9
The sun had made definite plans for the evening, casting a fiery glow over floating islands, drifting clouds and the distant, dark sea. Gildyr took a deep breath, trying to clear his thoughts and his sense of unease. A wood-elf, he would rather have climbed up his family’s tree, or shifted to spruce form, himself; roots tangled deep in the soil, leaves drinking light. He did not care for cities. Even a clean and orderly high-elf metropolis set him on edge. Even Starloft. As for this Freeport… that was something else altogether.
He stood with the second mate, Mister Not-Jonn, and the mortal wizard Murchison. They’d been tasked by Captain Gelfrin with buying food and refilling the airship’s water casks. Told to conserve as much coin as possible, short of resorting to outright theft. Simple enough, no?
Gildyr braced himself at the top of Falcon’s gangplank, getting a feel for the island on which they were docked. Freeport was very large; packed with creatures and people of every description, most of them ‘Shady as all fifty hells in a bucket,’ according to Not-Jonn’s sour assessment.
“If ya shake hands, count y’r fingers afterward,” the half-elf advised. “If one of ‘em smiles, check behind and above ya f’r ambush.”
The druid nodded, but Not-Jonn was no longer paying attention. Instead, the second mate knocked three times on Falcon’s brass rail, murmuring,
“Falcon’s safety, Falcon’s eyes.”
Wouldn’t let Gildyr or Murchison step off the ship until they’d repeated the charm and got it by heart. Well, soonest out, soonest returning, so both new crewmen humored him. Then, they were able to leave.
The gangplank swayed and rang underfoot, with nothing below but lacy clouds and a terribly distant ocean. Falcon was moored at a cut rate, pay-by-day pier, very low on the island’s inverted peak. The spot was open to dragons, griffins, wind and the like, which accounted for its very attractive low price.
The wooden pier projected from one of the island's ubiquitous craters, very much like a petulant tongue. Its creaking dock was maybe a hundred-and-fifty feet long, with only two other airships tied up; the Barmaid and Bouncin’ Bess. Neither looked very prosperous, but no more did pier 47, or this whole lower half of the city. The scents here were dirt, spice and seawater, mixed with crowded people and dwarfed, ground-hugging plants. The noises were industrial thumping and clamor, shouting voices and wild, skirling music
Gildyr and Murchison followed Not-Jonn as the silver-haired aerrior stumped along that swaying wood pier. Gildyr goggled openly at the floating, upside-down mountain before them. He’d heard of the islands, of course. Everyone had. But to actually be here…
“How are they kept from falling?” he wondered aloud, not really expecting an answer.
“Mage Trevoir’s doin’,” snapped Not-Jonn, without ever turning his head. “Read y’r epics, Druid. A great rock fell from the void. ‘Hammer of the Gods’, they called it. Mage Trevoir shattered the thing, then magicked its pieces into hangin’ here, just the same order they broke apart.” He spat over the dock’s edge, then, adding meditatively, “Near kilt ‘im, that did. They say ‘is spirit’s still up ‘ere, spread out holdin’ these islands in place. Now, shut y’r mouth, and try not ter look too much like a victim. I’ll do the talkin’.”
And that suited Gildyr right down to his socks. Fortunately for Not-Jonn, the druid was a wood-elf, and not at all touchy about species or rank. Mixed breeds did not bother the folk of Lobum. Gildyr’s people had a saying, in fact, regarding an elf’s most obvious features: ‘Pointed enough.’
Smiling gently, he followed Not-Jonn off of the pier and into a low, mage-lit cavern. Inside, the wind dropped at once. The temperature climbed to near-comfortable, meanwhile, boosted by torches and lamps. Five of these drifted over to wink at the newcomers, shilling taverns and shops in the city.
They scattered when a Tiefling customs officer bustled across to take a look at Not-Jonn’s papers and crew list. (But he paid more attention to the solid gold Royal that Not-Jonn pressed into his palm.) The portly official smiled at them, bowing a little.
“Yes, yes… all in good order! Proceed, my good beings. And may the lords of commerce, the mother of bargains, deliver good business, this night!”
All very mysterious to an elf of the greenwood. Gildyr let Not-Jonn attend to the finance side of their venture. He and Murchison (pinching himself while taking both sides of a spirited argument) … They were here to provide cover, defense and magical aid.
See, this floating mountain had come from the void between stars. Shattered, then pinned to the sky by a mighty wizard, colonized by pirates and fugitives, it was unlike any place he’d ever been. Freeport’s manna was deeply foreign and… tangy, for lack of a better word. Gildyr could use it, though he missed deep ground and a genuine, normal-sized forest. Not that his feelings mattered two magic beans to anyone else.
Not-Jonn signaled them past that smiling bald Tiefling, whose horns were a pair of lyre-shaped spirals he’d wound up with black and gold thread.
“This way,” grunted the second mate, jerking his thumb at an open portcullis. “Follow me, don’t get lost, and fer all the gods’ sake, don’t touch nothin’.”
Gildyr nodded vehemently, taking hold of the mortal wizard’s rumpled blue sleeve.
“We’ll stay close,” he promised, neglecting to add ‘Sir’ for Not-Jonn as he often forgot ‘My Lord’ for Valerian. Gildyr pasted what he imagined to be a stern look on his face as he trotted along behind the grim half-elf. Couldn’t help wondering, as they passed under the gleaming teeth of that adamantine gate, where was Val, and what had he landed in, this time?
XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX
Imagine splashing onto a streetside puddle, then finding yourself swept through a churning maelstrom. Cold and noisy dark water tumbled Val and Cinda end over end, knocking the breath and life nearly out of their bodies. There was an oval of glimmering light at the bottom, much deeper down than the Bogg Street River had any right to.
Valerian didn’t aim for the gate. Wasn’t necessary. Just hung onto Cinda as he and the ranger were swept to the magical portal and through it. There was a flash of light and a tingling sensation. The feeling of free-floating nothingness and a thin, whispered voice urging,
‘Find Etherion. Find where they’ve hidden themselves. End this.’
Just like the swarm he’d encountered in Arvendahl’s portal, the whisperer wanted a vow. Clearly, this sentry wouldn’t allow the next heartbeat or move until Val promised,
“Yes, I will. We will. Myself, Cinda and Filimar.” Even that wretched druid. “Gildyr, the cat and her monkey, too. We’ll help stop the damage.”
So Val assured that whispering voice, working free of its hold. Elf-lord and ranger then came tumbling out of the portal and into a narrow stone channel. Smoothed by the passage of constant, fast water, this conduit next dumped them into a clear, rushing river. Chaotic at first, the torrent soon slowed to a gentle meander, shoving them close to the northern bank.
Val tried his feet; discovered that he could stand up in chest-deep cold water. Lost his footing once on algae-slick stone, but soon recovered his balance, keeping tight hold of Cinda. She’d awakened enough to scowl at him, always a hopeful sign.
Valerian used magic. Raised her up and out of the water to drip overhead as he waded. She hated that and would have told him so, only he clamped a silence spell on the struggling ranger, preventing noise that might have drawn awkward attention. (Forestalling a lecture, as well.)
He got them up on the grassy north bank of that sparkling river, which shone in moonlight and mage-glow.
“Not a natural stream,” he guessed. “Or at least, this bit’s been gated away to somebody’s private park.”
The spot was too pleasant, too well-tended and perfectly mown to be natural. Reminded him of the magical stream atop Starloft, or the segment that cascaded down through the mall. They hadn’t gone very far, he noted. The ley-lines had shifted position just slightly, while the moon was still climbing a velvet-dark sky. Someplace near Karellon, then. A castle or manor, at least.
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He kept them moving, doing his best to stay quiet and low while he figured out what to do next. Cinda resorted to sign language as Val sloshed over the manicured riverbank. Hands a furious blur, she gestured orders, curses and threats that he pretended he couldn’t interpret.
“What? Yes, of course, I think you look beautiful,” joked the elf-lord (with ‘half-drowned, chilly, exhausted and drunk from too many narrow escapes’ as his only excuse.)
Had to duck after that, because Cinda did not need her voice to hurl magical darts. Also, because there were roaming mage-eyes all over the park and its high, glassy dome.
Right, then. Not just any park, but some sort of royal enclosure, he figured, dodging spell-blades and reeling Cinda down from the air. Had to, as her flailing and dripping were pretty conspicuous. Mage-eyes were already gathering, drawn by their noise and commotion.
“Look, Cin,” he whispered. “I’ll set you down and remove the silencing spell if you promise to…”
Another silvery missile shot past him, backed by a sudden hot flurry of gestures. That was rude. Not true, either. At least… mostly not true.
Cinda was horizontal at the moment, hanging about four feet over the ground, so Val spun her. Just a little, to help her dry off. She’d most likely hate him for weeks, but it was pretty funny. Then,
“Really?! Could you not twirl your glowing accomplice on the other bank, stupid?” snapped a petulant female voice. “I’d call for the guards to arrest you both, except that I’m timing escape routes. Now, shoo! Go away! Steal something out of the greenhouse or terrace and leave me alone!”
He… knew that voice. Sobered at once, lowering Cinda gently onto her booted feet and drying them both with a spell. Bowing in the presumed direction of that furious voice, he addressed a flowering shrub. It was sculpted to look like a Quetzali maiden, wings and all.
“Your Highness, please forgive the intrusion,” he said, adding, “I am no thief. I am Valerian Tarandahl, and this is my bodyguard, not an accomplice.”
“I don’t care if you’re Magister Serrio’s drunk dancing kobolds!” raged the shrub, developing narrow green eyes and a thorn-packed mouth. “I said skin it! Take off!”
That transformed tree could only be Princess Genevera, whom Val was complexly gladdened and worried to meet in this place. Before…
…Well, he’d left her and Nalderick in a cave, after a terrible fight and the emperor’s death. Had gone down to the depths with Pretty One and somehow ruined everything; letting everyone down who’d prayed for a miracle. How could anyone think that he'd manage better, this time around?
“#!$@*” she snarled, sounding more like a dockhand than royalty. “He’s coming! Just… Urrghh! Try to look harmless, or something. Drive plunder and unholy lust from your mind!”
Well, actually…
“Genna!” hissed somebody else, using magic to blind and dispel those hovering mage-eyes. Did it clumsily, too; never having excelled at the spoken part of his spell casting. “Where are you?! Thrice curse the day that mother whelped forth a witch!”
Uh-huh. Right. Thanks to the Bogg Street River, he’d apparently landed himself in the upper Imperial Garden, most heavily warded spot in all Karellon.
That Quetzali-shaped tree seemed to shudder with mirth; leaves shaking and rustling, berries shooting off like missiles to spatter its grumpy pursuer. Moments later, a worried young elf-prince popped out of concealment (he’d always had trouble maintaining invisibility, especially under attack).
Prince Nalderick it was, dripping with scarlet tox-berry juice. His Highness drew up short and sharp at the sight of Valerian and Cinda.
“Hullo! What’s this?” Nalderick’s hand dropped to the filigree hilt of his sword. Val’s was back in its faerie pocked, fortunately. “Who are… wait. I know you, don’t I?”
Genevera shifted out of topiary form, at that point. She was half a head shorter than Naldo, and clearly fed up with the evening’s proceedings.
“Of course you do, Dickie!” she cut in, stamping a small, booted foot. “He’s an extra player I summoned for your dumb, stupid, no-one-cares team!”
Valerian started to protest, then decided against butting into a family dispute. Both royals were brown-haired and slim, with vivid green eyes and explosive tempers. There the resemblance ended, however. The princess was dressed for adventure, in rough garb that she’d probably cribbed from a fantasy epic. His Highness Prince Nalderick wore attire fit for the banqueting hall or a night of merriment; for scaring the peasants and mopping up all of the spirituous liquor in Karellon.
“You play court-ball?” he demanded, looking Val and Cinda over. Circled them once for a better view, even. “We’ve one practice left before facing the cursed Wyverns, and somebody’s petrified a third of my team! They’ll be weeks recovering!”
Erm, well…
“Naturally, they play court-ball, Stupid!” snapped the princess, peering up at her brother. “They wouldn’t be here, otherwise. Toldja I’d get you more players. Bet there’s a third one, too. Right, thief? There’s another guy, and you don’t lose your heads here and now?”
That was to say…
“Exactly! You got three new players, Dickie. Better hurry and get them registered for Six-day’s game. Big, stupid blond… angry de-ranger and… and…” she tranced briefly, snapping back out of her spell to announce, “Sleeping-on-couch guy! Feared for their strength and cat-like reactions, blah, blah.”
Val bit his lip, looking down at the ground and his probably ruined dragon-hide boots. Not going to laugh, not going to laugh, lord-of-my-ancestors, not going to laugh.
Then someone else manifested, first as a glowing line in the perfumed air, next as another Valinor prince. Everyone bent the knee, this time. Even Genevera, with an eyeroll and deeply put-upon sigh.
“Great! It’s a party, now. Why not call mum over to watch my escape-timing, too?!”
Nalderick pushed impatiently past his sister, shutting her up with a muttered spell and a shove. Temporarily, at least.
“Father,” he greeted the newcomer. “Prince-Ascendant Korvin Valinor ad Ildarion!” (There’d been an older prince, the reputed father of Lady Alyanara. Long ago exiled, his name stricken from every record and monument.) “May I present my new teammates, Valerian and Kal… no, Cinda… along with one other, who is to join us tomorrow, prior to practice.”
“I summoned them,” boasted the princess, darting rudely in front of her brother. “They weren’t here to steal stuff and kidnap me, honest. Anyway, he’s big as a northern ogre and probably not even house-trained. My hero’s not much taller than me, with dark hair and the sweetest voice in all of the realm.”
Genevera melted into a smile at that, looking suddenly gooey and soft. So much for the princess. For his own part, Val rose from one knee to find Korvin regarding him narrowly. The Prince-Ascendant was a disappointing sight. Slim and short, with lank dark hair, a perpetual frown, and ink-stained fingers. His clothing was fusty and very old-fashioned; scholarly rather than grand.
“Hmmm… A Tarandahl, you say? Second heir to the seat of Ilirian, isn’t it?” Korvin’s voice was pleasant enough, but his green eyes were flinty and cold as river rock. His young daughter made a rude noise.
“Honestly, Dadness, who cares? He’s just what Dickie needed, so everyone can stop going on and on about stupid court-ball, now.” Genevera simply couldn’t stay out of that one-sided conversation, sparing Val from having to do or say anything.
Korvin wasn’t convinced, though. Mused,
“Hmmm…” once again. Turning, he glanced at Naldo, who nodded agreement.
“I know the fellow, Sir,” admitted the younger prince, gaining certainty as he continued. “It was… yes. On Grandfather’s last royal tour. We stopped off at… Starloft, where this northern fellow played a tourney against my team. Came near to defeating us, as I recall.”
Korvin’s entire demeanor changed on hearing “Starloft”. From alert skeptic, he went straight to eager and blinking scholar.
“Starloft!” Korvin enthused. “That is an ancient stone-giant citadel, I believe? Predating Arrival? Yes? How extraordinary! How very dashed fortunate! Architecture has long been my passion, young… Valerian, wasn’t it? Yes, yes. Of course you shall stay in the palace tonight, and guards will be sent for your friend, this… Filimar? Hmmm… has rather an Arvendahl ring to it.”
Korvin frowned slightly, as Val did his best to explain his heart-brother’s exile and plight. Pretty well, as it turned out. Seemed to convince His Imperial Highness, at any rate.
“Hmmm… we’ll double the escort,” Korvin decided, adding, “This is not a good night to be Arvendahl… or Tarandahl, either.”
Shaking a thought from his head, the Prince-Ascendant seized Val in a surprisingly powerful grip, urging,
“Come! Walk with me, lad. Dinner awaits my pleasure, with His Majesty off at the lair. We dine when I’m ready, and just now I’d rather hear more about Starloft than push my food around on a plate.”
He conjured a cyclone of inkwells and freshly carved pens, along with a swirl of paper, then hauled Valerian off by one arm.
“About those archways and columns, now, Lad. How would you characterize their adornment? Ornate? Regal? Utilitarian?”
Genevera watched them head off, then turned to glower at Nalderick.
“There goes my timetable for the river escape route! And it was beating the kitchen grate, too! Now, I’ll have start over!”
The Prince-Attendant gazed at his sister.
“You didn’t really summon Valerian, did you?” he asked, fighting a storm of emotion and half-recalled vision. The last being Genna, still alive and trying to fight when Nalderick fell and the world turned to blood.
Genevera shrugged.
“Maybe yes, maybe no… that you know about,” she scoffed, making a face. “His griffin is coming and so is couch-guy’s whole family. Gramperor’s got to ride this time, Dickie. We have to make sure of it.”
Cinda gestured in sign language. Something along the lines of: ‘If I don’t kill V-a-l, first.’
Only, the royal siblings weren’t watching her. Nalderick chewed the inside of his lip, instead. Then he said,
“I’ll try them out on the ball court, tomorrow morning. Hopefully Father leaves off his questions in time for the fellow to rest. Take Lady Kal… Cinda, that is… to the maiden’s wing. See that she’s looked after, then go to your rooms. No more adventures, tonight. I’ll have dinner sent up.”
Genevera put her tongue out.
“Fine,” she sniffed. “I’d rather be up in my sanctum compiling results, anyhow.”
Nalderick shook his head and then ported out of the garden, not waiting to see if she’d follow instructions. He had enough on his mind already, including revised game strategy with three untested new players.
Genevera scowled as his gate sparkled shut, then swung back around to stare at the fuming ranger.
“Don’t suppose you’re any good at plotting escapes?” asked the princess. “I’m leaving to start a new life for myself as a wandering minstrel. There’s half a candle-mark when the guards switch over and Father’s court wizard recharges the mage eyes. My escape can’t take any longer than that.”
Cinda looked around at that beautiful parkland, considering. Then she smiled, signing:
‘May have a plan, Highness. Listen…’