The Scourge of Muirwood (Legends of Muirwood 3)

The Medium churned inside her heart. Tomas’ arm trembled where she gripped it. She knew that he could feel it as well. He glanced down at her hand, as if it burned him. A single tear went down his cheek.

“I will wait for you,” he whispered hoarsely. “Ever since I was a lad, I dreamed of sailing to the edge of the world. I built the Holk to survive such a voyage. She will be ready, lass. She will be ready when you need her. And I will be your captain.”

* * *

The Holk docked at the port of Vezins. There was much shouting with those on shore, for they were the first ship to arrive since the storm had battered the harbor and all were curious to hear that they had sailed through it. As Lia was about to begin the walk down the gangplank, Malcolm seized her cloak. She turned and stared at him, noticing the peculiar look in his gray eyes.

“This is Vezins, lass. Do you speak the port speech?”

“I can manage it,” she replied, smiling wryly. She turned to go, but his grip tightened.

“We thanks thee, lass,” he said, switching languages to Dahomeyjan but with a different accent and manner. “Thou sav’dst us from the gale.”

Lia nodded to him, puzzled by the look in his eyes and his more formal manner of speech. She had noticed his eyes when they had first met. There was something odd about him, something she could not make out.

“Thou art welcome,” she answered, her Gift matching his tone and accent, and she paused to see if he would explain himself.

Malcolm did not and released his grip on her cloak and motioned for her to proceed down the ramp. She did, glancing back at him once and saw he was still watching her. When she looked back at the path ahead, she was struck with a paralyzing fear. The dock swarmed with sailors who were painted with dazzling tattoos. Every person she saw had ink stained on their skin. There were cobweb like patterns on their arms, necks, and even across some bald heads. She raised the cowl of her cloak to shield her face and walked through the throngs, noticing every man and woman thus disfigured with tattoos. There was a humid haze of languidness in the air. Men walked and shuffled with staggered steps. Indolent men were resting on the ground, cradling a mug of drink. The smell of cider was thick in the air, a yeasty smell that made what little hunger she had vanish. Eyes followed her. People brushed past her and she felt hands reaching for her pouches, her bag. Clutching the pouch with the orb tightly, she used her forearms to thrust people away from her who came too close. It seemed that everyone was drunken. Their speech was lively and relaxed and followed the more formal manner of speech that Malcolm had demonstrated. Though their faces had varying forms of tattoos, none she met had glowing eyes.

Lia retreated into a side alley where it was dark and where she did not see anyone loitering expect one man sleeping. She opened the pouch and summoned the orb’s power, asking it to guide her to an inn where she could find a guide to Dochte Abbey who could help her with knowledge of the tides. The spindles were sluggish, as if the very air of Vezins made it difficult for them to move. They pointed the way and she noticed it immediately, a short, squat house smashed between two larger ones and she walked across the crowded street towards it. Night was falling quickly and she wondered if it would be safer to sleep outside the port town.

Lia pushed open the door and the strong smell of incense flavored the air. Huge wagon wheels with torches were hung from chains in the rafter. The inn was a giant main floor with ladders leading up to wooden lofts constructed around the perimeter. It reminded her vaguely of the Aldermaston’s kitchen, for it was about the same size. The lofts seemed to be where the visitors slept. Strings were hung with curtains to offer a little privacy.

The innkeeper was a woman, probably forty or fifty years old with brown hair streaked with gray. She did not have any tattoos but she scowled at Lia when she entered.

“Thou wilt not find any cider here,” she said harshly in Dahomeyjan, waving at Lia in annoyance. “But if thou seekest a meal and lodging, that I have.”

Lia was relieved. Most of the patrons were sailors, hunched over bowls and slurping the soup. They had tattoos, but the innkeeper woman approaching her warily did not, though she was trying quite unashamedly to look past Lia’s hood.

She thought a moment, then decided to use court Dahomeyjan instead of port speech. She did not want to pretend to know her way. “I do not want any cider,” Lia replied, feeling the words come out of her mouth effortlessly.

The woman cocked her head. “You sound foreign.”

“I just arrived today,” Lia answered. “I am hungry. May I have some of your soup?” An idea struck her, a way she might begin to earn the woman’s trust and gain some information from her.