“Your names, I know, but little more than that, Jass Gebrem,” Kyroun said. “At the moment my life-light was flickering to its end, my mind touched yours, and I learned the name of the one who rekindled it – and, as well, I learned the name of the one he holds dearest.”
He smiled at Tiyana, who lowered her gaze and looked away.
“I cannot count the days that have passed since I last smelled good food, let alone tasted it,” Kyroun said.
“I am sorry ...Kyroun. Please eat,” Gebrem said. “There will be more than enough time for talk.”
He motioned for Tiyana to pass the tray to the Fidi. Kyroun took the tray from her hands, then ate heartily, using the injerra to scoop up the wat as though he had done so all his life. He also sipped the hot kef carefully without choking, unlike most of the Fidi outside the cabin, who had tried to gulp it down as though it were merely colored water the first time they drank it, then suffered the consequences when its bitter taste burned their throats.
While Kyroun ate, Tiyana sat on one of the other chairs in the cabin. Sunlight streamed through the open porthole, illuminating the bed, chairs and desk crowded into the small room. A map was unfurled across the top of the desk. Gebrem walked over to the desk and peered down at the chart. On it, he recognized the outline of Abengoni’s northern coast – and the boundaries of the old Matile Mala Empire. When he gave it a closer look, he saw that the map showed cities that no longer existed because they had been obliterated in the Storm Wars.
A sense of sadness for what the Matile had lost assailed him, but he willed that feeling away. He needed to concentrate on understanding how – and why – the Fidi had braved the Sea of Storms to come to Khambawe.
“They still talk about this drink in my country, even though no one has tasted it for centuries,” Kyroun remarked as he swallowed more kef. “We never could get the beans to grow, even in the hottest climates.”
A polite silence followed while Kyroun finished his repast. When the last of it was gone, Tiyana spoke quickly and bluntly, broaching a topic Gebrem would have approached with greater subtlety.
“You and your people have taken an incredible risk to come to us through the Sea of Storms. Why?”
Gebrem opened his mouth to admonish her, but then closed it without speaking. Tiyana’s own life had almost been lost during First Calling; she had a right to know the reason why the Fidis’ ship had nearly crushed her against the wharf.
Kyroun locked eyes with her. The creaking of the ship’s timbers was the only sound to be heard in the cabin as the clash of gazes intensified, with Tiyana refusing to yield despite the strange color of the Fidi’s eyes and the power that lay within their depths. Then Kyroun smiled broadly, deepening the lines on his face.
“It was you,” he said softly.
Tiyana gave him a quizzical look.
“When it seemed that we would never reach land; that the wind and waves would defeat us and send us to the bottom of the sea, your magic shone like a beacon, guiding us to safety,” Kyroun explained. “I knew as long as I concentrated on the source of that magic, we had a chance to survive. And so we did. You, Tiyana, are the one who saved our lives.”
The sincere warmth and gratitude that shone in Kyroun’s eyes as he spoke was almost enough to cause Tiyana to forget that his ship had come close to killing her the day before.
Almost, but not quite.
“As for the question you ask, the answer is simple,” Kyroun added. Then he paused, as though he were preparing himself for the reaction his next words were certain to elicit.
“I have come home,” he said.
2
Water splashed over the face of Pel Muldure, captain of the White Gull. Wetness entered his mouth and crept into his nostrils.
Drowning ... wind shredding the sails ... waves smashing, rocking, destroying ....
Muldure’s dark eyes snapped open as the water dripped down his neck and shoulders. Sunlight dazzled his vision and he blinked rapidly, as though he had been in darkness for a long time.
Drowning ....
With a hoarse outcry, Muldure sat up, flailing his arms as though struggling to stay afloat in a whirlpool that was sucking him down. He heard a sharp intake of breath close by. Then he felt the hard deck of his ship beneath him, swaying gently. Relief filled him. He was not drowning. His ship had not sunk. He had reached his destination, which was all any sailor could ask from the gods of the sea.
Muldure continued to blink until his vision cleared. Endless days of dark-gray skies alternating with the black of starless nights had left him unaccustomed to the sight of sunlight. He looked down at himself. The brocaded captain’s vest that was his pride and joy was now reduced to shreds. A length of cloth covered with unfamiliar designs covered his legs, hiding his boots and sea-breeches, which he was certain would be in equal disrepair.
Automatically, he reached for the cutlass that always hung at his side. Its scabbard was empty. Had he lost his weapon? Or had it been taken from him?
Then he looked up – and saw a face hovering above his own, a face covered by skin darker than any he had ever seen before. It was a young woman’s face: narrow, framed with braids of hair bedecked with multicolored beads. Startled eyes stared into his. Then white teeth flashed in a tentative smile.
He examined the woman more closely. Her neck was slender, as were the shoulders her garment left partly bare. The rest of her body was wrapped in
