He would carry with him on his journey, as well, a stolen leather pack, a stolen knife and sword, and the oaken bow that Charkky and Mikk had helped him make. He would carry the gold coins and pearls for trading, but the rest of the gifts would be left in his cave as intended, as good-luck omens to bring him back again, each carefully placed on the stone shelves carved into his cave walls, where Camery’s diary lay wrapped in waterproof sharkskin. He had read it until he had worn out the pages.
He would need to steal a new flint for fire making, for he had given his to Charkky and Mikk. And he would have to steal some clothes, for he had only his breechcloth and his old leather tunic with the seams let out. He had no boots, and the cliffs and rocky, stubbled pastures would be harsh going. He would steal, not trade, until he was well away from the lands where he might be known.
He lay down on his sleeping shelf to measure his length and pressed his feet and head against the stone, then drew himself up small, the length he had been when he first came to live in this cave. He sat up and touched the woven gull-feather blanket at the foot of the shelf. The blanket had been Mitta’s first large weaving; many otters had gathered its feathers, and she had labored a long time over it. The otters had done so many things for him that they had never done before; many that were against their customs. It didn’t seem right to have brought such change to the otter folk, then to leave as if he cared nothing for them, or for the way they had sheltered him and taught him.
He had brought change to Nightpool unwanted by many: the planting of crops, the way small things were done, the tools and weapons of humans. He had brought fire, brought the cooking of food, so that even last night the ceremonial feast had been of both the traditional raw seafood laid out on seaweed—clams and oysters and mussels and raw fish—and then a pot set over the fire to steam the shellfish, too.
The stealing had been the biggest change, and many otters had been angry about that first theft, though Charkky and Mikk had thought it a rare adventure. And even Thakkur, later on, had been very keen about stealing weapons, covering his white fur with mud so he could not be seen in the night.
It pleased Teb to know that no one else, no human, would take his place in the otter nation; no other human would sleep in his cave or dive deep into the sea among a crowd of laughing otters. Thakkur’s faith that he would return pleased him. “You will know your cave is here, Tebriel, waiting for you, filled with your possessions.” Yet Teb knew well enough he might never return, in a future as malleable as the changing directions of the sea.
But once he swam the channel, once he stood on the shore, then climbed the cliff to Auric’s fields, his commitment would be made. Once he defeated the sea hydrus—if, indeed, he could defeat it—he would not return soon to the black rock island, to Nightpool’s sea winds and the green, luminous world of undersea, to the weightless freedom of the sea. If he could defeat the hydrus, he knew he would then be drawn out across the wild, warring lands of Tirror. Deep within his being the call grew even stronger, and his need to give of himself to Tirror grew bold.
He stood listening to the voice of his cave echo the roaring beat of the sea. There would be no cave song on dry land, only the voices of land animals. And the voices of men, very likely challenging him.
When he turned from the sea back into his cave, the white otter was coming silently along the narrow ledge, erect on his hind legs, his whiteness startling against the black stone, his forepaws folded together and very still, not fussing as other otters’ paws fussed. Thakkur paused, quietly watching him, and Teb knelt at once, in a passion of reverence quite unlike himself. But Thakkur frowned and reached out a paw to touch Teb’s shoulder; their eyes were on a level now, Thakkur’s dark eyes half laughing, half annoyed. “Get up, Teb. Do not kneel before me.” Then his look went bright and loving.
Teb stood up and turned away into the cave, embarrassed, and busied himself readying his pack, then pulling on his tunic.
“You have grown so tall, Tebriel. It was not long ago that I was taller than you.” The look between them was easy, a look of love and of sadness. “I have come to say a last farewell. Not good-bye, for I know you will return to Nightpool.”
“No prophesy is absolute.”
“This vision is strong. You will return, I have no doubt of it.” The white otter’s dark eyes were as deep and fathomless as the sea itself. “But now the time has come, now you must go, and from this moment you belong not only to Nightpool, but to all of Tirror. Your fate lies upon Tirror now. Both Tirror’s fate, and our own fate, travels with you.”
They embraced, the white otter’s fur infinitely soft against Teb’s face, and smelling of sea and of sun.
“Go in joy, Tebriel. Go with the blessing of The Maker. Go in the care of the Graven Light.”
Teb took up his pack at last and lashed it to his waist. He gave Thakkur a long, steady look, then stepped to the edge of the cliff and dove far out and deep, cutting the water cleanly and striking out at once against the incoming swells. As quickly as that he left Nightpool, and his tears mixed with the salty sea.
At a safe distance from the cliffs he turned north, and glancing up between strokes, he caught a glimpse of Thakkur’s white form on the black island; then the vision vanished in a shattering of green water as he made his way with strong, pulling strokes crosswise to the force of the sea, up toward the north end of the island.
He could have walked across Nightpool and swum the channel from the mainland side, but not this morning, not this last time. As he passed the lower caves at the far end of the island, he could hear water slapping into the cave doors. At the far end, beside Shark Rock, he turned again, toward land this time, and set out in an easier rhythm with the tide, to cross the deep green channel. And it was here that suddenly two brown heads popped up beside him, and two grinning faces. Mikk and Charkky rolled and dove beside him, escorting him in toward the shore.
They leaped and splashed and pushed at him, rocked him on their own waves and dove between his feet and under him, and Charkky tickled his toes. Teb was not wearing the precious sharkskin flippers; he had left them safe in his cave. Charkky came up on his other side, dove again, was gone a long time, and came up ahead of Teb and Mikk with a sea urchin in each dark paw, busily stripping off the spines with his teeth. He tossed one to Mikk and one to Teb, and they were into a fast, complicated game of catch. Then when the game grew old, the two otters rolled onto their backs, cracked the urchins open with small stones they carried on cords around their necks, and ate them live and raw. Teb tried to outdistance them, but without the flippers he hadn’t a chance, even when they only floated idly kicking and eating.
They left him before the sea shallowed onto rising shore, embracing him in quick, strong, fishy-smelling hugs and dragging their rough whiskers hard across his cheek, their eyes great dark-brown pools of longing and of missing him, and of love, and of silly otter humor all at once.
“Fly high, brother,” Mikk said hoarsely. “Know clouds, brother, as you know the sea.” They studied one another with love and concern.
Charkky just touched his cheek, softly, with a wet, gentle paw. Then they were gone, diving down along the bottom, dropping deeper, Teb knew, as the shore dropped, swimming deep toward home.
Teb stood up in the shallow water and walked up the shore. The beach was narrow, steep, and rocky. Above him rose the tall cliff, and against the sky lay the lip of the rich high pastures of Auric, a green thatch hanging over the edge. His father’s pastures, he thought with sudden emotion. His father’s land—his own land these four years since his father was murdered, though he had no way to claim it. I am King of Auric, he thought bitterly. And I stand on Auric’s shore naked and alone, and the dark warriors would try to kill me if they knew. If Sivich and his soldiers knew I was here, they would ride down from the castle to kill me. He smiled and felt his sword, and almost wished they would try.