says.
"Just a passenger," I say.
"And yet you speared the rakam like one born with a blade in his hand," he observes.
Why was this man paying so much attention to me, I wonder. "I come from one of the lesser houses of the Shattered Islands, trained as a hunter. It comes in handy."
He studies me, then nods. "Fair enough, brother. I hope you will enjoy the comforts of our ship until yours is sea worthy again."
"Of course."
He speaks as one of the Ruu, his accent faint, sophisticated, but I don't recognize him. It's been many years since I last set foot in the Shattered Islands. Much has changed, it seems.
I disappear onto the Ruu ship, nodding to their crew, who are well-kept and well-organized. They wear the ornaments of traders, beads and shells that clank and clatter on their clothing, suggesting wealth and haggling abilities. I can smell the spices they have stored within the shell, cinnamon and nutmeg and more exotic flavors floating on the wet wind. The rain has stopped, and the damp world picks up the secondary scents more strongly now, with the cleansing of the clean water.
Another scent tickles my nose as I make my way deeper into the ship. I raise an eyebrow, intrigued, before I'm pulled into the mainroom where food and sea swill are being handed out liberally. I take my plate and cup from a burly woman with a thin mustache over her broad lips and find a seat alone.
I eat slowly, quietly, watching as the crews from the two ships mix and mingle. Some have just returned from having wounds bandaged and are slugging down the swill as if they haven't drank in months. Others are inhaling their food like it's the last they might ever see. There's a rush that fills the blood after a life threatening experience, and I see it playing out around me. People who held on too tightly are now letting loose, relieved that they don't have to be in charge, that someone else is here to fix things so they can stop shaking and find a way to breathe again.
I never stopped breathing, myself, until the woman walks in, her long white and blue dress teasing at her bare ankles. I catch a small design on her right ankle, made with pigments of red, before her dress moves to cover it once again. She fills a tray with clams, steamed fish and fried seaweed, and fills a large mug with sea swill, her eyes darting around as she works. Her long black hair is streaked with light strands of blue and piled high in a bun on her head. When she looks up, our eyes meet. Hers are striking, deep blue—almost turquoise—and so sad. She reminds me of the woman in my dreams, but only for a moment. Her eyes are too sad, her body too pulled into itself as she averts her face, grabs the tray and scurries out of the room before anyone can speak to her.
But as she closes the door behind her, she glances at me one more time, briefly, and I feel a voice form between us. A message. A plea.
I stand and slip out of the room, leaving my food and drink on the table.
I don't know where I'm going or why. I know only one thing.
I must speak to the woman with the blue eyes.
5
THE DRAKRUU
When I enter the side shell, the girl is gone.
I walk through halls, past doors to private cabins, the eyes of the local crew regarding me with suspicion as I continue my search with a casual nonchalance I don't feel but must fake. By the time I give up looking for her, I have traversed most of the ship, including the armory and a rare bathing room. This kiasheen and crew must be at least three times the size of the one I commissioned. Their gear is of top quality: thrice thickened nets, stone tipped arrows, and even an iron pot in the kitchen. This is the opulence that comes with being part of a great family. I do not care for it, but I find myself wondering if they have any pillows.
I have not found the girl, nor the pillows, when I'm deep in the belly of the shell, and I hear a scraping sound coming from a deck below me. I follow the noise and find a set of
"Just a passenger," I say.
"And yet you speared the rakam like one born with a blade in his hand," he observes.
Why was this man paying so much attention to me, I wonder. "I come from one of the lesser houses of the Shattered Islands, trained as a hunter. It comes in handy."
He studies me, then nods. "Fair enough, brother. I hope you will enjoy the comforts of our ship until yours is sea worthy again."
"Of course."
He speaks as one of the Ruu, his accent faint, sophisticated, but I don't recognize him. It's been many years since I last set foot in the Shattered Islands. Much has changed, it seems.
I disappear onto the Ruu ship, nodding to their crew, who are well-kept and well-organized. They wear the ornaments of traders, beads and shells that clank and clatter on their clothing, suggesting wealth and haggling abilities. I can smell the spices they have stored within the shell, cinnamon and nutmeg and more exotic flavors floating on the wet wind. The rain has stopped, and the damp world picks up the secondary scents more strongly now, with the cleansing of the clean water.
Another scent tickles my nose as I make my way deeper into the ship. I raise an eyebrow, intrigued, before I'm pulled into the mainroom where food and sea swill are being handed out liberally. I take my plate and cup from a burly woman with a thin mustache over her broad lips and find a seat alone.
I eat slowly, quietly, watching as the crews from the two ships mix and mingle. Some have just returned from having wounds bandaged and are slugging down the swill as if they haven't drank in months. Others are inhaling their food like it's the last they might ever see. There's a rush that fills the blood after a life threatening experience, and I see it playing out around me. People who held on too tightly are now letting loose, relieved that they don't have to be in charge, that someone else is here to fix things so they can stop shaking and find a way to breathe again.
I never stopped breathing, myself, until the woman walks in, her long white and blue dress teasing at her bare ankles. I catch a small design on her right ankle, made with pigments of red, before her dress moves to cover it once again. She fills a tray with clams, steamed fish and fried seaweed, and fills a large mug with sea swill, her eyes darting around as she works. Her long black hair is streaked with light strands of blue and piled high in a bun on her head. When she looks up, our eyes meet. Hers are striking, deep blue—almost turquoise—and so sad. She reminds me of the woman in my dreams, but only for a moment. Her eyes are too sad, her body too pulled into itself as she averts her face, grabs the tray and scurries out of the room before anyone can speak to her.
But as she closes the door behind her, she glances at me one more time, briefly, and I feel a voice form between us. A message. A plea.
I stand and slip out of the room, leaving my food and drink on the table.
I don't know where I'm going or why. I know only one thing.
I must speak to the woman with the blue eyes.
5
THE DRAKRUU
When I enter the side shell, the girl is gone.
I walk through halls, past doors to private cabins, the eyes of the local crew regarding me with suspicion as I continue my search with a casual nonchalance I don't feel but must fake. By the time I give up looking for her, I have traversed most of the ship, including the armory and a rare bathing room. This kiasheen and crew must be at least three times the size of the one I commissioned. Their gear is of top quality: thrice thickened nets, stone tipped arrows, and even an iron pot in the kitchen. This is the opulence that comes with being part of a great family. I do not care for it, but I find myself wondering if they have any pillows.
I have not found the girl, nor the pillows, when I'm deep in the belly of the shell, and I hear a scraping sound coming from a deck below me. I follow the noise and find a set of
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