It was impressively furnished, with a bed of polished mahogany and a tall-backed chair artfully carved and inlaid on the arms with brass. Despite the condition of the rest of the ship—and of the other ships Dhamon had visited—this room looked as though it had been frozen in time. There was a writing desk, bolted to the floor, and a stool tipped over.
There wasn’t a hint of dust anywhere, and the polished wood floor he walked across was strong and didn’t creak.
Dhamon set the lantern on the desk and righted the stool, sitting and shuffling through papers that he had expected to crumble at his touch. They felt crisp, as if new. There was journal in a niche, and he gently tugged this out. Why it interested him he wasn’t certain—he’d paid little enough attention to any other papers and maps he’d come across. Nevertheless, he hefted it, then traced words on the cover that had been rendered in gold leaf.
The Journal of Abraim’s Tempest, Dhamon read. He opened the book to the middle, where a winered ribbon marked the page. Placing his finger to the first line, he began to read, stopping but a second later when he heard the cry of a sea bird. He swivelled to stare out a brass-rimmed porthole—which was open—showing a bright blue sky. There were gulls dancing low across the waves, and their cries sounded musical.
He sputtered and rose, walked over to the porthole, and shook his head when the vision disappeared. The silence of the cavern and the ship closed around him, and he smelled the staleness of the air again.
Had he only imagined the birds and the smell of saltwater?
“I am tired,” he told himself. Still, he returned to the stool and the book, again glancing at the page and finding that the ship seemed to once more move beneath him, as if it was riding waves in a wind-tossed sea. “Impossible,” he said.
The ship’s timbers softly creaked with each swell, and a lamp that hung from the ceiling suddenly lit and swayed with each rise and fall of the bow. Dhamon slammed the book shut, and the room returned to its ancient emptiness.
“Abraim’s Tempest, ” he repeated. The book’s title would match the letters on the bow. Was Abraim the captain of this ship? Was he a sorcerer? Or had he merely acquired a grand magical book? Once again Dhamon returned to the journal, this time starting at the beginning of the pages. Immediately he heard the snap of billowing sails from the deck above.
“The book relives the ship’s journey,” he said in a whisper. “Remarkable.”
He settled on the bed, finding the light from the lantern above more than sufficient to read by and the mattress comfortable.
The sound of the gulls grew louder, the creaking of the timbers and the snap of the sails joining in. There were footsteps on the deck. A bark of orders: “Trim the mainsail! We’re running fast, boys!” and later, “Tack, mates! Head her into the wind to change course.”
Dhamon lost himself in Tempest’s exploits, feeling as if he were part of the crew—boarding merchant ships with bellies so heavy they rode low in the water, hauling the cargo into the pirate’s hold, finding pleasure in the arms of one wench after another, standing on the bow and turning his face to catch the splash of seawater.
Hours passed, and still he kept reading, skipping pages here and there, vowing to go back and read them all later. A magical book such as this should fetch an incredible price.
“A singular book,” he murmured. This is what he would give to the healer, and it should be sufficient to meet her price for curing him.
But first he would read just a bit more, savoring it. “Only one more page,” he told himself, but there was another and another. With the next entry he felt as if he’d been tossed into the Abyss. He found himself staring into the face of Abraim, a tall hook-nosed man harshly weathered by the sea and the sun. Abraim was frantically waving, calling for the men to lower the sails, to tie down the water barrels. The wind had picked up without warning as they made their way down the river to the pirate port.
“So you were a pirate, Abraim,” Dhamon said softly, “and this book is your greatest treasure.”
The men were worried they’d run aground, but Abraim took the wheel and threw his strength into keeping the ship on course. His lips began to move, and Dhamon recognized a spell. The sorcerer-captain was trying to calm the wind about the ship. For several minutes it seemed as if he’d accomplished that, and the crew on deck relaxed.
The wind kicked up with an even greater velocity.
“Reverse course, Captain?”
Abraim shook his head and continued his magic, one hand on the king’s spoke, the other gesturing to the sky. Again the wind calmed, but not for long.
The wind came at the Tempest with gale force now. Too late the captain realized he should have reversed the course and headed out to sea. Dhamon felt the man’s fear rising into his own throat, felt his temples pounding, hands gripping the spokes tighter.
“My magic can’t counter this! Below decks!” the captain barked to his crew. The brutal weather was caused by angry gods, and no man—no matter how much magic he commanded—could stand up to it. When the earthquakes started and the river bucked like a maddened thing, when the squall chased them up the river, the captain gave up. He turned and saw a wall of water rising high above and behind Tempest.
Dhamon heard the thunderous roar of the water and the faint screams of the men washed overboard. He heard wood splintering as the mainmast snapped, heard a great rumbling from the land on either side of the river.
He heard and saw only water above him and earth below where the river parted, felt a great force pushing against his chest, plunging him into eternal darkness. Dhamon gasped and shook his head. There were a few more pages in the book, but they were blank. The story ended with the death of Abraim and Tempest. The cabin had grown dark again, save the lantern that glowed only faintly on the desk, the oil all but consumed. Dhamon rose from the bed and steadied himself, gingerly tucking the book under his arm, and left to rejoin his companions. This book will more than pay the healer, he thought.
He and Mal could leave in the morning to find the healer. A smile tugged at the corner of his lips, and he patted the book. To be free of the damned scale. Rikali and Varek—and the sivak for that matter—could stay and explore the rest of this place for as long as they liked. He climbed down from the Tempest and peered toward the back wall of the cavern, to the narrow tunnel he and Maldred had first noticed two few days ago. He and Maldred could leave in the morning… but they might take a quick look down there first.
Chapter Seventeen
Sweet Magic
They could see their breath in the narrow passage, the limestone walls cold to the touch. Dhamon led the way, Maldred holding the lantern high behind him, and Rikali and Varek following. The sivak paused for a moment, watching them go, then out of a mix of duty and curiosity followed. He found the passage a tight fit. There were only inches to spare on either side of his broad shoulders, and the jagged shards of crystals that crunched beneath the boots of the others dug into his feet. He paused again a few dozen yards later, clawed hands running over knobby clusters of coral and pieces of shells embedded here and there in the wall. He traced the fossil of a crab. Farther along the passage widened and the ceiling that had been only a few feet above their heads disappeared in the darkness.
After the better part of an hour, Dhamon stopped and turned to Maldred. “Time to go back,” he said.