20

Falcon had changed considerably. The fast little airship had broken apart and then plunged through a cascade of rubbish, evading a trio of dreadnoughts, back on the island of Freeport. “Speedy” had then slammed itself back together just two hundred yards over water, shielded by Murchison’s cloud-spell.

The fugitive airship was bulkier now, armed with a handful of tricks that its magic had plucked from that torrent of junk. It had hidden its nameplate and altered its figurehead, too. No longer depicting a raptor, the carved ornament changed to a phoenix in glory.

And maybe its captain and crew were altered, as well. They had fought brilliantly, desperately, to shield that broken-up airship; battling scavengers clear through its tumbling dive. Now, they could all hear Falcon’s voice. Even the wizard and orc.

None of the crew wore uniforms. Such display was much too flashy and dangerous for an Arvendahl ship dodging custody. Instead, they made do with a mixture of personal clothing and armor. This was hardest of all on the ship’s Marine, Mister Conn. Tough on the paladins, too, but as Conn told them one morning, out on the deck,

“Marine is heart and soul, not just a uniform. I can defend and protect this ship and its captain… you three can serve Oberyn… no matter what we put on.”

The paladins nodded. Villem, Nadia and Vorbol each clasped the half-elf’s shoulder; providing support as he tucked his carefully folded uniform into a faerie pocket. Then they summoned the courage to banish their just-formed mystical armor.

“The oath is inside,” agreed Nadia (Sister Constant). “And nothing can take that away, Mister Conn.”

They might not be siblings in Oberyn, but they were kin nonetheless; bonded in battle, determined to clear Falcon’s record and hand off that terrible sword. The Destroyer hung in midair just over the deck, spitting and crackling, its white and black sides forever attacking each other. Listening.

Shifting his gaze from Conn to that hovering blade, Villem pushed a shock of brown hair from his eyes.

“I need to find Meliara. She’s in danger, and so are Gildyr and Lady Shadowclaw… but the Destroyer has chosen Karellon. I don’t have a say in the matter. Maybe none of us do,” admitted the paladin, sounding dejected. “But, if it’s an agent of Chaos that finds us there…. If the sword is about to choose someone evil, one of you take this wretched thing and strike me down with it, first. It’s got only one blow, then it shatters to pieces. Ninursa told me that, and I’d rather die than serve Chaos, even just as a messenger.”

Vorbol rumbled assent. He was a big, hulking mountain orc, grey-skinned and red-eyed, with his tusks sawed short and banded in gold. Called Brother Humble by Villem and Nadia.

“Heard and sworn, Brother Arnulf,” he said, using Villem’s Constellate name. “If Darkness reaches us first, you shall take up Destroyer and slash off my head.”

“Or I’ll pick it up and skewer you both for arguing like a couple of new-blades, when the fate of the world is at stake. Men!” grumbled Nadia, shaking her head, making her long, beaded plaits clash together. “All muscle, no brains.”

The Marine cut in next, saying,

“Fate don’t work like that. Not in the epics, at least.” Rubbing a hand over his bristling, short-cropped hair, Conn added, “We make our plans and so does Lord Oberyn, but there’s always a hidden design. Do what you like… but Fate’s gonna have her own way, no matter what. And all you can do is the best you can do, one blind step at a time.”

Villem nodded, looking north, where his love had been taken.

“I wonder if Fate likes her job?” he mused, as the wind rattled and hummed through Falcon’s rigging. “Because she sure isn’t making any friends, over here.”

Two days (and a perilous scrape with sky-vines) later, Falcon slipped into Karellon’s cheapest and least salubrious dock. They’d waited till nightfall to do it, choosing the time before watch-change, when the returning guards were weary, those going out, half-asleep. Then, looking seedy and slow, vessel and crew eased up to the farthest berth at “Honest Horbat’s Homely Peer Pier! Cheep Cheap rates, no questions! Dock up and smile!”

Captain Gelfrin stood at the helm when Falcon slid past a mismatched assortment of barges and freighters. Rocked by high-altitude winds, looming big and dark in the sputtering mage glow, some fifteen airships were already tied at the sky-pier like kites.

“Five coppers a day,” the captain remarked, reading a series of floating, hand-lettered signs. “About what we can afford.”

Glancing over at Laurol, Hallan came to a brisk decision.

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“I’ll treat with Horbat,” he said. “You get Not-Jonn back on supplies and water. Double-strength, if they have any… he can take the wizard, again, and we’ll put Conn on scrounging up shot. It’s a definite boon having a giant crossbow, but not if we only get to fire it twice.”

Laurol nodded, saying,

“Aye that, Sir. One thing about Korvins… they need to be fed.”

The elf grunted, skillfully swinging Falcon into an open berth. The site was shabby and splintery, padded by leaky sandbags, but no one was likely to fight them for it, or look too hard for a missing fleet cutter. What else could they ask?

Falcon bumped just a bit settling in. Then, once the ship was in place, magical ropes unwound from their reels, hissing over the gap to tie Falcon down. Done, as if Varric himself were standing there guiding him.

Hallan looked around, rubbing his arms with the opposite hands.

“Feet-down and secured,” he said, pitching his voice to just Laurol. “And I hope that this stop goes better than last one. No one dumps garbage in Karellon.”

His first mate leaned over, smiling a little.

“Bet they don’t even go to the head, Hal,” she joked. “Bet all the drek is just magicked right out of them.”

…which struck him as funny.

“They probably don’t eat much, either,” he said. Not-Jonn stumped over to join them, cursing the tools back into his faerie pockets as Hallan joked, “I'll bet they absorb manna and sunshine, directly.”

Hearing that, Not-Jonn snorted.

“Buncha ferds, in that case,” grumped the half-elf, looking more than usually grim. “Sir, ma’am, ‘scuse the cussin’, but royalty gives me a fiery itch, and the sooner we’re gone, the better I’ll like it.”

“You and me both, Mister Not-Jonn,” sighed their red-haired young captain.

Laurol struck “all hands” on the ship’s bell, next; summoning Conn, Murchison and all three paladins, along with that crackling sword.

“Stand by for captain’s orders,” she told them, snapping to crisp attention.

Hallan patted the wheel and then stepped away from the helm.

“None of that,” he corrected the mate. “We’re meant to be freebooters now, and we have to look the part. No fleet discipline and no real names, either. The last thing we want is attention.”

Everyone’s posture relaxed (even Conn’s). As for Destroyer, the sword turned sideways again, becoming no more than a faint, glowing line.

“Good,” said Hallan, doing his best to seem confident. “Now, here’s what we’re going to do…”

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Long before that and quite far away, a newly freed goddess fought very hard to stay with the prince whom she loved. But even the gods have laws, and no one defies Lady Fate. At least, not for long.

She-of-the-Flowers had put off leaving for months, treating for just a little more time, because of the coming child and her own weakened state. Thousands of years of captivity had robbed away most of her worshippers. Only northward in Lobum did the wood-elves maintain a small shrine. West of them, the goblins yet laid out bright pebbles in the outline of a woman, piling small grubby offerings inside. Not much, and not very sustaining… but she made do with love in place of lost worship and honor.

Raeden healed before she did, well before Ally was born. Concerned for them both, he’d stood ready to help with the birth. As is the way of gods, though, there were no pangs or contractions. No mess and no straining. All at once, the child simply was; moving from inside her heart, to the goddess’s cradling arms.

That was great joy and disaster together, for the last trace of Midworld was gone from She-of-the-Flowers now, while the pull out and above, had grown terribly strong.

“I cannot stay,” she whispered, kissing the baby’s face and Raeden’s. “Fate has decreed that we part, Brave One. And she will not relent, for all of my pleading.”

That there was a gameboard… a plan… meant nothing at all to three captured and whisked-aside pieces.

Raeden caressed her face, showing with look and touch all that he wanted to say. Her power was growing again, letting her sense his emotion. Letting her see and access his faerie pockets (though Raeden no longer could, without magic).

She reached into a certain pocket, withdrawing a bright golden ring. His royal signet, it bore an incised rampant dragon. She placed the ring on Raeden’s palm, folding his hand shut with her own. Murmured,

“I am not allowed to wed thee in fact, dearest love. But know that I would. That in spirit, I have.”

Then, kissing him, the goddess took back the ring and laid it onto their baby. The sleepy infant was lovely, unmarked by physical birth, with red-golden hair and blue eyes.

“Little One,” she said to their child, “I have no choice but to leave thee behind. This I promise, however; that I am only a prayer away, for both of my heart-loves. While I cannot change fate, I can do this: Raeden, I give thee survival, along with the trick of verbal possession. Three times a day, you shall have the power to speak through another, totaling one thousand words.”

He shook his head, fighting tears and clasping her shoulders, despite the rising burn of her godly aura. Their baby said in a slurred, blurry voice, fumbling as Raeden spoke through her mouth,

“No… no gift. Want you. Stay. Will take up a rock or my staff against Fate. Anything. Love you.”

Gods rarely cry. When they do, their tears become gemstones. Many such jewels fell to the cavern floor, but She-of-the-Flowers could not remain.

“I am constrained, Love,” she told him. “Or we should be living ‘midst wood-elves, forever, the three of us.”

She had to send their child away, next. Off to Oberyn’s throne in the great marble temple of Karellon. Not before many kisses and blessings, all that a sorrowing mother could bestow, along with Raeden’s gold ring.

“Though thou art raised among strangers, Little One… though thou dost meet with rejection… Always, thou shalt find a way into their hearts. Beauty, power and love are my gifts to thee, Ally.”

Leaning down, she nuzzled the baby’s small face, holding Ally out so that Raeden could kiss her, too. Then the child disappeared. For now, they hoped, not forever.

The goddess took Raeden into her arms. Breathed in his scent, felt his strength and his love. Said,

“I shall not forget, ever. I can be forced to leave, but not to stop loving thee. And I promise to bless and watch over our little one, and her descendants, for all time to come.”

Her last gifts to Raeden were armor and sword, Next, the goddess pushed him out of their cave and across that barren wasteland, off to distant Tys-by-the-Sea. Left alone in the silent burrow, She-of-the-Flowers added one more image to all those that gleamed on its walls. Then, still weeping, she turned into sparkling motes and was gone.