Novels

For two days the Prezon sailed along the coast of Norrholt, past the cliffs of Cast, beyond the Autumn Wall, and on to Greater Norrholt and the united Herathian Empire. Their supplies continued to dwindle, and the crew’s grumbling became louder than before. The Captain punished several of his crew for insubordinate talk, though this only stilled their tongues. Phalamili could still see their spiteful hearts in the movements of their bodies, their squared shoulders, and their darting eyes. Phalamili kept her distance as best she could, weathering the abusive blows and bitter words while cleaning the deck and fetching food.

When her duties were finished, she tried to learn Erosean letters and numbers. Though at first confusing, she soon grasped the core of it, and understood simpler writing and arithmetic.

The rest of her time was spent watching the lands of Norrholt as they passed. She had never seen foreign land before, and was determined not to miss a single hill or tree.

It took two more days, two more greets, before the Prezon at last sighted land. Each day the sailors more angry, and Atamato’s cocky smile became more worried.

The fresh fruit and vegetables spoiled in the ship’s larder. Phalamili Rukiya sometimes watched as the old cook spread powders and spices on her ingredients to hide the foul taste. Hard-crust dipped in weak alcohol soon followed, as did the grumbling and frustration of the crew.

“They don’t mean anything by it,” Goduu told Phalamili. “It’s the same with any journey across the cloud-sea. They’re just being children, angry that they can’t change things as they are. We’ll survive to the end of our journey, at least.”

Phalamili was not convinced. “How much longer will our journey be?” she asked.

When Phalamili stepped above deck once more, she was amazed to see how well the Prezon had weathered the storm. The ice had begun to melt, and the winds blew gently compare to their earlier tempestuousness. Ropes twisted in the wind like dried vines, and shards of splintered wood covered the deck.

But the sails were still full, and the masts still stood tall. Phalamili could scarce believe her eyes, as she had been certain the storm would have destroyed them all.

But the ice-storm had been a small one, the kind often seen on the cloud-sea. Loud and dangerous, yes, as all storms are, but the sailors were experienced hands. They had pulled up the sails, so the ice did not cut them. They turned into the wind, so the squalls did not crash into their sides. They had spread salt and sand, so the ice did not freeze so readily. Thus, they had avoided the worst of the storm’s wrath. Phalamili did not know this, however, and she thought it more evidence of the Erosean’s great magics.

But alas, there was one piece of the Prezon that did not fare so well; the stach-fin had been torn to pieces, and now hung limply off the ship’s side. Poor Phalamili, no sooner had she spied the pitiful wreck, then a shout came from the aft of the ship. “There she is! Beldam! Storm-blown hag! Do you see what she has done?”

It was not the last time she saw Atamato, nor the last time she spoke with him. For you see, when there was nothing to clean, deliver, or watch, Phalamili Rukiya stood atop the quarterdeck and breathed in the cloud-sea air. The winds of the cloud-sea were always strong, pushing hard against her chest before flitting away past her hair and through her clothes. In the depths, deep cracks and soft hissing marked the storms churning beneath the ship. The smell of the air was at times cold and dusty, other times warm and salty. Ashen mists flowed over the sides before fading again, and the creaking of the giant balloon up above provided a steady rhythm to life at cloud-sea. A heartbeat that kept them all aloft. It was terrifying, but also beautiful.

And yet it seemed that whenever she was on deck, the boy Atamato would return time and again to measure the wind and mark the sun with his strange wooden and iron tools. He did this as a Navigator, but also as a student of the Academy.

But what of Phalamili Rukiya? What happened to her when she woke again in the hold of the Prezon, curled tightly on the dry straw?

She saw the old face of the ship’s gook; Goduu Dzitugan, She of Gemstone Ear, Minister to the rebellion, teacher of the calling, bringer of quakes, mother, widow, daughter, and friend. At the time, however, Phalamili didn’t even know that her name was Goduu. “Come now, child, you can’t sleep all day, can you?” the old woman asked, because she had once been a mother, and knew how to deal with young girls. She could see the red rings that were the signs of one who had cried themselves to sleep, and her heart went out to this poor girl who was now the Captain’s slave. “Here, wash your face in this bowl of water.”

Phalamili did so, and then ate the tiny piece of cheese, and a square of hard-crust, which is a kind of sailor’s food for long voyages. It does not spoil as meat or fruit does, but neither does it taste. When she had finished grinding the hard meal between her teeth, she spoke to the old cook: “You do not look like an Erosean.”

News came on a cold misty evening, when the fog of Greater Norrholt spilled down from the mountains and crept across the land towards the edges. A merchant caravan brought news from the capital, the King had surrendered. They were to be Wendshan no more, but citizens of the Empire.

All through Jarhaan, the people were frightened of what would come of their town. They knew the price of surrender, but never had surrender come without war. Would the armies of Herathia march through their village, burning and pillaging without resistance? Would they be taken as slaves and gifted to high Herathian officials?

Friar Henrik soothed his frightened flock: “Peace is nothing to be feared, and by the will of the Light above, our village will survive. Let us not fear, but hope.”

But Ysalla was afraid, because she saw how Friar Henrik stayed awake long into the night, his hands clasping and unclasping, tears threatening to run down his cheeks. She wondered what could make a man so afraid yet still counsel others to hope? In the language of her heart, it was a cruelty; those who were not cautioned were not prepared.

Now, let us look to the other side of the Autumn Wall, to the land known only as the Kingdom of Cast. Called the first kingdom, Cast was an ancient and once mighty land ruled over by monarchs of great wisdom and strength. The castles of Cast have stood proud and tall for many generations, rivaling the mountains in age and fortitude.

A decade ago, the High King Terythein of Cast ruled from the castle of Benhavle, Highest of all Cast. Built in the exact center of the kingdom, Benhavle was a fortress filled with towers and spires and an overabundance of stairs. His favorite castle, it was here that the High King died, passing his throne on to the next ruler of Cast.

But what do we find in the tallest tower of Benhavle, not one ruler but three; for in his foolishness the High King divided the Kingdom of Cast and bestowed a third each to his three children. Each now ruled from their own castles, and it was here at Benhavle they traveled once every year to speak to each other, the rulers of Cast.

Now, beloved, we must leave Rukiya where she sleeps and travel across the cloud-sea, to the island of Norrholt, the land of mists and mountains, of plains and dark forests. Greatest Norrholt, the largest island in the cloud-sea, torn in half by the great Autumn Wall.

On one side of the Autumn Wall, the side known among those who live there as Greater Norrholt, lies the mighty Herathian Empire. Once a land of many tribes and houses, now all united under the Red Saqur, the banner of a brutal and violent Law handed down to the Herathi people from the great warlord Zouhbal centuries ago.

Past town and village we must go, over the fog-soaked lands of rice and wine, of wandering needle-deer and watchful redcats. Deeper into Greater Norrholt, up the hills and towards the longest mountain range in the cloud-sea, the Saber Mountains.

The Captain’s Cabin was like nothing Rukiya had ever seen before. It was made entirely of wood and not a single spot was bare of something to look at. A tapestry of many shapes and colors hung on the wall next to a pair of mounted swords. A broad desk was covered with an open book, small bags, and a box next to a feather stuck in a tiny bottle. Thick wooden ribs reached across the ceiling, and shadows danced in every corner, cast from a glowing glass orb that sat on a small metal vase. This was an oil lamp, and Rukiya had never seen one before.

Her fascination was interrupted by a sudden swaying of the ship. As she looked out the large window, she saw the land of Clashwind slowly begin to move.

At first she thought, as would we all, that she was mad. How could the island move so suddenly and swiftly? Was this more Two-chin magic? But no, so smooth and gentle was the rocking of the ship that she had not realized that they were moving away from Clashwind.

The deal was struck, the bargain made, and Rukiya followed Hyleastus Asidi out of the Trade House. The Light Above had vanished and dusk blanketed Clashwind town, pushed back only by the now burning metal torches that rose along the street. The cloud-sea was high that evening, the swirling gray mists curling over the edge of the island and drifting upwards to meet with the curtain of clouds that was the sky.

Greedy Hyleastus Asidi took Rukiya to the great stone walls of Clashwind town, down dark and shadowy streets until they reached a small wooden door. Here he knocked three times, like this. The door opened, and Rukiya could hear whispering. The sound of clinking metal reached her ears, and then Hyleastus Asidi bid her follow him through the door.

On the other side of the wall was a guard and a horse. Hyleastus Asidi mounted the horse, and pulled Rukiya up after him. Taking a lantern from the guard’s offered hand, he kicked his heels against the horses flank, and the two of them rode off down the hill towards the edge of the island.