side of a sailboat ‘starboard,’ even though it has no stars. You travel enough, you’ll hear odd idioms aplenty.”
They ate their stew in companionable silence while Oatmuncher grazed behind them. Then Amella volunteered for first watch, and Corrin didn’t argue. Rest! Sweet rest!
But when she’d rolled out her blanket and swaddled herself in its folds, she couldn’t sleep. The rustle of wind in the trees and meadow grass sounded like beasts creeping up on her. The call of a ghost owl nearly made her jump out of her skin; Corrin twisted, and the sight of its moon-white face peering out from the branches sent a chill down her spine.
Willing her heart to calm, she told herself firmly, It’s only a bird. And even if it were a wayward spirit like those old tales say, that doesn’t mean it’ll hurt me, right? ‘Course not. Corrin lay back down and tried to settle, watching Amella, who in turn watched the flames die down to embers.
When Amella turned and caught sight of Corrin, she chuckled. “You’re an anxious one, aren’t you? Relax, my startle-prone friend. I’ve watched nights for years, and we have the valiant Oatmuncher to whisk us away.”
Oatmuncher snored.
“Sleep,” Amella insisted.
Corrin thought it would be impossible, and she closed her eyes believing she would spend the night staring intently at the backs of her eyelids, dull and dark though they were. But the weariness of a long day’s travel weighted her bones, and her worries faded into nothingness.
Amella shook Corrin awake when light had just begun to tinge the horizon, then flopped down on the ground and started snoring without so much as a goodnight. Corrin gave herself a minute to boggle at how easily Amella fell asleep, then turned her attention to the dying embers of their campfire and the sunrise as it seeped across the sky. When the blazing ball of light cleared the skyline, Corrin woke Amella.
They walked until the sun passed overhead and broke briefly for a lunch of hard bread and dried meats. Soon after, they started seeing faces on the road—another merchant, whom Amella gave a wolf’s smile; a caravan of performers, who waved and played merry lute chords as they passed; a party of guards on horseback, who grumbled to each other about something or other involving “back in my day” and “lousy new recruits.” And then, as Corrin and Amella crested the biggest hill yet, Corrin saw something stranger even than Oddment.
The road ahead of them snaked down a sloping meadow, which ran alongside a ribbon of glimmering river. Beyond that meadow, the river spilled into an expanse of blue that stretched as far left and as far right as Corrin could see, and all the way out to the horizon—and there it met the sky, a lighter expanse of blue.
So this is the sea, she thought.
Supposedly, the sea flowed all the way over the edge of the celestial turtle’s shell, which was what the elders said carried the world. A curved turtle’s shell, they reasoned, would explain the unevenness of the ground and the way the horizon shifted as one travelled—the world couldn’t be flat, so it must rest on something curved. And the owner of the curved thing must be a patient, steady being, to bear a burden so great.
They had never agreed on where all the water went when it spilled over. Corrin had once hypothesized to Frendel and Sam that the sea dispersed into the sky and rained back onto them. Maybe it rose like regular water did when it boiled, in great tendrils of steam under the heat of the sun.
But the sea was not the strange thing, vast and mysterious though it was. No; after Corrin’s moment of awe passed, she noticed the truly strange thing—the town on the shoreline.
Despite its peculiarities, Oddment’s maze of walls formed a normal square-ish structure, which once upon a time would have made for a sensible fortress. The buildings ahead were not like that. They clustered along the seashore and the riverbanks, a wobbly crescent of wooden structures. They all had angles and curves in odd places, as if they were meant to be something else. Poles stuck out, lopsided, with tattered flags flapping in the wind. The only conventional-looking building was the keep, a stone tower that rose out of the ground a smidge further inland and loomed over everything else. The keep looked so out of place that Corrin felt the urge to hold her thumb up in front of her eye and block it from view.
“Miritown,” said Amella happily. “Weirdest, most beautiful town you’ll ever see.”
Corrin’s gaze slid away from the bizarreness before her and shifted to Amella—to the crinkles at the corners of her eyes and the contentment on her face. Amella looked sideways at Corrin, and the contented expression shifted, turning thoughtful. “Y’know,” Amella said, “this is a pretty short jaunt from Oddment. Couple of days. You and your family ever come here? See the sights, shop around the market?”
“No ma’am. Uh. I mean. No, Amella.”
Amella tilted her head. “Why not?”
Corrin blinked, bemused by the question. “Why would we? We’ve no family here, nor business.”
Amella stared just as bemusedly back. “Don’t you ever just want to wander? See new sights, meet new people?”
“Um. Not really. Two days’ travel seems awfully far just to see things when we already have such lovely forests at home, and I’m happy enough with the people I already know. Besides,” Corrin added defensively, feeling very much like she was being judged, “I have my healer’s apprenticeship with Bathilda. I’ve always got more to help with and learn. Supplies to gather, medicines to prepare, patients to treat, books from Bathilda’s library to read and reread… Making sure I know all two hundred and six bones and the different kinds of joints and all the organs and soft stuff in between, and learning about what can ail them and how to treat them. And I’ve been apprenticing since I was seven. So—so that keeps me occupied,” she concluded awkwardly. “And, um. I guess—well, that’s the only reason why I’m out here now. Because I need to be, to be able to help them heal.”
Amella was quiet for an agonizingly long time. “Huh,” she said at last. “It’s hard for me to imagine not wanting to wander. I was born and raised on the road, with questers-turned-merchants for parents. We’d travel the lands together, and they’d do all kinds of daring things. Retrieving difficult-to-find materials, hunting down beasts, you name it. Every day was new. Made life more fun. Full of adventures.” She frowned. “I don’t think it’s healthy, to not have far-flung adventures. Limits your view of the world.”
Corrin stared doubtfully up at Amella. “Well, limiting far-flung adventures limits risk of injury and peril, too. M’not so sure they’re good for health, on the balance.”
“They’re worth it,” said Amella stoutly. “In any case, we’re on an adventure now, so we might as well make the best of it.” Before Corrin could even think of a reply, Amella continued. “Like here. Miritown has an interesting history. It’s said the first people who sailed here were nomadic traders and pirates. But one day, a crew’s ship was hauled ashore for barnacle scraping, and lo and behold, it was in too poor shape to put back in the water. Seemed a shame to waste it, so they made a house out of it, buttressed it up and filled it with creature comforts. Turned it into a rest stop for other people and did booming business. And another crew did that, and another. And so, Miritown was born. Now, it’s tradition that when a ship’s grown old and unreliable for sailing, she’s pulled ashore and repurposed as a home. Or a bar.” Amella grinned. “Lots of good bars in Miritown, bars and inns. Miritown as a people appreciate their mead.” Amella clapped Corrin on the back. “Let me show you my favorite of the lot!”
The air in Miritown reeked of fish and perfumes, and dirt footpaths squiggled between the ship-houses. People bustled along everywhere, forming a cacophony of brightly colored fabrics and glinting ornaments and chatter in sharp, fast voices. Many of them wore skirts and wraps around their legs, which made Corrin wonder if there was a festival; that was the only time folks wore skirts back home. But perhaps folks just dressed differently here. Others wore piecemeal leather-and-metal armor, and some dressed in simple vests and pants, which didn’t look festival-ish at all. Most everyone had a dagger, axe, or small sword belted at their waist.
Corrin drew close to Amella. In truth, she couldn’t see what was so beautiful about Miritown. She preferred Oddment with its relative quiet and surrounding forests, where she could retreat to gather herbs or hunt rabbits.
They reached an open square at the join between the river and the ocean, where merchants and peddlers of all kinds had set up their shops—small tents, wooden counters, or sometimes simply a blanket with a jumble of wares, laid out on the ground. Amella picked her way through the horde. She gave a bearded, scowling man a jaunty wave, and she winked at a woman with tasseled clothes and jars of fruit preserves for sale. Oatmuncher shambled after her. They made it to the other side and stopped in front of a massive barge-house.
Rickety wooden steps led up to a door that stood ajar. The sign hanging above it read The Cuddly Bear, and it had a painting of a snarling bear beneath the text. Corrin could not imagine what kind of madman would cuddle a bear, much less a snarling one.
It was the sort of idea that would make the twins snicker. Frendel would insist on going inside if he were here, and Corrin would refuse. And then he would call her a boring grown-up, which, to him, was the worst conceivable insult. But in her opinion, it wasn’t such a terrible thing to be. Boring grown-ups lived safer, better-fed lives.
At least in theory.
Amella pushed some coins into Corrin’s hand. “Get yourself a drink and a warm meal, and rest those weary feet of yours for a while,” she said. “I’m going to go look around town for some friends of mine. At least a few of ’em go north every month or two.” And before Corrin could protest that her feet weren’t tired and she’d like to stick with the person who could swing a sword, thanks, Amella had vanished into the crowd, leaving Corrin in front of The Cuddly Bear.
Laughter and shouts spilled out from the doorway, raucous and loud.
Corrin took a deep breath and stepped inside.
The ship-house was dimly lit but warm, and the air was so thick with scents that she could scarcely breathe it—freshly brewed mead and seared fish-meat and stewed vegetables and the reek of sweat and travel grime. People clustered around tables, swigging from tankards, devouring plates of food, holding arm-wrestling matches, or passing each other coins. Possibly making bets on the people in the arm-wrestling matches.
There was a counter at the back, where more people sat on stools. A broad-shouldered lady with a scarf over her hair bustled behind it. She had the scowl of someone who’d exhausted all reserves of patience and would actually, literally kick out the next person who troubled her. She was also the person providing the food and drink.
Corrin picked her way through the crowd, much as Tiptoes would pick her way through treacherous terrain, and took a seat at the counter. It was a seat surrounded by other empty seats, and she waited for a few minutes while the barkeep handled customers at the far end. A man with sun-bronzed forearms paid five copper pieces for a piping bowl of stew. When the barkeep turned to Corrin, she put exactly that much coinage on the table and asked for the same.
“Right on,” said the barkeep, and gave Corrin her stew.
“Thank you, ma’am.”
The barkeep’s nose wrinkled. “M’name’s Ida, lass. Nobody uses ma’am or sir around here.”
“Thank you, Ida.”
Ida chuckled. It was a low, wry sound, coarse but not unpleasant. “Nobody’s polite around here, either. Where’re you from? And eat this while it’s warm,” she admonished, tapping the bowl with her forefinger, “because wherever you’re from, they aren’t feeding you enough. Put some meat on those bones and blood in your skin.”
Corrin refrained from pointing out that she couldn’t answer Ida’s question and eat at the same time, and she obligingly gulped down her stew. The savoriness of tender-cooked meat and vegetables burst across her tongue. Warmth settled in her stomach and spread all throughout her bones until her toes curled with pleasure. Ida grinned—the first grin Corrin had seen from her. It was hearty and genuine, much like the food she sold.
Then someone sat next to Corrin and said, “Tankard of mead, darkest brew you have, and a bowl of your sea bream stew.”
“Right on,” said Ida, just as she had with Corrin, but her expression was oddly rigid. She plonked a frothing mug of dark liquid in front of the stranger, and she accepted her coin without comment.
Corrin peered at the stranger. Like Corrin, she wore a cloak, but unlike Corrin, her cloak was fine and unpatched. She’d drawn her hood over her head. Corrin could see bits and pieces of the stranger’s face sticking out: a nose that looked like it’d been broken at least once, and brown hair spilling out from beneath the hood. Her shoulders were thinner than Da’s but broader than Corrin’s. She didn’t seem like the sort Corrin would want to cross swords with—not that she wanted to cross swords with anyone, really.
The mystery person took a swig from her mead and caught Corrin looking. “Who are you and what aren’t you spitting out?” With the stranger turned fully toward her, Corrin could finally see her face. She had a strong jaw and brown eyes that glinted with light from the hearth-fire.
Corrin gulped. “I’m just a traveler. Sorry, didn’t mean to stare.”
“Traveler, eh? What’re you traveling for?”
Corrin swallowed another spoonful of stew, considering, and at last, decided on the truth: “I’m searching for a fruit in the Gloamwood.” It wouldn’t matter if a stranger thought her foolhardy, surely. Perhaps if she thought her foolhardy enough, she’d tire of talking to her and leave her be.
Ida, who had been ladling stew into a bowl, stopped short.
The woman’s glass plinked against the counter. “A slip of a lass like you, venturing into the Gloamwood?”
“Are you mad?” Ida hissed. “That place is a death sentence.”
“Hah! Don’t discourage her. I’d love to see how she does against the trolls.”
Ida set the bowl of stew in front of the stranger. Liquid sloshed over the edge and spilled onto the countertop. “Because it’s not your bloody neck on the line, is it?” She turned to Corrin and said forcefully, “Don’t go wandering in there, lass. It’s not worth your life.”
“Really?” mused the stranger. “Because I’ve heard legends about that fruit. Said to cure any ailment, even grant immortality to the one who keeps eating it.” She stirred her stew, unperturbed by the spillage. “Immortality is an infinity of lifetimes. That’s worth risking a single life an infinity of times over, if you ask me. But that’s assuming it exists, and assuming you can get to it. What drove you to try?”
Corrin hesitated, unsure of how much to say. She’d come from a plagued village, and she didn’t want to alarm them into sending her back. But she herself felt hale and hearty, and there had been no quarantine when she’d left—probably still none, yet. It would probably be alright to be honest with them, wouldn’t it?
She ventured to tell the truth. “Half my village is sick, including my da, and they won’t get better.”
Ida frowned. “I’m sorry to hear that, I really am. But the traders ’round here have all sorts of tonics. Could be one of them would help.”
Corrin shook her head. “We’ve tried tincture of feverfew, marigold, ginseng, child’s daisies, concoctions derived from the works of Telmir, the pressure-point therapies of Yelt, poultice of the pneumonia fern, warm beds, clean blankets, cool rags on the head, mint to cleanse the throat, and all sorts of vitality brews. We’ve read and reread dozens of medical texts, and it was no good. I mean no offense, but I don’t think your traders will have anything we haven’t tried.”
Ida blinked. “By the turtle’s back,” she said. “I don’t recognize half of those.”
The stranger spoke. “So you’re desperate, is what you’re saying.”
“Yes.”
“Nothing like desperation to drive a person.” The stranger leaned toward her and propped her elbow on the counter. Corrin leaned back until she felt her bar stool threaten to tip. “All right. Tell me, how are you getting to the Gloamwood? You traveling alone? You have a plan for finding your way through?”
Behind the stranger, Ida tensed.
Corrin took a slow breath and said, “I’m traveling with a friend, a brave one who knows her way around a sword. She will find another friend, who will take me north on a boat. And then—and then my friend and I will head for the Gloamwood on foot.”
Ida had a stricken look, and Corrin felt a strong impulse to reassure her—kind of like what she felt with her mum, sometimes.
“I have a map from someone who’s been there, so I won’t be going in blind.”
Said map was tucked safely in her vest’s inner pocket. She hadn’t wanted to cram it in her pouch, or in her pack with the rest of her supplies. The old paper seemed too fragile for that.
Ida didn’t look reassured.
“Interesting,” said the stranger. “Very interesting. What’s your name, little healer?”
“Corrin.”
The stranger stuck out her hand. It was large and riddled with scars, rougher than the fine cloth she wore. “I go by King.” She grinned, revealing a mouthful of straight teeth. Corrin’s own were crooked and large in the front—cute as a rabbit’s, her mum had once said, but Corrin knew a mum’s bias when she heard it. “Just a nickname, but one I use more than my birth name. I’m not claiming to be the oh-so-esteemed king, sitting fat and protected in their castle.” Those last words were barbed with scorn.
Few saw the king. Most everyone understood that they existed, and that the king was the one who sent out guards to protect the cities in their domain and sent the tax collectors out at autumn’s end. (A cunning move on the king’s part, Corrin thought, to collect taxes when folks were enjoying the fruits of their harvest and would feel the sting the least.) Beyond that, they interfered little, and most didn’t think much of them. Plenty liked it that way. Plenty others thought them a lazy layabout. The king didn’t arrest people for saying so—Corrin had once seen her neighbor in public, screaming it to anyone who’d listen, and all the guards had done was tell him to stop disturbing the peace and get himself a brandy—so Corrin suspected they were a decent sort. Her elders said that tyrants were terrible at taking criticism…
Ah, the stranger King’s hand was still waiting for a response.
Tentatively, Corrin reached out. King’s fingers dwarfed hers, and her skin was bumpy with callouses. She had a crushing grip. “Well met,” said Corrin. Privately, she willed this King to let her have her circulation back.
“You don’t sound so certain about that.” King withdrew. She looked amused. “But Corrin, this is a fortuitous meeting. I can go in your stead, if you like. My price is but a portion of the spoils, and, of course, the map, so I might navigate.”
For a heartbeat, Corrin considered saying yes. This King who was not king looked like she knew her way around heavy weaponry and had made it through a lifetime of fights alive, which made her suited for a perilous quest such as this one. Certainly more suited than Corrin. She could wait here, safe with her head secure on her shoulders, and let someone stronger than her confront the wilderness of monsters and sink-mud.
But she knew so little about this King. What kind of stranger would volunteer to go into the Gloamwood, alone, without repayment in coin? Even Amella wouldn’t have chosen to accompany her if their home’s fate hadn’t rested on their shoulders. Besides, there was something about King—the way she carried herself, the way she looked at her… It was hard to pin down why, but for some reason, King made her uneasy. It wasn’t just her, either. King seemed to make Ida uneasy, too. Corrin hadn’t missed the way Ida tensed when King arrived, nor how on edge she seemed now. Something wasn’t quite right about that.
She would have to say no, then. Politely.
“That’s all right, ma’am,” said Corrin, forgetting that no one said ‘ma’am’ in Miritown. “If you’re a king, you’re a king to some people who value your life.”
King’s brow quirked. “An interesting notion.”
“What are you king of, then?”
“Of my people. As you said.”
“Who are your people?”
“Oh, a few sellswords, some traders, hunters and travelers…”
“That’s a lot of people,” noted Corrin.
“Yes. But not a realm’s worth, eh?”
Corrin scraped the bottom of her bowl. “True. You didn’t mention healers or farmers. Or smithies, or weavers, or fishers…”
“OY, CORRIN!“
Corrin jumped. Her bowl skittered to the edge of the counter, where Ida caught it with a deft hand and a scowl.
Amella made her way through the crowd, but where Corrin had tiptoed, she sauntered; where Corrin had squirmed past, she plowed through. She clapped Corrin’s shoulder with a heavy hand and grinned down at her. “I found our ride. Looks like you got your food, eh?” She turned to Ida, who, to Corrin’s surprise, lit up in recognition. “Thanks for taking care of my companion, Ida. I’d stop for a bowlful myself, if I wasn’t in a rush.”
“Glad to.” Ida set down the bowl and wiped her hands on a cleaning rag. “You watch out for each other, you hear? She told me where she’s going, and I don’t like it.”
Amella sobered. “She also tell you why?”
“Yes, and I still don’t like it.”
“Aye, well. Not much to be done about that. We’ll come back this-a-way for a good, long drink afterward, though.”
“You do that.”
“Of course.” Amella smiled in response, more gently this time, then glanced at King, who had observed the exchange with interest. Amella’s brow creased, and the hand on Corrin’s shoulder tightened its grip. She tugged Corrin away from the counter. “Alright, then, off we go.”
And with that, she chivvied Corrin out the door. She grabbed Oatmuncher, who’d been left tied by his lead rope to a docking post, and led the way across the square, then down a side street. It got quieter. There were still people about, but not as many as in the square. Corrin could hear the clack clack of Oatmuncher’s hooves on cobblestone.
“You were talking to that stranger at the bar, right?” Amella said. “Hard to tell from a ways off, but it looked like it when I walked in.”
“Right. Just a little.”
“Find out anything interesting about her?”
“She calls herself King. She said she leads some mercenaries and traders, and other such people. Maybe like a guild?”
“Hm. Maybe.” Amella fell quiet for a moment. Oatmuncher’s footsteps clacked on cobblestone. At last, she said, “Word of advice: be careful who you trust. You can meet some dodgy folks at a trading port. And if you ask me, anyone who calls themself ‘king’without being a king is suspect.”
“Okay.”
They walked in companionable silence for a spell. The road sloped downward. Corrin could see slivers of the ocean through the gaps between the ship-buildings—glimmering hints of blue too dark to be the sky, carved in irregular shapes by prows and ship-cabin roofs.
Corrin asked, “Where are we going, anyway?”
“The port. I told you we’d be sailing north, didn’t I?”
The port was larger than Corrin had imagined. The shoreline had no buildings to obscure the sea, and over a dozen piers jutted out into the water, splaying like fingers where the river met the ocean. Ships of all sizes bobbed at the ends of the piers: barges, flat and sail-less; fishing dinghies, which might have carried two people and a net and little else; grand ships with multiple masts and painted sides, bobbing on the waves; and even a guardship, a midsize sailing boat with the realm’s insignia (a crimson feather crossed with a sword).
Sailors with sun-bronzed arms and ruddy faces tramped up and down the port, hefting crates, hauling nets, rolling barrels, and unloading and prepping ships. There was less chatter here, more barked commands to move it and haul that ashore, mate, we don’t have all evening.
Amella strode confidently past them all, until she stopped in front of a small, rickety-looking sailboat. It had a steering wheel and a flat-looking cabin in the back. Two rolls of fabric were lashed to a single mast. Traces of blue paint clung to one side. The paint might have been part of an insignia, once, before wind and saltwater had worn it away.
The sailboat bobbed forlornly on the waves. It didn’t look like the sort of boat that could weather the kinds of sea monsters and typhoons described in seafaring stories. It looked like the mildest ocean squall could break it apart.
A grim-faced man with a shabby tunic leaned on the railing, watching them. A walking plank extended from the deck to the shore, inviting them to board.
Corrin asked, “Can you swim?”
“Nope,” said Amella cheerfully. “Can you swim?”
The answer was yes. Corrin attributed this to her brothers. They kept doing foolish things like running off into the woods and jumping into ponds and streams, which was even more foolish when they hadn’t yet learned to keep their heads above water. Like when Frendel had cannonballed into the middle of Catfisher Pond from Lookout Rock. He’d been helpless as a kitten with his head bobbing in and out of sight… Corrin had gone tearing into the water after him, and she’d forgotten that she couldn’t swim either. On instinct, she’d kicked her feet and held air in her lungs, even as cold seeped into her skin and her clothes weighed her down. She had lost her boots, but she didn’t realize this until she and Frendel were safe on land, sodden and dripping, and stones and twigs dug into the soles of her feet hard enough to hurt.
She’d been thirteen. Frendel had been six.
Corrin hadn’t liked it and wouldn’t have put a toe in water again, but her brothers had decided that almost drowning was a splendid adventure and made a habit of trying to hide in the pond. And then Corrin would have to go in after them. She grew accustomed to splash wars and water tussles, and to paddling after her wayward siblings.
“Yes,” she said, “I can swim.”
Amella looked impressed. “That’s an odd skill even for someone who lives in Oddment.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Means you’re lucky. If you fall in the ocean, your chance of living is twenty percent instead of zero.” Amella wagged a finger in front of Corrin’s face. “Don’t go thinking the ocean is like some woodsy pond. If you’re close to shore, powerful currents can pull you under and dash you against the rocks. If you’re far from shore, then you’re a starred sight farther out than most humans can swim, even those who know how.”
Corrin shuddered.
“Don’t look so worried. You’re in good hands. Let me introduce you to my friend.”
And so, Amella coaxed Corrin onto the boat. There was no need to coax Oatmuncher; he didn’t so much as twitch an ear at the creak of wood beneath his hooves or the water churning below. Corrin, on the other hand, felt uneasy with the timbers creaking under her boots, and the deck rocking back and forth, and even with Amella’s friend offering a soft hello and a handshake.
The man’s hand was cold as a dead fish. His limbs were bony and rail-thin. “Well met,” he said. Perhaps it was Corrin’s imagination, but he sounded sorrowful, as if he secretly knew she’d be subject to some terrible doom. Which, depending on what Amella had told him about her quest, might not be too far from the mark. “I’m Turner. Amella told me what you’re after.”
A cat peered at them from atop the railing. It was enormous, probably twice the size of Tiptoes, with long grey fur and black stripes. Its eyes were round and yellow as ripe squash, its ears pointed and keen, and its paws broad, good for balancing. Turner caught where Corrin was looking and smiled faintly. “That’s Dragon. He’s an excellent ratter—you won’t find any pests on my ship.”
Dragon swished his tail and lifted his nose.
“Well met, Dragon,” said Corrin.
“He’ll like you, I’m sure. He can tell you’re the sort who pays proper respect to cats.” Turner cleared his throat. “But back to business. I’ll take you as far as Boar’s Tusk Peninsula, but no farther. I’m not setting foot in the Gloamwood. Couldn’t get me into that forest if you paid me a king’s ransom.”
“That’s alright,” said Corrin, “I wouldn’t go in there either, if I had a choice.”
“You always have a choice, miss.”
“My other choice is so bad I’m not sure it counts.”
“Well then. You have my condolences.”
“Enough of your dread and gloom, Turner,” said Amella. “We haven’t even set out yet. When are we shoving off, anyway?”
“Sunrise tomorrow. I’m prepping my ship, getting my supplies loaded, finding my last few shiphands… You might want to find an inn for the night.” He said this as if he meant, You might want to write your wills and hand off your worldly possessions. Or perhaps Corrin was just imagining that he said it like that. Or maybe it wasn’t his voice at all, but hers—a quiet, insidious one in the back of her mind, whispering that she’d fail and end up a troll’s meal.
Wouldn’t even make a meal, said the voice that was decidedly not Turner’s. He didn’t seem the mean sort, after all. More like a snack. They’d gnaw your bones clean as an appetizer and use your femurs as toothpicks.
Doesn’t matter, Corrin told herself firmly. I have Amella. She’ll eat them for breakfast. Or challenge them to an arm-wrestling match and win.
Amella’s cheerful reply to Turner pulled Corrin out of her thoughts. “Will do. Alright, you’ve met Corrin and we have our schedule, so we’ll get going. Good day, old friend.”
They stayed at an inn near the port, a place called The Selkie’s Song. The floorboards were rickety and the innkeeper surly, but the sleeping pallet was firm and the walls thick in a way that reminded Corrin of Oddment. It made her feel safe. It also helped that it faced a main street, so Corrin could peer through the little round window and watch passersby. Somewhere, someone strummed a lute and sang about a woman and her fish lover. Apparently that was something people did here—sat outside and played music at night. Amella said it was called “busking.” Thus far, Corrin liked the buskers.
A guard walked by the window and noticed her watching. He saluted. Corrin saluted back—it seemed the polite thing to do, like returning a hello or a wave—and he moved on, smiling beneath his mustache.
“Oy, to bed with you,” Amella chided. She was stretched out on her sleeping pallet with her arms tucked behind her head. “We’re getting up with the sun.”
“I get up with the sun anyway,” said Corrin, but she obligingly laid down on her pallet. “I’m used to it.”
Amella rolled onto her side to face her. Her eyes reflected the light of the lamp between them. “Huh. I didn’t know that. I always sleep in, if I’ve nowhere to go.”
“How do you sleep through the birdsong?”
“How do you not? You’ve lived there your whole life. Aren’t you used to it?”
“I got used to waking up early for chores. And early mornings are nice. Peaceful, I think.”
“Hm… I suppose.” Amella frowned in thought. “When I was your age, I liked the middle of the day best. All the hustle and bustle of everyone going about their business. Always preferred the cities, too, especially after my ma—well.” She shrugged her free shoulder. “Mind you, I like having Oddment to get back to after a long journey. Good place to rest. Oatmuncher likes it too.”
“How can you tell?” Oatmuncher—in Corrin’s recollection, at least—had never seemed to care much where he was.
“Just can. He’s my travel partner. It’s hard to explain.”
Cheers floated in through the window. The busker had finished her song. She started another, one so slow and soft that Corrin couldn’t hear what it was about.
“Lullaby,” Amella murmured. “One of my favorites.”
But the lullaby did not lull Corrin; she still couldn’t settle down and sleep for the life of her. So she asked one of the many questions bouncing around her head. “Um. You said Turner’s an old friend? How old?”
Amella chuckled lowly. “Very old. I’ve had decades of adventures with that man, Corrin. Back when I… well, when I started traveling alone, I was, oh, four or five years older than you. ‘Round then, I took a job as a shiphand.” Her voice was layered with a mix of emotions that Corrin wasn’t quite sure how to parse. She sounded a touch nostalgic, maybe. Maybe even sad. Not what Corrin expected at all. “I didn’t know anyone on that ship and didn’t have much experience as a shiphand, but I needed some coin and some time to think about what to do, so I was stuck swabbing the decks. Turner was a sailor on that crew, toiling for the captain. He showed me the ropes, literally. Was always patient, that man, though quiet and perpetually woebegone. He was a good listener, too.” She paused, then added softly, “I don’t want to get into it, but I needed a good listening friend and didn’t even know it. Meant a lot, then, that he offered me his ear.”
The last notes of the lullaby petered out. Corrin waited with bated breath, wondering what in the lands had burdened Amella and what she would say next.
Amella rolled over and stared at the ceiling. “Anyway. He welcomed my tales, and I welcomed his sailing skills and kindness. And when I found out he was trying to save up for his own ship, I offered to help him out. Suggested we go adventuring together, land and sea. Since he taught me what he knew about ships, I’d share what I knew about the sword. We’d train up. Then we could go questing for good coin.” Her tone turned fond. “He’d claim he wasn’t the daring sort, but mark me, he agreed in a heartbeat. And he stuck to it. Hunted beasts and ventured into strange caves right along with me, helping me acquire rare and precious resources. Then I’d do most of the bargaining and trading to get us our rewards. Took us years, but we got Turner his ship.”
Corrin frowned. “That one we’re about to ride?” Privately, she still thought it looked old and feeble and inspired little confidence.
“Aye, that’s the one! She’s a fixer-upper, and she’s aged, but she’s got good bones, that ship. Or so Turner tells me. He’d know better than I.” She paused, then continued. “‘Course, once he had his ship, he wanted to spend more time on the sea, transporting goods, while I’d rekindled my love of traveling the land.” Corrin couldn’t see Amella’s grin, but she could hear it in her voice as she added, “Mind you, I still talk Turner into the odd adventure. And Turner transports me and my trading goods at a madly generous discount. I’ve had to talk the man out of doing it for free!” She chuckled. “He’s a soft heart and a brilliant sailor. Trust me on this, Corrin: we’re in good hands.”
Corrin’s anxiety didn’t simply vanish, but Amelia’s sincerity moved her, gave her hope that maybe Amella was right and she needn’t worry so much about the creaky looks of the ship. Another melody drifted through the window, and Corrin let it carry her away.
Corrin slept restlessly and woke at a light touch to her shoulder. She and Amella gathered their things and crept out to the dock. Turner’s ship awaited them, sails unfurled. Shiphands scurried across the deck, hauling ropes and crates and other gear. Turner himself had his arms full. “Put your beast of burden in the cargo hold, will you?” he said, and jerked his head to indicate the center of the ship.
Corrin followed Amella and Oatmuncher down a ramp and into a dark, cavernous space that smelled of salt, grains, and metals. Barrels and crates were stacked in pyramids, threatening to scrape the low ceiling. They found a box stall in the corner with a thin carpeting of straw.
Amella cinched Oatmuncher into the harness and patted his shaggy neck. “You’ll be fine here, old friend,” Amella assured him.
Oatmuncher blinked, then dipped his head and nibbled on the straw.
Amella guided Corrin back out and led her in a roundabout way around the ship, making sure Corrin knew its layout, winding around the bustling shiphands. Amella pointed out the ship’s sails, the crow’s nest, and the raised deck with the steering wheel in the back, as well as the captain’s quarters beneath it. Corrin couldn’t help but stare at the ropes that stretched like lute strings between the sails and the mast; at the wheel that spun gently in the wind, giving the illusion that it had a mind of its own; and, in the cabin entryway, at the shelf full of shells, old scrolls, jewelry, and bits of pottery with unfamiliar designs. It seemed Turner liked to collect keepsakes.
“Turner won’t mind if you look at them,” said Amella. “He’d probably be tickled if you asked for stories, in fact. But handle with care, and always put them back in place.”
Then Amella directed Corrin to the crew’s quarters, belowdecks in the front of the boat. They reached a row of bunk beds. Corrin shrugged off her backpack and dropped it on a bed in the corner. The bed was narrow, but it was long as her bed back home and comfortable enough.
“Alright, I’m headed outside to lend my hands,” said Amella. “You’re welcome to come, or to stay and get settled. Just don’t get underfoot, alright, kiddo?”
She left Corrin sitting on the bed, blinking in the light of an oil lamp.
It smelled fishy. Fish oil, Corrin realized. Probably the easiest oil to get, for someone who spends a lot of time in sea ports.
Corrin pulled out her map and unfolded it across her knees. Miritown was far south of Boar’s Tusk Peninsula. The sea was unmarked, except for an enormous fish the cartographer had doodled in the corner. Corrin dearly hoped it meant, “Plenty of fish to eat!” and not, “There’s a giant fish-beast lurking in the ocean, ready to swallow you whole!”
A winding road snaked parallel to their northward course. It connected dot after dot in the realm of Stalt—Valencia, a settlement said to bloom with a rainbow of flowers in the spring; Druin, a mining town in the Bristleback Mountains (her neighbor Jallen had once told her he’d like to visit that one, someday); and small villages, scattered across plains and hills in the realm’s heartlands. Crude drawings lurked along the path. Bears. Bandits. Mountain lions. And unicorns—horse-like beasts with skewering horns sprouting from their heads, fearsome and dangerous in all stories told. Corrin mentally thanked Amella for steering her toward the sea instead…
…but northeast of Boar’s Tusk Peninsula, she’d have to contend with griffins in the highlands. Great winged lion-eagle beasts, they were, said to pluck unwary travelers off the ground like hawks hunting rabbits. They seldom ventured into the heartlands of Stalt, what with all the guards and folks who had crossbows and fire. If she stayed south of the plains, she could avoid those lands and journey through Mount Cauldra instead. However, the cartographer had drawn an ink dragon slumbering in the depths of Mount Cauldra, and it was awfully detailed…
Risk a dragon’s fire or risk getting skewered by talons and beaks? What a choice to make…
…And beyond, in the outskirts of the Gloamwood, glowered a troll’s face. She had no choice there. She couldn’t avoid those lands, not if she wanted to get to the Gloamwood’s heart…
The map also warned of bog sprites and sinking mud, and—
Corrin tore her eyes away. She folded the map into a minuscule square and tucked it in her vest, so snug and flat that she could almost pretend it wasn’t there. She wasn’t the best at pretending, though. Sam and Frendel had more of a knack for it. She couldn’t forget the paths laid out before her, nor that she had no idea if she was going to get past all those beasts alive and back again. Bathilda was mad, asking this of her. And Amella, insisting that Corrin come along, that Corrin could do this.
She’d have to hope she was lucky, and Amella as mighty as her tales suggested.
Corrin took out the rock Sam had given her and weighed it in her palm, eyeing the ribbons of pink quartz critically. She wondered, what did it mean to take care of one’s luck, anyway? Having control over luck undermined the whole concept of luck, didn’t it? Wasn’t the point of luck that it was chance and circumstance beyond anyone’s control? Sounded like a load of nonsense to her, it did, this controlling-the-uncontrollable business.
The door creaked open. “Hey, kiddo, we’re shipping off.”
Corrin started. Amella leaned against the doorframe, waiting for a response. Corrin mumbled an “alright” and stowed her rock away, then followed Amella outside. The shiphands had stopped hauling crates and started checking rope knots and such. One of them had shimmied up to the basket-y thing atop the mast. Another two stood ready near the base of the sail.
Turner stood at the wheel, his back to the rest of the ship, his shoulders squared.
“CAST OFF!“
The shiphands untied the boat; the boat shifted; the sails billowed; and, with the creaking of old timbers, the ship drifted away from the dock.
And just like that, they were off.