The Messenger

Just before that he had been heaved into the waters of the harbor by guards of House Protector, a group of rough-handed fellows who had hauled him down from the palace. They chose to douse him close to the fishing sheds, in water that was foully polluted. Somehow he had bobbed up amidst fish guts and scales and slime, his broken rib hurting with each flailing movement. Kerrick had no memories of climbing aboard his boat, nor did he recall who had cut the anchor. A glance toward the bow showed him that the iron weight had been hoisted aboard. Perhaps he had done so himself in a daze.

Peering toward the riverbank, he could barely make out a horizon of lofty towers, crystalline bridges, and verdant, rolling hills crowned with marbled mansions. He knew there were brilliant flowered gardens cascading down those hillsides, though the magical cloak around his boat seemed to sap the view of every hint of vibrant color. Somehow Cutter had drifted out of the harbor, and the current was carrying him away from the island of Silvanost, a disabled passenger on the river’s eternal course toward the sea.

Grimly, gasping in pain as tears stung his eyes, the elf forced himself to his knees and finally, with his hands clutching the cabin for support, onto his feet. Already he was several miles below the city, moving into water surging with implacable force, propelled vigorously as the two branches of the river reunited below the island city. The Than-Thalas was nearly a mile wide here, and he seemed to be roughly near the middle of the expanse. With each pain-wracked breath, the city that he loved was falling farther and farther behind.

“No!”

He all but screamed the word. They wanted him banished, exiled from their lives and their land, but maybe he could fight them! There were many places he could come ashore, countless small villages in the great forest where no one would know him, where he would be able to recuperate among his own kind. Somehow, someday, he would figure out a way to return to the city-but at least, until then, he would be close by. Lunging into the stern, he grabbed the tiller in his hands, and tried to shift the steering lever. But the gods-cursed thing was stuck-he couldn’t get it to budge.

That exertion proved costly, as his guts suddenly heaved. He leaned his face over the side, retching into the blue-green water barely a foot below his face. With each convulsion the broken rib jabbed at him, until Kerrick fell sobbing and exhausted and flat on his back. All he could see now was that strangely hazy sky, with the tall mast poking like a naked tree trunk straight into the air.

The sail! Again he forced himself to his feet, for the first time noting that there was a significant breeze pushing up from the south. If he could raise some canvas he could capture that wind, use it to slow or divert his course. Yet once more the agony seized him, twisted his insides, rendering him all but immobile.

Doubled over in pain, he thought about the weight of the sail, the lines he would need to hold, and he realized the effort was beyond his strength.

Stumbling toward the cabin, he pulled open the hatch and plunged into the small compartment, staying low as he moved past the cramped galley. His eyes adjusted to the darkness, as, again exhausted by the effort, he slumped onto a bench. It took all of his effort just to hold his eyes open against the pain thudding into his skull, rippling through his body.

His bunk occupied the forward quarter of the compartment. To his left was a table holding his charts and documents, but which was just as likely to be used as an eating place. He craved a steaming pot of his precious Istarian tea, but the stove was cold and he didn’t have the energy to start a fire.

Kerrick’s sword, in its light leather scabbard, hung on a rack above the table, next to his longbow and several quivers of arrows. On the right was the sea chest, his bins of coal, charcoal, and firewood, and several small cupboards containing all of his worldly possessions.

At least, all of those possession that he hadn’t left behind in his palace apartment. He snorted, thinking of the favorite things still ashore, of a particular red silk cape, doeskin boots, chains of silver locked in a box of cedar, feather caps and embroidered tunics. With regret he thought of the precious coins he had saved during his decades in the city: three gold pieces in a little pouch, hidden under a floorboard in his house-gone to him, now.

He also remembered the small collection of ladies’ gloves under his bed. All right-handed gloves, dainty and perfumed and freely bestowed upon him by his lovers. Gloryian’s glove was the prize of his collection, but when he thought about it now the smell of her perfume blurred almost indiscriminately with the fragrances worn by all of his other mistresses.

Oh, he had been quite the rake of Silvanost, at least for a while. He winced as he remembered that life, suddenly and forcibly confronting the fact that he might never be going back there.

Once more he shivered, and he realized that he was still wearing the clothes he had donned for his tryst with Gloryian Dirardar. They clung to him, scratching and chafing, smelling vaguely of fish entrails. Wrinkling his nose, he kicked off his moccasins, pulled off the silk hose, shrugged out of his woolen shirt and vest. Each movement hurt him, but he took almost a pleasure in the pain, in the shedding of these garments that were like a skin on an earlier body.

He opened his sea chest and laughed bitterly, spotting a red silk cap with its black and white eagle feather sitting carefully atop his practical clothes. He recalled that he had worn that cap recently, when he had brought Glory out to the boat. Afterward, her servant had returned her to shore in the dinghy while Kerrick had napped. When he was ready to go ashore himself, he had swum. Not wanting to damage the plumed hat, he had left it here.

As he dressed, Kerrick relished the comfort of sturdy, dry seafaring garb. He slipped into brown woolen trousers and supple boots, then encased his upper body with a loose cotton shirt. He eschewed the leather gloves and the woolen overshirt-such clothes were essential when he sailed the southern sea, but in the Silvanesti summer they would only be stifling and heavy.

At the bottom of his sea chest was a small strongbox, unlocked, with the key jutting from the latch. He popped it open and regarded the two objects within. One was the ring of gold left to him by his father, the only other legacy, besides Cutter, of Dimorian Fallabrine’s life. Kerrick touched the wreath of oak leaves emblazoned so meticulously into the curved surface. He had never donned the ring-his father’s warning still resonated in his memory-but he treasured it and saved it, and wondered. Someday, if Dimorian had spoken truly, that ring might save his life.

The other thing in the box was a small ivory tube, with a scroll of parchment inside-a scroll with writing he had committed to memory. Absentmindedly, he took the scroll tube and slipped it into his pocket. Still aching, he decided to brew some tea. An hour later, after nursing two mugs of the pungent, invigorating draught, he wondered if it might be possible to raise the sail.

He still felt pain, but it was manageable, no longer crippling. Once more he stepped through the hatchway onto the deck, shutting the portal tightly behind him.

He felt himself moving easily, was able to forget the fact that he was injured and bruised. With barely a grimace he lifted the lid of the sail locker and was rewarded with a sharp twinge from his broken rib. More carefully he reached inside and hooked the line to the top of the mainsail.

With practiced gestures he began to pull on the line. He enjoyed the sight of the blue canvas rising slowly from the locker, climbing up the tall mast. He paused to attach the base of the sail to the boom, then continued hoisting away. The sail snapped and fluttered in the breeze, and he began to feel some hope, some confidence in his own experience as a sailor, and in the remembered seaworthiness of this fast, dependable boat.

For now he let the boom trail over the water and the canvas flap loosely, and soon the sail was fully aloft. With a firm gesture, he pulled on the steering line, bringing the sail against the wind, waiting for the push that would show him the boat was firmly under his control.

Instead, the breeze came hard and Cutter, without veering from her down-river course, heeled sharply, lurching and almost pitching the elven sailor into the water. Kerrick let go of the rope and threw himself down, hands grasping the rail as the boat quickly righted herself, its sail flapping loosely off to the side. Gasping from the sudden pain, he looked around, and again that gray haze filled his eyes.

The spell! He understood it fully, then: He was trapped by the king’s will. His knuckles whitened on the gunwale and he stared wildly around him at the gray murk, comprehending beyond all doubt. The king’s sorcerers had surrounded the boat with a spell that kept him on a southward course, no matter how he steered or the wind blew.

With a glance over the stern, Kerrick saw that Silvanost had already vanished behind him around a bend. He felt heartsick-he had missed a last look at the most beautiful place in all Krynn. Anger swept over him, the sense of a great injustice that had been done to him and frustration in his inability to strike back at his tormentors. From