"What about passage to Vralgrad?" I asked.
Adelmar shook his head. "No business of mine. But Vralians are a curious folk. I reckon if you kept your mouth shut about hunting pilgrims, you'd find passage aboard their ship, all right. And if you happen to find yourself in Kargad before the pilgrims arrive, whatever you do there—and whatever happens to you afterward—well, it's no business of mine.”
It was a risk, a major risk. "Can I give you our answer on the morrow?”
"I'll send word to the wool-merchant." Adelmar gave his thin smile.
"Ernst's his name. If you want to take my offer, find him in the camps before sunset. If not, I don't want to hear another word unless it's accompanied by a counter-offer. A very generous counter-offer.”
I nodded. "Fair enough. Thank you, my lord.”
With that, he dismissed us.
Betimes in life, there are no good choices. After our dismissal, I settled our account with the innkeeper Halla—much to the dismay of her daughters—and the four of us headed back to the camping ground to discuss the matter with the others.
For the most part, I listened and thought, while everyone else covered the same points, over and over. The surest course for catching Berlik was to follow his trail now. It was also the surest course for dying. Eamonn mac Grainne had managed to cross Skaldia only by passing himself off as Skaldi, and even at that, he'd gotten captured. If it hadn't been for Brigitta's determination, like as not he'd still be toiling as a carl, or dead. The surest course for surviving was to tarry and wait for aid from Alba and Terre d'Ange. And the course with the greatest uncertainty, but the greatest possible merit, was to take Adelmar's offer.
Berlik could part ways with the pilgrims anywhere, at any time. Berlik was unlikely to part ways with the pilgrims in Skaldia. He spoke Cruithne, he bore woad tattoos that could be mistaken for a warrior's markings. Only Adelmar's token kept him safe, and it meant he didn't dare linger in Skaldia, but must continue on to Vralia.
Berlik, everyone agreed, must look immensely silly in his muslin cap.
But it was also possible that Berlik could still turn himself into a bear. And without the aid of Skaldic countryfolk, a pale-eyed bear could survive undetected in the wilds of Skaldia for many, many years. Even with their aid—which could only be obtained if we tarried—he would be difficult to find. Talorcan had failed in Alba.
Which left Vralia.
One or two men.
I thought about Vralia. It was a mad venture. I knew next to nothing about the land. I didn't speak their tongue, whatever it was. Not a word of it. Except that I did speak some Habiru, and the land was increasingly full of them. And Micah ben Ximon, who served as Tadeuz Vral's warlord, had been trained in the Cassiline fighting style by Joscelin Verreuil. Long ago, when I was yet a babe, and the Yeshuites in La Serenissima had been forbidden to carry swords. And from there, Micah ben Ximon had led his people to freedom and renown in a distant land. Impossible as it seemed, we might have an ally there in faraway Vralia.
It was a thin, shining thread of hope. There wasn't much time to make a choice. The sun was hanging low over the tree-tops. I fished in the purse at my belt until I found an old silver centime, one that bore the image of a youthful Ysandre de la Courcel. One that resembled her daughter. My hope.
"Tell me what to do, love," I murmured. "Should I chose hope or safety?”
I tossed the coin into the air. It spun, shining in the ruddy light. I caught it in my right hand and slapped it down on the back of my left. Lifted my hand, peered at it, and saw the Queen's young profile.
Hope.
I raised my voice. "I'm going to Vralia.”
The Cruithne ceased their discussion and stared at me. "I'll go with you," Kinadius said after a brief pause.
Urist scratched his chin. "I reckon it's the prince's right to choose his companion.”
I met Urist's steady gaze. He didn't ask, and he didn't offer. He didn't need to. He'd made a promise to Dorelei, and he'd sworn that if I honored her last wish, he'd ride to the ends of the earth to get vengeance for her. "Right," I said. "Urist, let's go find this Flatlander wool-merchant and tell him he's got two more men riding with him.”
Chapter Forty-Eight
We left Maarten's Crossing in good order. The wool-merchant Ernst wasn't delighted by our presence, but he was willing to defer to Adelmar's wishes. The Skaldi escort Adelmar had provided him weren't happy either, but he was right, they were loyal. They tolerated us.Urist's remaining men drew lots for their assignments. Two to intercept Talorcan, two to ride to the City of Elua. The rest would wait in Maarten's Crossing; at least to the best of my knowledge. Once we left, I wasn't entirely sure that Cailan, Domnach, Brun, and the older men wouldn't follow Berlik's trail.
It didn't matter now. I'd chosen my course.
I made Kinadius swear on Dorelei's name that he would wait for Talorcan and the others. He wasn't happy about it, but he did it, and I thought he would keep his word. With reluctance, I begged another favor of him. I traded mounts with him and left the Bastard in his keeping. I hated to part with him, but if I'd understood the wool-merchant correctly, the Vralian ship was a small one, unable to carry horses. I didn't trust the Skaldi to return him safely, and Kinadius' gelding was a good deal less valuable.
"What if you don't come back, Imriel?" Kinadius asked.
I leaned my brow against the Bastard's warm, speckled hide. "Just take care of him.”
Deordivus had once again drawn one of the short straws for Terre d'Ange. We weren't carrying paper and ink, and there was no time to write letters anyway. All I could do was entrust him with messages. For Phèdre and Joscelin, wherever they might be. For Sidonie. For Alais, Mavros.
"Tell them I love them," I said.
"That's all?" he asked.
I thought about it. "It's all that matters." He nodded and turned away. "Wait." I worked the knotted gold ring from my finger. "Give this to Sidonie. Tell her it's a pledge." My eyes stung. "That I'll be back to claim it.”"Aye, my lord." Deordivus smiled a little. "That was a hell of a scene I walked into.”
I laughed and rubbed my eyes. "Elua willing, I'll live to cause others.”
So it was done.
There is little to relate of our journey to Norstock. It was only a day's ride overland, cutting across a peninsula through territory Adelmar held in reasonable security. Everyone was civil to us. There was no trouble. Norstock proved to be a small, bustling port. There was no trouble there, either. It wasn't just Skaldi; there were Flatlanders and other folk. Jutlanders and Götlanders, Ernst told us; northerners, folk who'd been isolated during the long years of hostility between Terre d'Ange and Skaldia, and the reign of the old Master of the Straits.
And Vralians.
They looked different from the other northerners, shaped from a different clay. By and large, they were darker than the fair northerners, black-haired or brown. It wasn't just that, though. The angle of their eyes was different, the way the skin stretched over their strong bones.
Our company located the Vralian ship in the harbor. It was small but sturdy, raised at stem and stern, with a flat bottom suited for a shallow draw. It sported a single square sail and only four sets of oar-locks to a side, and there was barely enough room in the hold to store the bales of wool. Ernst and the captain haggled, one of the ship's crew serving as interpreter. He spoke Skaldic with an accent so strange and thick, I despaired of understanding it. When they had finished their business, coins exchanged hands. I watched, trying to gauge their weight and value. Ernst pointed at Urist and me, saying something to the captain's interpreter.
We approached.
"Vralgrad?" the captain asked, raising strong brows over deep, penetrating eyes. Another face it was hard to read. His thick mustache didn't help.
"Vralgrad," I agreed, nodding firmly.
He said something to his interpreter, who said in Skaldic, "Why?”
That I understood, and I'd had a lot of time to think about my response. I drew my right-hand dagger from my belt and stooped to pluck the left one from my boot-sheath, then straightened to give the fluid Cassiline bow, my daggers crossed before me. "Micah ben Ximon.”
It pleased them. The interpreter laughed. The captain smiled beneath his mustache. There was another exchange between them, and then the interpreter said somewhat I couldn't begin to comprehend, holding up several fingers. I glanced at Ernst, who looked away. Taking a guess, I made a show of rummaging in my purse to find a single gold ducat, showing only copper coins and a few silver. Some of the money we carried, I'd dispensed to Kinadius and the others. The rest was hidden in a pouch tied around Urist's waist. Best to be careful, I reckoned.
I held up the coin, pointing at Urist and myself, then the boat. The captain took it and studied it. After a moment, he pocketed it and nodded.
We had purchased passage to Vralia.
The captain beckoned. Urist and I bade farewell to the wool-merchant and Adelmar's Skaldi, charged with the task of seeing our mounts returned to Kinadius. By the gleam in their eyes, I was glad I'd left the Bastard behind. We fetched our packs and boarded the ship. The captain pointed to a spot where we'd be out of the way, then gave a few sharp orders. His crew set to at the oars. The ship lumbered awkwardly into the harbor until they got the wind at her back and raised the sail, which was marked with the same flared cross that adorned the pilgrims' caps. At that, the ship leapt forward and began forging a steady course up the coast.
We were off.
It was my understanding that the voyage to Vralgrad would take approximately two weeks. For the duration of the first week, we had good winds and fair weather. Standing at the railing, watching the coast fly past, I was elated and convinced that my choice had been a good one. As a further piece of luck, there was a Yeshuite man among the crew, a good-natured lad named Ravi. He was a year or so younger than me, but he'd been born in Vralia to one of the first families to settle there, long before it was a nation named after an ambitious ruler. He'd grown up speaking both Habiru and Rus, the common tongue of Vralia.
When he wasn't tending to his duties, Ravi and I spent long hours trading words back and forth; and when he was working, I assisted him, and we carried on our game. I was no sailor, but I'd spent a good deal of time aboard ships during my life, and I daresay I was more help than not. The captain, whose name was Iosef, watched us indulgently.
Urist, for the most part, napped. Still, we talked, and I knew that in his own taciturn way, he was pleased with the speed of our progress. The route overland was longer, and slower going. With each day that passed, we gained a day or more. If we'd guessed rightly that Berlik was bound for Vralia, of a surety, we'd reach it before him.
Then the weather changed.
It had been growing cooler all along. I wasn't sure whether that was due to our progress north or the change of seasons. I'd lost so many days during my long convalescence that spring and much of the summer had passed me by all unnoticed. And since we set out on Berlik's trail, time had been measured in the distance between us. After counting on my fingers and consulting with Ravi, I determined that it must be late summer yet in Terre d'Ange, or mayhap early autumn; the days growing shorter, but still warm and bright.
This far north, the weather was less predictable. The winds were strong and changeable. The sea grew choppy. Our progress slowed. Everyone grumbled.
I daresay there wasn't anything anyone could have done about the storm. I'd sailed on a good many ships, and Iosef was a decent captain. Not as good, mayhap, as Captain Oppius of the Aeolia, who'd dared a risky crossing to bring me home from Tiberium. We'd outlasted a fierce storm on that journey. And mayhap not as skilled as Eamonn's father, Admiral Quintilius Rousse, who had dared the ire of the old Master of the Straits more than once. But Iosef was a fair captain nonetheless.
There were other factors. His ship was smaller and less maneuverable. Despite its name, the Eastern Sea was mostly contained inland. It was more shallow, fraught with unexpected hazards. The storm struck in the small hours of the night, when no one could read the sky clearly to track its approach.
It struck with fury, sudden and abrupt, jolting me out of my restless sleep. There were neither bunks nor hammocks aboard the Vralian ship; only a narrow berth where everyone, including the captain, not serving on deck crowded and slept, the greasy odor of lanolin from the bales of wool drifting from the fore of the hold and filling our nostrils.
No lamps, either; not below deck. I awoke to pitching darkness and panic. Above us, there was thunder and the sound of running feet. Urist, next to me, grabbed my upper arm with hard fingers. I could barely make out the gleam of his eyes.
"This isn't good," he said grimly.
"No," I agreed.
Men scrambled past us, ascending the ladder. One dim figure scrambled back. I recognized Ravi's voice, babbling in Rus. Too fast for me to make it out.
"Habiru!" I shouted at him.
He said something else, then switched. "All hands! All hands to oars!”
"We're needed," I said shortly to Urist. "Let's go.”
Much of that night lingers in my memory like a sea-drenched fever-dream. Half dressed and barefoot like the others, Urist and I got ourselves above deck. There was rain, pelting down like mad. Someone pointed, shouting. I saw a man fighting with the long shaft of an oar and tried to make my way toward him. The ship plunged and crashed. A wave washed over the railing. I staggered, slipped, got to my feet. Urist was ahead of me. I shoved him toward another bench, another lone oarsman. Lightning split the sky. I caught a glimpse of a figure in the rigging, trying desperately to loosen a knot.