pack, with the bare essentials. Shorn assured them the Seafarers would trade with them, although they were boat people and Renir didn’t think fur cloaks would be in plentiful supply.
He tore a finger on a jagged rock, and was surprised to see the blood congealing almost instantly. He wasn’t sure if it was his preternatural ability to heal that he should thank, or the unreasonable temperatures. The wind seemed to grow in bluster. This close to the ocean and the mountains it was only to be expected. Both could be harsh. Together they were hellish.
Tugging his pack tighter around his shoulders (the joints complaining, freezing up) he continued his ascent. He took a moment to look up and saw that everybody else had gained the summit. Drun was not even wearing a cloak, just a shirt and mittens.
He swore and dug his toes into a crack, heaving himself higher.
Finally, he reached the top to sarcastic jeers from Bourninund. He would have swung for him, but instead he sat down heavily and tried to catch his breath.
“Don’t sit still, you’ll freeze,” said Drun. “The trick for the cold is to keep moving. The joints seize up if you don’t, then you’re in real trouble.”
“I can’t move.”
“Well, you’ll have to. The Feewar are here. Come on, Renir. You’re the youngest and the fittest. You should be leading the way. Just a little further, and besides, the rest is downhill from here.”
“I’m youngest, but you’ve all had years to earn your muscles. Mine are still inexperienced. Anyone fancy carrying me? I’ll carry your pack for you.”
Bourninund chuckled. “Don’t be daft. Come on. You can see them from here.”
Renir groaned and stood up. As he did so the wind caught him and he fell on his behind again. Shorn held out a hand for him.
“Careful. Up here the wind is stronger than a man. Keep low.”
“Right,” said Renir, and followed the others down a rocky incline, leading to a beach where he could see a strange vessel bobbing in the spiteful wash. It was built from wood, he could see, but seemingly from whole trees rather than planks. The trees still had green leaves and shoots on them. The leaves danced at the end of their branches in the wind. It was a large boat, moored against the rock-strewn shore by means of a wooden pole driven into the stone.
When he reached the bottom on the incline the boat emptied and a strange, lithe crew alighted on the shore. They drew wooden weapons and held them to their sides. The warriors, to Renir’s surprise, did nothing. They took their weapons and laid them to one side. Shorn bade Renir to do the same.
Reluctantly, he laid his axe by his feet, close enough to flick into his hand should things turn ugly.
He did not understand why Wen, Bourninund and Shorn would let themselves be disarmed. But he trusted Shorn, and Shorn knew these people.
His lips were chapped from the bitter wind, and his hand ached where he had hurt it. He tried to concentrate on what the Seafarers were saying, but could overhear nothing against the screaming wind.
It seemed to be going well. The Seafarers sheathed their wooden swords (he could not fathom why Shorn had been disarmed by a man holding a wooden sword) as one man, and one stepped forward and embraced Wen, then clasped Shorn’s good hand, forearm to forearm. He relaxed, but didn’t pick up his axe. He stayed where he was until Shorn beckoned him forward with a wave of his hand.
“Renir, this is Orosh, he will be our guide to the ship. He is an old friend, although he did not recognise me. It has been a long time.”
“Welcome to my boat, Renir Esyn, Drun Sard and Bourninund Maltern,” said Orosh with a gentle bow. His voice was softly musical, and his eyes danced within his head. Renir saw that they were a stunning blue, the colour of still seas. There was a deceptive strength in his grip, Renir noted as they shook. Even though he was a thin man he had a wiry strength, like Bourninund, and it would not pay to underestimate him.
“Thank you for your welcome. I’ll try to be a good passenger.”
Orosh smiled. “You can bring your weapons aboard. Forgive us, but we do not let our secrets pass lightly. Shorn neglected to tell us in his summons that he would be bringing companions. Alas, we do not have much call to practice hospitality on the seas. There are few, as landfarers say, knocks upon our door.”
He seemed warm and friendly, but Renir noted the way he looked warily at Drun. Although the only one of them unarmed, Orosh seemed almost afraid of Drun. For his part, Drun seemed oblivious to the scrutiny. He merely smiled back at the Seafarer, nodded to his companions and waved the warriors ahead of him at Orosh’s invitation to board.
Renir nodded and returned to collect his axe. He sheathed the weapon and followed the others aboard, hoping there was some shelter on the boat, for surely he would freeze to death if he didn’t get warm soon.
Drun caught his hand as he climbed the rope to the boat.
”Watch carefully, Renir. I sense danger ahead. Shorn and Wen trust these people. You have a wise eye, though, and I trust you.”
There was no time to ask further. Renir simply nodded, and clambered over the side of the strange, living boat.
Chapter Thirty
“I will wear it if I must, but I am not happy about this,” growled Roth with its teeth bared.
Tirielle suppressed a smile behind a newly manicured hand. She knew the beast well enough to tell bluster from true ire. “It suits you, Roth. You look every inch the priest. Do you feel devout?”
“Do not mock me, lady. I have never worn clothes, and I never will again. I cannot breath.”
“Oh, Roth, do not be such a baby. You can hardly walk the streets in your fur. Not anymore.”
j’ark put the finishing touches to the giant rahken’s disguise — a pair of oversized gloves which would serve to hide the beast’s claws.
“I think it will serve well enough in the night. During the days you will have to remain within your rooms.”
“I can bear that. It’s this infernal cloth that chafes.”
Roth sat on the only bench within the room it would share with the Seer and Tirielle. The cowl of the huge robe hid its face in darkness, but its snout protruded somewhat from the shadow. The grimace on its face was plainly visible.
“I am a creature of stealth. I do not like this subterfuge.” Even the word subterfuge felt uncomfortable passing its jaws.
“With the edict against rahkens everywhere you have little choice. You must stick to the shadows and venture out only when absolutely necessary. I do not like it overly, either, Roth. I would have you by my side. But none of us can afford to draw undue attention here. We all make sacrifices.”
Roth nodded its ascent. “I will be a good mouse.”
Tirielle shook her head sadly. In some things Roth was stout and the bravest ally she could hope for, but who could have known the giant’s aversion to cloth?
j’ark touched her hand gently, and Tirielle felt the now all-too-familiar tug somewhere secret, deep within.
“Lady, we should go. Every passing day brings us closer to the red wizard. Time is pitifully short.”
“Very well,” she said with a sad smile for Roth. “Let’s go.”
Tirielle felt a moment of excitement to be setting out, with just j’ark for company. She counselled herself to caution. There was no room for girlish fantasies left in her life. She sighed loudly as they descended the windowless stairwell. J’ark turned, a question on his face, and Tirielle waved him on with mock sternness. He shrugged and pushed open the door, letting in the stale smoke-filled stairs. Typraille, who was sipping a mug of warm milk, nodded to them as they passed. They exchanged no words, but it was good to be so well protected, thought Tirielle, even if her guard of honour were without their armour. Typraille was as solid as rock, as unbending as the grand oak.
It was his duty on this, their third day in the city, to watch the door. No one would pass unbidden to their
