Their first day on the water consisted primarily of Yarik showing them the ropes — and there were quite a lot for him to show — but it wasn’t long before they were out on the open sea. Soon, the land was but a thin line in the distance, and all that Alika could see were blue waves and the endless sky, a scattering of clouds protecting them from the harsh sun. The smell of salt pervaded the air, and a faint mist of humidity had been captured in Alika’s fur.

As evening approached, Yarik was busy beneath the thatched roof of his open-air cabin, arranging papers out on the small desk, using small stones to keep the wind from blowing them away. Alika watched intently as he opened a small drawer beneath it, pulling out an odd contraption, consisting of a metal disk with a ring attached to the top of it, the Twins and the rings of Tasien engraved in great detail. A small cylinder with the drawing of a dragon along it had been attached to the disk, and Yarik rotated it around.

“An astrolabe,” Yarik explained, poking a finger through the metal ring and letting the disk hang down. “See the saber fangs on the dragon’s head? If you align the cylinder so that the fangs just barely brush the rings of Tasien, it points either north or south. And by reading this number here, it tells you how far north or south you are.”

Alika squinted at the pair of squiggles engraved on the astrolabe. She got the general gist of the idea: it was just a more precise way of using the position of the rings to figure out where they were going. “What if you want to know east and west? And what about when it’s cloudy?”

“Then you’re doomed,” Yarik chuckled. “Unless, of course, you have one of these.”

He dug a finger beneath the top of his collar, using it to pull out a chain that had been hidden beneath his shirt. A glittering pendant hung from it — a small blue crystal glowing with an ethereal light extended to two sharp points. A thin metal ring seemingly floated around the thickest part of the crystal, unattached to anything.

“A Wayfinder,” Yarik explained, twisting a small clasp at the back of the chain to remove it from his neck. “This little thing costs more than the Windrider, but there’s nothing better if you ever need to know where you are.”

He held it over one of the rolled-out pieces of paper, a nautical chart with a map of the sea on it. Instantly, minuscule bolts of lightning shot out from the crystal and onto the metal ring. A blue beam of light shot down from the tip of the pendant, slanting until it hit the map.

Yarik took a piece of black rock from his drawer and made a mark on the chart where the light touched down.

“This is where we are,” he said, relatching the clasp and hiding the Wayfinder again. “See that line next to us? That’s the shore we just came from. And here…” Yarik moved his finger along the map to where two curved lines almost met. “…is the crossing from the East Sea to the West Sea: the Strait of the Scribes.”

“The Scribes?” Alika’s ears perked up. “I’ve heard that word before. What does it mean?”

Stolen from its rightful author, this tale is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

Tarka suddenly poked his head beneath the thatching. Alika had very quickly learned that there wasn’t privacy to be found anywhere on the boat.

“Oh, oh, that’s what the polar bear said!” Tarka exclaimed. “She told us to seek out the Night of the Scribes.”

“Yeah, she did,” Alika said. It had been a while since she’d thought about that. She’d almost forgotten. “What’s the Night of the Scribes, and where do we find it?”

“I can’t say I’ve heard of it either,” Yarik replied, “but I suppose if it’s anywhere, it will be with the Scribes. It’s our fortune to pass through there.” There was a bitter tone in his voice as he said the word.

“And those are?” Alika pressed.

“The Scribes are an ancient order of scholars, said to be as old as time itself.” Yarik tsked, shaking his head.

“I sincerely doubt they’re that old,” Snow scoffed, poking her head down from the roof of the cabin.

“Perhaps, perhaps not. They’re quite isolated and reclusive, but I had to deal with them a number of times as a merchant. They trade in magic such as my Wayfinder, and happen to live on the only water crossing from the east to west. The other way around, well — it’s a long journey and not one I can make again.”

“Magic,” whispered Tarka, his eyes wide. “That’s so cool. Hey, show me the Wayfinder! I want to see!”

“Hello?” Snow scoffed, dipping her tails down so low beneath the roof that Alika was afraid she’d fall off. “Being full of magic right here! These Scribes just sound like dabblers and wannabes.”

“Don’t be so hasty, Snow,” Yarik continued. “Plenty of odd legends have cropped up about them: some say that their books contain all the knowledge of the world in them. Some claim that they have a beast locked up that would end the world if freed. And others say that they once had wings before the Dreamer tore them off and condemned them to do nothing but read books forever, to know all that there is to know about the world, but never to experience it.”

“That sounds awesome!” Tarka said. “And we get to go there?”

“We don’t have much of a choice.” Yarik shook his head. “Unfortunately, they’re not quite as cool as the legends about them. They’re a bunch of obnoxious bureaucrats if you ask any sailor who’s had the misfortune to pass beneath their gates.”

“Wait, the Dreamer?” Alika asked. She glanced over toward the choppy surface of the ocean as if expecting the Dreamer to rise out of the water beneath them. “I didn’t realize humans knew of her.”

“Most do not,” Yarik replied. “We have our own stories of the Cataclysm, and what happened to the third moon: that it was a spell cast by the Scribes gone horribly wrong, or that a prince of a faraway kingdom tried to bring it down upon his brother’s head. But I was a merchant, and traveled far and wide — I spoke with dragons just as well as humans.”

“Right,” Alika murmured. “Hey, have you ever heard of a dragon named Kurka? She’s our grandmother and the leader of our pack. Or any other dragons whose names end in ‘ka’, for that matter.”

“Kurka?” Yarik shook his head. “I’m afraid I haven’t. I only met with the packs of the Summerlands, those whose territories touch the water’s edge.”

“Oh, well, thanks anyways.” Alika lashed her tail. For a moment, she’d thought that Yarik might even know where their pack was. But no, things couldn’t be that easy. Perhaps he could take them to the right continent, but from there, she and Tarka would still have to find the correct dragons themselves.

Still, they were far closer to finding their pack than before. They had passage across the sea, and might even have a chance to find the Night of the Scribes. And instead of incessantly trekking across mountains and forests, all they had to do now was sit on a boat.

How hard could it be?