“Indeed?” the dwarf asked.
“Yes. . the same way one can be absolutely sure as to whether a dwarf floats or not.”
Mala watched Cape Caldron fall astern as the Cydron sailed northwest from the anchorage, her eyes never leaving the coast until it vanished at last below the horizon under a brightening morning sky.
As the sun crossed the tops of the masts, shore again was sighted to the east, this time the Westwall Cliffs rising through the haze on the eastern horizon. This, Urulani informed Drakis, was the farthest western end of Nordesia. Their conversation was somewhat disjointed, however, as Jugar was constantly interrupting with some prattle about the giants that lived in the Westwall Cliffs and who occasionally waded out into the ocean to capture and play with boats that passed too close to the shore. Urulani scoffed at the “child’s tale” as she stood at the tiller, but Drakis quietly noted to himself that she nevertheless kept the ship far from those shores.
It was perhaps two hours later that Urulani pushed the tiller over slightly and the ship’s bow responded, changing their course perpendicular to the falling sun. They were heading truly north now. The Straits of Erebus lay far to the east-that body of water that separated the Lyranian and Drakosian continents. Their course, however, would take them directly north across the eastern expanse of the Charos Ocean as that was the course the song in Drakis’ head seemed to dictate to him.
There was nothing now between them and the sirens that called to Drakis but the open sea.
Drakis stood on the afterdeck of the Cydron, his hand on the tiller as he watched the bow and, more importantly, the stars beyond.
From where he stood he could see the length of the middeck below him. The oars-sweeps, he corrected himself-were pulled in and stored beneath the galley benches. The night had been a clear one and remarkably warm with the trade wind blowing from the southeast off of Nordesia. Urulani had instructed the crew to strike the canvas that they had spread days earlier like a tent over the middeck. There was a lower deck to the Cydron where the crew could bunk among the stores-and where poor Belag had elected to spend most of the voyage, miserable in his seasickness-but tonight most of the crew elected to sleep on the deck beneath the gentle breeze and the great dome of the star-filled night sky. He could see them as shadowy figures on either side of the elevated decking that ran the length of the ship between the port and starboard ranks of galley benches and around the masts, ending at the forecastle deck at the bow.
Come to the shores of the sorrowful. .
Come to the Northerly Lands. .
Come on the ocean. .
Come with devotion. .
Drakis was fancying himself something of a corsair. There was something about the water, its freedom, and the motion of the ship beneath his feet that called to him like the song that still ran through his head. The seas were relatively calm this night and the breezes generally favorable as they made their way northward. Urulani had instructed him on how to man the tiller and steer a course directly north by keeping the bow directed toward a particular place about which all the heavens overhead revolved. She kept a critical eye on him for some time and then, at last satisfied that he would not be a danger to the ship or her crew, she sat with her back against the aft bulwark, folded her arms, and drifted off to sleep.
One is the Guardian of our hope. .
One is the poison we drink. .
Pity the last one. .
Keep the course true on. .
Since leaving the Westwall Cliffs five days before, everyone aboard had settled into a comfortable routine and, being in such confined quarters, got to know to each other quickly. Ganja, the ship’s master, was next in command on board, a tall and powerfully built man of Sondau who kept his tightly curled hair cut close to his scalp. Drakis knew that the man was deeply distrustful of both him and his companions, but he also sensed that he was unswervingly devoted to his captain. He often would take a watch at the tiller-as did Kendai and Dakran, the two sailing loremasters aboard. Then there were the eight men on each side who manned the oars whenever Urulani found the wind not to her perfect liking and tended to other duties aboard when the sails were full. Yithri, Kwarae, Gantau, Djono the Giant, Zinbar, Lukrasae, whom all the rest kidded about his diminutive height and whom Jugar had taken to defending-Drakis was coming to know them all as they worked shoulder to shoulder on the ship.
He looked down at Mala, who lay on a bedroll he had prepared for her, curled tightly under a blanket, her back turned against the breeze. Her hair had completely covered the tattoo atop her head that had branded her-and branded Drakis and so many of his companions-as slaves to the House of Timuran. Now her auburn hair fluttered slightly in the night breeze, and he realized how beautiful it had become to him-more beautiful with each passing wave of the ocean below.
Nightmares and dreams are for dark of night. .
Sometimes we sleep while awake. .
Tears for our sorrow. .