Graylin’s head ached from Symon’s twisted path to this conclusion, but his heart hurt far worse. Still, he knew what he had to do.
He crossed to Symon, grabbed the scabbard, and strapped Heartsthorn around his waist. He stood and tested the weight of its steel on his hip. It felt right, as if a severed limb had grown back.
Symon grinned at him. “Welcome back to the living, Graylin sy Moor.”
28
GRAYLIN DROVE HIS small wagon swiftly through the woods. He followed a trail that was not even rutted, only an unmarked path twining through a forest of white-barked alders. Ahead, Symon rode atop a foul-tempered mare who kicked at Graylin’s pony if it dared get too close.
Graylin suspected the mare’s nervy disposition was in large part stoked by the pair of shadows sweeping the trail to either side. Aamon and Kalder easily paced the horses, even after hunting all day. But Symon had insisted that Graylin had one hope to barter for passage back to Hálendii, and it meant traveling throughout Eventoll to get there.
Despite Graylin’s misgivings, he allowed Symon to guide him south of the town of Savik. They headed toward a breadth of coastline where few dared to venture. It was a broken scape of deep fjords packed with towering jagged rocks. Its waters were run through with dangerous shoals and unpredictable riptides. All along, sea caves pocked its cliffs, rumored to form a subterranean maze twice the size of Savik.
This swath of broken coast was home to various clans of pirates, cutthroats, and brigands of every ilk. They preyed upon the seas of the Crown, though most often on the pleasure crafts gliding from Hálendii to the terraced homes and palacios stacked along the cliffs of Lyria, north of Savik. It was where the kingdom’s richest escaped the summer’s scorch and sailed to the cooler climes of Aglerolarpok’s coast, whiling away the hottest time of the year.
After a long stretch, with Graylin close to drowsing off, Symon finally lifted an arm ahead. He reined his mare and dropped back alongside the wagon. His horse nickered and huffed irritably at Graylin’s pony, who merely swept his tail and smacked the mare’s side.
Around them, the straight alders had been overtaken by darker pines and twisted cypresses. Graylin shifted higher. The seas salted the air now. Even past the rattle of wheels and clap of hooves, his ears picked out a distant rumble of heavy surf against broken rock.
Symon twisted in his saddle to face the wagon. “With care now,” he warned. “Stay close. They’re as liable to shove a spear in your gut as say g’morrow.”
“And these are folks you believe we can trust?”
Symon frowned. “Of course not. But that scoundrel Darant will honor a pact, insomuch as the reward outweighs the price of a betrayal.”
Graylin craned back to his wagon. It was loaded with bundles of hides and furs and enough salted, dried meat to feed a small village through winter. It was more than enough to barter for passage across the sea, but was it enough to keep his secret? He could not take any chances, so he had emptied his homestead of all its worth.
“Let’s go,” Symon said, urging his mount forward again.
As Graylin followed, he squinted at the woods. He spotted no lurkers, but he heeded Symon. He even whistled for Aamon and Kalder to draw closer. He didn’t need to start a war before they even reached the coast.
A quarter league later, he realized they weren’t approaching the coast. We’re already there. A crack to his left suddenly billowed with salty spray and a great gust of air.
A blowhole.
He surveyed the terrain around him with a sharper eye. While the forest seemed to stretch flat ahead, the ground was split with dark cracks, echoing with churning water and steaming with mists. As they continued, those crevices merged into deep-cut channels, eventually building toward the fjords facing the sea.
Symon stopped, lifted in his stirrups, and searched a moment.
“Are you lost?” Graylin huffed at him.
“No,” he answered, but he did not sound all that sure. “Better to be cautious than ride yourself straight off a cliff or down a watery hole. There’s a reason no one has ever been able to root these hard folk out of even harder rock.”
Worried by the alchymist’s words, Graylin whistled again and signaled Aamon and Kalder to join the wagon. Two shadows slipped out of the woods behind them. The vargr panted, tails swishing, tufted ears cocked high.
Symon’s mare whinnied in fear and bucked. Only a grab at the pommel kept the alchymist in his saddle. He swore and fought his mount to a nervous shifting of hooves.
Graylin’s brothers stayed put, though Kalder lowered his muzzle and eyed the horse’s dance. The pair were surely hungry.
Symon glared over at Graylin. “Warn me next time. Nearly pissed myself.”
“What?” Graylin enjoyed his companion’s irritation. “Did you not hear my whistle?”
Symon grumbled and twisted forward in his saddle. “This way.”
They set off again, winding a path that only Symon seemed to know.
Or at least, pretended to know.
* * *
AFTER AN ENDLESS course that meandered one way, then the other, a low growl rose behind the wagon. Graylin stiffened in his seat. As if summoned by that rumble, a clutch of a dozen men in dark green cloaks appeared out of the woods, blocking the way ahead.
“Stay here,” Symon ordered, and walked his mare forward to meet them.
Graylin could not hear what was said, but he noted an occasional branch crack to the right and left, indicating there were others hiding in these woods. Behind him, his brothers’ ears swiveled, tracking the noises while not moving their heads. Furry hackles rose down their spines, as if testing the air for threat.
Ahead, Symon turned high in his saddle and waved him over. Graylin tapped the reins and got the wagon trundling to join the alchymist. The cloaked group faded back into the woods, except for a pair who led the way from here.
As they continued through the broken woods, Graylin caught peeks of the blue sea, ruffled by ridges of white. But they weren’t traveling that far. The escorts took them to a wide crack, bordered by a precarious road descending along one side. Over its edge, black water gurgled and thrashed far below.
Symon showed no hesitation as he headed down. Graylin followed, easing his wagon onto that narrow path. Aamon and Kalder padded behind, drawing closer.
The road diverged from the crack and crossed into a damp tunnel lined by torches. The scent of the sea filled the passageway, stinging the nose with salt and a faint taint of tangleweed bloom. He pictured the choked seas a hundred leagues to the south. The thick mass of floating weed ran in a continuous wide swath from this coast over to the swamps of M?r, creating a natural barrier against any swift invasion from the south, not unlike the broken shoals and atolls of the Shield Islands on the far side of Hálendii. Those natural barriers had protected the kingdom for ages on end, thwarting any unwanted encroachment.
Graylin hoped one tiny trespass would go unnoticed. He could still feel the scroll of parchment and crumble of wax in his fingers. The words written there blazed in his head.
I must not fail.
He knew he could never survive this second chance if it proved fruitless.
Finally, after a long winding descent, the way ahead brightened with blinding light. In short order, the tunnel emptied out onto a wide sandy beach that framed a silvery blue pool, open to the Eventoll sky. To the right, a languid river flowed away, coursing between towering walls toward the sea. On the left, a huge waterfall thundered into the water, casting up a mist that filled the scalloped valley. All around, the cliffs were damp, coated in dripping ferns and thick matts of emerald moss.