Yellowsands, in the North of the Old Kingdom
Ferin regained consciousness as she was being lifted out of the fishing boat to the jetty, one of a dozen rickety constructions that lined the waterfront of Yellowsands. The harbor was sheltered from the sea by a high breakwater, an ancient and much more imposing edifice than the jetty, made of huge blocks of black stone expertly placed together so there were no gaps for the sea to exploit.
“Welcome to Yellowsands!” said Tolther. “Huire’s going to put you on my back, so I can carry you more easily. Is that all right?”
“Yes,” said Ferin. “Where do you carry me?”
She was pleased to have come closer to delivering her message and to see another day, a day that felt more promising. It was warmer already, the sun was coming up over the ocean, the sky was a soft blue, and her foot didn’t hurt as much as it had. Though she wasn’t sure whether this was a good thing or not, and when she looked her leg was very swollen above the ankle.
“To the Charter Stone,” said Tolther. “We’ll meet Astilaran there, the healer, get your foot looked at while everyone’s getting ready to go.”
“Go?” asked Ferin. She screwed her eyes shut for a moment as Huire hoisted her onto Tolther’s broad back, the pain in her foot returning like a surprise charge on an unsuspecting enemy. She told herself shutting her eyes was not a sign of weakness if no one could see.
“That raider’s still following, or it was,” said Tolther. “Put your arms around, a bit lower, not on my neck. We haven’t the strength to fight them here, the village can’t be defended, so everyone’s heading out to the old tower a ways off.”
“Ah,” said Ferin carefully, trying to keep the pain out of her voice. “I have brought this on you, and I am sorry.”
“Oh well,” said Tolther, carefully picking his way along the jetty, with Huire walking behind, carrying Ferin’s bow and arrow case, and her pack. “With the Sky Horses coming so far south and everything, your message must be as important as you said to Ma. So best we help you.”
“Yes.” It took considerable effort to talk without showing that she was in pain, but she managed it. She was glad Tolther hadn’t said anything requiring a longer answer.
Ferin looked about as Tolther carried her from the jetty onto the paved waterfront, with its big open-sided timber building for sorting and packing fish, where right now a cluster of fisher-folk were talking excitedly with Karrilke rather than working. They hurried past this fish-packing shed and Ferin saw a line of well-made houses stretching up both sides of a road that speared directly up a low hill. The houses were all whitewashed stone with red tiled roofs, very different from the goatskin tent camps of the Athask. From the dockside they followed the cobbled road, Tolther puffing as they began to climb, though the slope was gentle.
Fisher-folk came out of the houses as they passed, and asked what was happening. Huire told them, quickly. The result reminded Ferin of shooting ducks on the high lakes: one bird would drop to the first arrow and most of the others would take flight, quacking in alarm. But there were always some ducks who didn’t fly with the rest. They were the ones that would fall to the next shot. Most of the people here started to run back into their houses, shouting as soon as they understood what Tolther had told them, but a few stood where they were, their mouths agape. They were like the sitting ducks on the lakes.
Tolther and Ferin were near the top of the hill, where the houses stopped, when a loud, low-voiced horn sounded from somewhere about the harbor below, immediately followed by another two sharp, loud blasts.
“Alarm,” puffed Tolther. “Guess Ma got Megril to act fast for once.”
“But it’s the same as the one for fire,” said Huire doubtfully.
“It’ll get everyone out, and word travels fast,” said Tolther.
Ferin turned her head to look below. Even more people were running about, and there was also more shouting. It didn’t look very organized, but she thought it might just be the different way these southerners did things. Among the Athask, there were many different horn blasts for various situations; if one were sounded, the response would be ordered and disciplined, and above all, quiet. There would be none of this excessive shouting, and particularly there would not be any of the screams Ferin could hear.
Huire had paused to look too. She pointed out to sea and said, “The raider is coming! See, two fingers left of the sun?”
Tolther turned around. Ferin grimaced as her leg was swung about and her neck jolted. She looked over Tolther’s shoulder, squinting against the rising sun.
Sure enough, there was the raiding ship, making its way along a broad channel, a black smudge amid the blue-green sea and golden sands. From the hill Ferin could see many other channels: forking, joining, splitting, rejoining, a complicated tracery of darker arteries and capillaries cutting through the great drifts of yellow sand that formed the banks and bars.
Some of the channels looked wide to begin with, but soon narrowed or led nowhere, and at sea level Ferin thought it would be very easy to take the wrong one. But the raiders hadn’t done so, or at least hadn’t taken one that would greatly slow them down. They were not in the widest and most direct channel, but one parallel to it that would rejoin soon enough. From the wake of the ship, the wood-weirds were continuing to row at an unnatural pace.
“Pity the tide’s in,” said Tolther. “They might’ve gone aground otherwise.”
“Might have been and could have done, neither worth thinking on,” said Huire, repeating one of their mother’s favorite sayings.
“They’ll be inside the breakwater, lie alongside a jetty inside of an hour, I reckon,” said Tolther. “Not much of a start for us . . .”
He increased his pace, puffing harder. He was very strong, Ferin thought, but did not have the endurance of her people. At least not for walking and running, no doubt due to spending most of his life on a boat.
“Stone’s up ahead,” said Tolther. “I’ll lay you down there to wait for Astilaran and run back to help Da get our gear together. Huire, you stay with Ferin.”
“Why don’t you stay!” protested Huire. “I’ve got things I’d like to get too!”
“It isn’t about that,” said Tolther. “I’m older, so do as I say.”
“I will stay but not because you’re older,” said Huire. “Someone sensible has to be with Ferin.”
“I am grateful for all your help,” said Ferin. She felt very old all of a sudden, an adult among small children. They clearly had no idea of what wood-weirds could do, or the powers of the shamans and witches on board the approaching raider, or they would not spare energy for childish squabbles. Or be helping a wounded stranger, because if they knew what was coming after them they would run away right now. “From both of you.”
The top of the hill was a pleasant, flat area that when spring became fully established would doubtless be under grass. The first shoots were coming through now, patches of green dotting the bare earth, legacy of the past winter. In the middle of this flat soon-to-be pasture, there was a tall grey stone, reminiscent of a fir cone in shape, round at the bottom and tapering to a point at the top. It was about twice as tall as Ferin, and as they drew closer she saw many strange symbols were carved everywhere, all over the stone, from foot to crown.
As she watched, the symbols moved, and suddenly shone bright as if they were made of beaten gold that had caught the sun. Ferin blinked several times, wondering if she was becoming feverish again. But she didn’t feel feverish, and the symbols were very definitely moving, crawling about and shifting position. Some were also changing, flowing out of one shape into another, and they shone brighter and brighter, as bright as molten gold poured from a crucible, so bright Ferin had to hood her eyes and look away.
“What . . . what is that?” croaked Ferin.
“The Charter Stone,” said Tolther. “Good magic. The marks aren’t always so bright, though. Something must have stirred them up. Help me put Ferin down, Huire.”
The brother and sister laid Ferin down on the grass about ten paces from the stone, arranged her bad leg straight out, and put her pack behind her so she could sit up against it. She stared at the stone in fascination, continuing to watch the symbols move and change. Some even drifted off into the air, moving like leaves caught by the wind, slowly fading until they were mere wisps of light and then no more.
After a minute or two, most of the radiant marks dimmed, and the moving ones became slower, and soon the rock simply looked like a much-carved-upon standing stone again.
“The little carvings, what do they mean?” asked Ferin. “Are they letters? There are so many . . .”
“Need to be a Charter Mage to know,” said Huire. “Ma is one, a little bit. We’ve all got the mark, Ma insisted, but I never had time to study. I know how to make a light, that’s about it. You don’t want to mess with marks you don’t understand.”
Huire pushed her fringe back and showed Ferin the Charter mark on her forehead.
“I thought that was just a brand, marking your clan,” said Ferin. “I have one such, here.”
She tapped her stomach, just above her navel.