-Winsom’s Crew-
The sky was white with sails, thicker than the clouds far above their heads. A small fleet of sleek ships occupied almost every spot in the crowded harbor, crew members racing up and down rigging or talking animatedly with people standing on the thick wooden docks. All of the ships, however, paled in comparison to the pristine behemoth that was The Heightened.
Heads turned when she approached the docks. There was nowhere to dock a ship as large as The Heightened, but Cal seemed unperturbed. When they were close enough to shout out to the people on deck, Cal called out to a tall man in his mid-thirties, “Captain, could you bring this lovely lady to shore?”
All eyes moved from the ship to Jordan, and she fought back the urge to retreat belowdecks.
“Be more than happy to oblige!” the captain called out. He seemed to be the captain of his vessel, a smooth black ship with vibrant orange sails like the sunset.
Only a few minutes later, the man and his small crew had left the dock and sailed out to meet The Heightened.
“How will you get to shore, Cal? And where will you leave The Heightened?”
He gave her one of his trademark mischievous grins and said, “Captain’s secret. But I’ll be on the docks in a half hour or so. I’ll find you.”
Jordan didn’t have time to question him further, because the captain of the black vessel had pulled up alongside their ship.
“Miss, if you’d be so kind, we’ll take you ashore.” He had the blackest, shiniest hair Jordan had ever seen, his eyes a dark brown that matched his suntanned skin.
Using a rope ladder Cal had stowed belowdecks for occasions such as this, she descended into the black ship and waved goodbye to Cal before they began returning to the docks.
“Pleased to meet you,” the captain said cordially, revealing teeth as white as The Heightened.
“You too. What’s your name, Captain?”
“Winsom. You’re not from Trucesa, are you, miss.”
“What makes you say that?” she asked, wondering how and if Winsom knew she was Forlorn.
“Trucesan woman don’t ever have hair the color of yours,” the captain stated simply, as though remarking on the color of the sea or the sky. “You’re sure to stand out.”
Jordan glanced around at Winsom’s crew and had to admit that each of the men, their hair just as dark as the captain’s, were looking at her blonde hair with fascination, even though a muscular female warrior with red hair was clearly part of Winsom’s crew as well.
“Any recommendations for not standing out?” she asked.
Winsom laughed, a deep, resounding chuckle that seemed to ripple over the small waves on either side of his small black ship.
“I wish you luck, miss. You stand out in more ways than one.”
“What else will mark me as an outsider?”
“Your clothes for one. Women in Trucesa wouldn’t be caught dead in men’s rags like what you’re wearing. And a sword? Let’s just say there are a couple things Trucesans will be hard pressed not to notice.”
“What do women wear in Trucesa? Only dresses or something?” It was out before Jordan could think through the offensive question.
“The women here do wear only skirts or dresses, but they are far from helpless. Just because you won’t see any weapons on their person doesn’t mean they aren’t trained and armed. Although in secret. I was born in Trucesa, but I’ve spent most of my life abroad. Enough to know that Trucesan customs are outdated and traditional Trucesan men and women’s roles are antiquated.”
The captain shouted out an order to his crew, who were quick to respond, moving up and down the rigging as the black ship prepared to dock once more.
“The crew and I are resting after a long voyage down south. I could take you to the Forgotten Refuge while you wait for your friend. It has the best meals in town. Maybe you could tell me a little bit about yourself.”
Jordan startled at the man’s mention of the very inn she was so desperate to visit. Perhaps Cal’s choice of captain and crew hadn’t been random like she had originally assumed.
Winsom busied himself with the crew for a moment before turning back to Jordan and saying, “Here, it won’t solve all your problems, but covering up that hair and those clothes of yours will make your time in town more pleasant. At least until you can find more traditional garb to fit in around Trucesa.”
He unfastened a vibrant orange cloak that matched his ship’s sails from around his shoulders and handed it to Jordan.
“The bright color will help too. People here are crazy about colors—the brighter the better. The cloak’s hood should at least mask your sunshine hair.”
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From someone else Jordan would have interpreted the gesture as romantic, but Captain Winsom seemed kind but professional.
“I’ll be sure to return it to you as soon as I purchase something more suitable,” she said, donning the cloak. It hid her scabbard and the hood covered her hair.
“That’ll do, miss.” Winsom tipped his black hat in her direction before inviting her to disembark. The crew had set up a plank that led down to the docks, and Jordan followed the captain off his ship and into the hectic rush of Trucesan life.
The bright colors worn by everyone astonished her. Reds the color of sweetberries. Blues deeper than waterstallion eyes. Greens the color of leaves in spring. She didn’t see almost any women on the docks, and the few who were present were manning stalls, selling different exotic sweets and grilled meats.
Like the Trucesan men, the women had thick black hair that seemed to capture the sunlight. Most had large brown eyes with heavy lashes that gave their gaze a soft, warm look. True to Winsom’s word, the women were all clothed in bright dresses and skirts, with plenty of fabric, although the material seemed light enough to keep them cool in the tropical temperatures of Trucesa.
Dozens of gold bangles competed for space on their delicate wrists, and gold sashes adorned their thin waists and generous hips.
Winsom forgot to mention that I look nothing like Trucesan women, regardless of hair color…
But Winsom and his crew, oblivious to the din of daily life at the docks, guided her through the maze of crews and vendors toward a large wooden building built on top of a cliff overlooking the Glacian Sea and the Trucesan harbor. It had an impressive arched roof and was made from some of the largest planks of wood Jordan had ever seen.
Winsom seemed as comfortable around his crew as he would be around family. The black ship was small enough that it only needed six, excluding the captain. Four of the crew were men, and the other two were women. All four of the men seemed to be from Trucesa like Winsom. They laughed and talked quickly, reminding Jordan of a flock of birds chirping animatedly to each other.
The women, however, were clearly foreign. One of them, a brawny redhead, seemed to be Forlorn. Her shoulder-length, red hair was braided into tight, intricate braids and decorated with white shells and carved fish bones. Her fierce gray eyes and large, muscular form gave Jordan the impression that in another life she’d been trained with the battle ax—and had probably won her fair share of matches in the academy grounds. Her clothing was as nondescript as possible, but Jordan assumed it was a modified version of the basic Forlorn combat attire—formfitting leggings made of rowder hide with heavy leather boots and a loose, high-collared tunic, held in place with a leather belt.
What Jordan still wore, although her clothing was tattered and worn. She’d almost walked holes into her leather boots, and the tunic was worn and ripped in several places. Only her leggings had held up since her escape to the Landing—rowder hide was thick and almost impossible to penetrate.
The other woman was the redhead warrior’s opposite in almost every way. She was so slender Jordan worried a particularly strong gust of wind would blow her away, but even though the woman was painfully skinny, her thin arms looked like lean, muscular cords. Many scars, now faded, crisscrossed her biceps. Her hair was a dark brown, and her eyes were the lightest blue Jordan had ever seen. Although she was shorter than Jordan, she obviously knew how to handle herself as well.
Winsom had an interesting crew.
As they left the docks and started climbing stone steps up to the Forgotten Refuge, one of the men startled Jordan out of her observations by saying, “Miss, what brings you to Trucesa?”
Another man said, almost on top of the other’s question, “And why is your hair so light-colored? Did you make it lighter?”
“I like it,” a third man confided, his grin so wide it looked like his face would split in two.
“I didn’t say I didn’t like it, just that it was a strange color.” He looked over at Jordan apologetically. “No offense, miss.”
“It kind of matches her weird eyes,” the fourth observed, readjusting his spectacles.
“You’re one to talk, Berren.”
“I think her eyes look nice,” Smiley said, grinning again.
“You compliment everyone. Didn’t your mother ever teach you to think negative thoughts?” the second man retorted.
“Where do you think I learned to be so nice?” Smiley replied. “When you have a family like mine, you learn to do the opposite… I didn’t want to get kicked out of town for insulting literally everyone who lived within two miles of us.”
“But what about…” Berren started to ask, only to be interrupted by the second man. “Wait, Berren, we don’t need you getting all intellectual on us. We just wanted to know why her hair lost all its color. Did the sun soak it up?”
The first man was about to interject, but Captain Winsom held up his hands, fighting back a grin even though his tone was stern. “Boys, how will the poor girl ever have a chance to get a word in edgewise if you keep bombarding her with questions?”
“Yes, Cap’,” the second man said. He was taller than the other three and his muscles seemed to have muscles.
Jordan tried and failed to hold back laughter as the four men looked at her expectantly, clearly eager for her response and having a difficult time keeping their mouths shut. The women, on the other hand, remained silent. The redheaded giant seemed lost in thought, while the slender woman played with a knife and whistled softly.
“So, miss, what brings you to Trucesa? The boys clearly want to know,” Winsom said as they continued climbing the steep steps, the wind a light, welcome presence at their backs.
“Honestly, I’m only passing through Trucesa on my way to find answers to a… riddle of sorts. Do you know where I could purchase a map of Ealias? An old one, perhaps more detailed than the maps fashioned today?”
“I have one,” Smiley said, almost jumping up and down with excitement. He was boyishly handsome, even if Jordan couldn’t take his constant grins and compliments seriously. “What are you looking for, miss?”
Jordan hesitated for a moment, deliberating. Should she trust Captain Winsom and his crew with her destination? Cal had never heard of the Forgotten Trio, and he was one of the most educated people she knew. Excluding Flage, who probably knew everything about their world but refused to share his secret wealth of knowledge.
But since Winsom was already leading them to her only clue, it couldn’t hurt to ask him and his crew.
Making up her mind, Jordan said, “I’m looking for an old group called the Forgotten Trio. Have any of you ever heard of them? I heard it was past a land of sand and ice… whatever that means.”
“Sounds like someone is leading you on a wild chase to the middle of nowhere, miss,” the first man said confidently, hands on his hips.
“No, maybe she’s onto something,” Berren said thoughtfully. “We are going to the Forgotten Refuge right now. Perhaps the innkeeper will know something about this Forgotten Trio of yours.”
“Perhaps,” Winsom agreed mysteriously. “Would you like to find out?”
He strode toward the double doors of the inn and pulled them open, ushering Jordan and the others inside before shutting the doors behind them with a resounding clang.