"You have friends forever," said Adira, feeling gushy and solemn and foolish. "The river creeps back to Palmyra slowly. Anything you need, any help, just mount the docks and ask. We'll grant it, I and all my citizens. So I swear. But, please, tell me. How did you find us? How did you reach us so quickly? We last saw your tribe frolicking in the Bay of Pearls on the Sea of Serenity. How got you here, five hundred leagues or more?"
"We heard cat man thrash in waves," squeaked Beckoner, again waving a hand. "Sound like no-thing else, e-ven far off. We swam through wa-ter weir."
"Water weir?" asked Adira. "A fish trap?"
"Eh? No. Pipe? Tun-nel?" The narrow face frowned seeking the right word. "All the world's wa-ters are one. To swim in one o-cean is to swim in all. To cross wa-ter, we swim down and twist, and find selves far a-way. See you?"
"No," admitted Adira.
"Odd." Beckoner was truly puzzled. "All merfolk know it. Else how cross long stret-ches of wa-ter that is emp-ty?"
"I wish I knew," marveled the pirate. "If I could twist my tail in the water and naturally shift to some spot a thousand leagues distant, I'd be the fattest merchant in Dominaria!"
Beckoner tilted her head, still unsure, but dismissed it. "We go. We shall vi-sit your docks once char-fish spawn a-gain. Un-til then, fare-well."
"Fare-" But Adira waved at nothing. Like a school of salmon, the merfolk dove as one into the frigid booming surf. Shuddering, Adira scampered back to the circle of life-giving fire.
The first thing Johan noticed was the library was well lit. Too well lit.
Plodding up circular stone stairs, he cursed both Shauku and himself. But silently, for the sorceress climbed behind, her blue skirts sweeping the steps with a silken rustle.
The harsh light in the tower's top room came not only from four tall windows, but also through the roof. A jagged hole big as a tabletop let in sunshine, fresh air, and whiffs of wood smoke. Johan saw swallows' nests wedged under roof boards.
Like the rest of Shauku's palace, the library was ruined. Rain, snow, and bird droppings had wreaked havoc. Directly under the roof hole stood a shelf of antique books. Despairing, raging, near weeping for the first time in centuries, Johan crunched across rotten wood, dry leaves, and broken roof slates. The first book he touched wore a red leather binding with gold letters. As Johan plucked the book from the shelf, the pages fell out in a mildewed heap that splatted on the floor. Silver insects scurried from the light.
"Please pardon the mess." Shauku's lyrical apology seemed genuine. "I inherited the library in this state and fear it's beyond my powers to preserve."
Steaming, Johan's red-black hands flexed to strangle the woman. Black eyes bulging, horns quivering, he gargled, "Near three hundred volumes? An untold fortune in antique lore? Likely most one of a kind? You their guardian, and you couldn't even patch the roof, nor shutter the windows, nor exterminate mice nor silverfish?"
"I am sorry." Slim and lithe, Shauku held up her skirts with one hand lest they be sullied by debris. "It's hard to keep up a castle, a woman alone."
Silence reigned as Johan fumed, then gradually calmed.
Lady Shauku seemed so helpless and frail, he couldn't bring himself to strike her. Yet part of his mind suspected everyone. Surely she concealed some fact.
"What was it you desired?" The sorceress peered about the ravaged room. "Knowledge of cat warriors?"
"Yes!" The word leaped from Johan's throat. Unwilling to show weakness, he hedged, "That is, I've discovered a small enclave that might aid a minor campaign."
"I remember." Lady Shauku touched a finger to her lips. "They were integral to the prophecy of None, One, and Two! Of course, how silly I am. Let me see."
Wanting to scream, Johan waited while his host traced a delicate golden hand along a tilted shelf. Plucking forth a slim volume, she offered it with a smile. Johan started. The book was bound in tiger skin.
Hands trembling, Johan flipped open the book, eyes devouring the pages. In careful but crude sketches, tiger-warriors lurked amid tea trees, walked on two legs and all fours, and worshipped at the altar of a brazen big-mouthed god.
Johan gibbered, "This is the source! These secrets I need, but-I can't read the runes!"
Unknown characters seemed to taunt the mage. None he'd ever seen, and he'd learned dozens in centuries of study. Hurriedly he muttered one spell, then another. If the runes were magically scrambled against casual viewing, the counterspells should decipher the mystic mask. But the crabbed text remained stubbornly illegible.
"So close! So close!"
"Perhaps I can help, if you'll allow it." Delicate in all her movements, the sorceress took a bottle from a shelf, cracked the stopper, and dabbed her slim finger in an oily ink. Poised, she waited. Johan nodded shortly.
Murmuring, or humming, Shauku painted the purple lizard-skin at Johan's breast with a glyph. Stepping a circle around her guest, she daubed more squiggles in a chain across his chest, shoulders, and back. Johan tilted his horned chin. The glyphs were simple up- and downstrokes with curlicued cross-bars. The ink was vitriol dissolved in linseed oil. Nothing looked sinister.
Yet, Johan recognized that the spell encircled his chest, heart, and head. What might it be? Enslavement? A deluding spell? A withering curse? A brand marking him for sacrifice? An oath of undying fealty or allegiance to Shauku? Johan felt like a steer paraded at the stockyards for auction and slaughter. Worse perhaps, for while a steer would only be eaten, a fool who bargained with a fiend might die a thousand painful deaths.
Still, the tyrant wasn't worried. In centuries of delving in black arts, he'd learned precautions. He was charmed against most curses, dosed immune to common poisons, warded against mind-control, and even had eyes tattooed on his back lest he be watched in secret. When needed, an impenetrable shield of mana sprang forth to protect him, and gems in his pockets would shriek in alarm if spell-struck. So any clumsy sorcery Shauku might ply would fail.
"There!" Shauku raised a stained finger and gestured at the book. "Does that signify?"
Johan opened the tiger-skin volume and caught his breath. The page read, "Tigers survive the Sukurvia in oases that extend across the desert. Four tribes dwell within: the Efravans, Hooraree, Khyyiani, and Sulaki. Each tribe boasts nine clans. Most worship a human-shaped god named Terrent Amese, but one tribe pays homage to his rival Ergerborg…"
"I've found it! Found it!" Intrigued, oblivious to his surroundings and host, Johan carefully turned the yellowed page and read.
Smiling, Lady Shauku swished away, down the tower steps.
Chapter 15
Whistledove Kithkin pelted hell-for-leather through the forest, red hair flying back in a wedge, little legs churning, making no effort to hide.
"Heath's taken! Men in black leather captured him!" "Murdoch! Jedit!" ordered Adira. "Get after-" The tiger flashed past his chief in long loping strides, sometimes on two legs, sometimes on four, bounding through the forest as others struggled to keep up. This patch of forest was a maze of boulders and brush. The break in the unending pine canopy was nice, for they could glimpse the overcast sky. On the other hand, it was perfect country for ambush.
Adira Strongheart, Simone the Siren, Sister Wilemina, Whistledove Kithkin, Sergeant Murdoch, and Jasmine Boreal trotted behind their captain. Adira limped from blistered toes. Like her crew, she was hungry, tired, aching, and unprepared for battles in the wilderness. Having survived the shipwreck, the sailors and corsairs from Buzzard's Bay had simply walked away, north toward home. Adira had forged on with their mission, marching into the dark pine forest with pirates and one tiger reluctantly tagging along. Now came ambush in unfamiliar territory by an unknown foe, and they had only a few blades and tiger claws. Adira prayed that, if anyone must be killed, let it be her for foolish pigheadedness.