The Captain said later that if our sliver of sail hadn't caught a wild gust just before the wall fell on us, we'd never have seen the sun again. We managed to shoot out from under the worst of the terrible weight of water; but still it stove in parts of the deck. The splintering I heard was the foremast, the one carrying that sail that saved us, breaking off halfway down its length.
And with that, the sea and the Storms had done their worst. The winds dropped almost immediately. The waves grew less and less, until in a quarter of an hour we found ourselves rocking in a swell no more than five or six feet high. If I hadn't seen it myself I would not have believed it.
I happened to look up and catch Rella's eye. She smiled, then she grinned, then she let loose with a laugh straight from her toes. I joined her, and in moments so did every one of the crew, laughing away our terror, laughing in disbelief that we had survived, laughing until we wept for wonder that we were still alive.
We learned soon enough that we had lost almost a third of the crew in the passage—all Harvesters save for one unlucky soul of a seaman—and though we mourned them, we found ourselves marvelling that so many had survived. I wondered how with a lesser crew we would ever live through the return passage, but when I spoke with the true seamen, they were certain sure of the lore, and swore that the trip east and home would be far easier than the trip out. I hoped in my soul they were right.
That night and the next day were spent furiously repairing where we could, making shift where we could not repair. A kind of spar was jury-rigged onto the stump of the foremast to bear what canvas it would, for now we were making best speed to the northwest. The surviving mast looked to me for all the world like a washing line, spreading vast bedclothes to the sun.
The rest of the journey, for all the work, was in the nature of a sigh of relief. When I had time to think about it, I was terribly proud that mere six-foot swells seemed tame to me now. The Captain passed the word one morning, about four days after we'd survived the Storms, that by his reckoning we would make landfall by evening. That brought a cheer—and I for one wondered what if anything could ever convince me to set foot on deck for the trip home. But the cheer was loud and heartfelt. I knew well that each of us had given up our souls as lost in the Storms, and to be not only alive but arrived at a place known to no living man—it set our blood racing.
That afternoon, just before sunset, the word was passed for all hands on deck. (We truly noted then for the first time how many of us had been lost; there was far more room for us all on deck now than there had been.) The Master congratulated us on still being alive—which brought another cheer, and not a little backslapping among us—said that land was nigh and it was time we heard from our new master what our duties would be on the Island of Dragons. He stepped away from the rail of the bridge and the Merchant took his place.
It was Bors. At least, it was Bors until he opened his mouth.
"I give you greeting all, brave Harvesters. We have done with the worst, thanks to our good Master and his gallant crew," he said, bowing slightly to the Master behind him. "Now in the name of the House of Gundar I welcome you to the place where all our fortunes will be made." He caught my eyes then—and a terrible smile crossed his face as he said proudly, "I am Marik of Gundar, and if you work till you drop for the seven days we shall remain here, you will return to Kolmar wealthy beyond your dreams." .
Marik. My mother's mortal enemy. And Jamie had spent years telling me how much I looked just like her, damn, damn, damn. He must have known from the moment he saw me at the White Horse that I was Maran's daughter. Now there was no escape. I could not even hide in the crowd of Harvesters—I was a good head taller than the tallest of them. I tried out a curse that I had heard one of the seamen use during the Storms. It helped, but not much.
And whether he planned it or no, Marik had no more than announced his name and begun to speak of our duties when the lookout up aloft cried, "Land ho! Land off the port bow!"
We were there.
We did not come in full sight of the island for some while yet, and did not get near enough to it to land until twilight. It was decided that we would anchor off the coast for the night. No one mentioned a reason, but it occurred to me (and to others) that perhaps Marik was delaying his meeting with the Dragons. I remembered that he did not believe they existed, and that he meant to prove the stories of the other Merchants false. Still, even if it was a matter of fighting other humans rather than negotiating with Dragons, better to wait until daylight. It would also be easier to deny the existence of such things in broad daylight than in darkness surrounded by an unknown land.
For the last time, as I slept fitfully that night, I dreamt in part of the Dragons that had haunted my sleep for so many years, gleaming in the sun, full of delight at our meeting, courtly and kind.
In the face of truth, dreams disappear like smoke on a windy day.
For alternating with that sunlit vision was one of darkness and blood, and Jamie's voice saying, "As nasty a son of the Hells as ever escaped the sword." Marik, who (Lady forbid it) might be my father—and if he was, who must want me to finish his bargain for him. My dreams tossed like our storm—racked ship between those images, and I woke sick with worry and wonder.
A small boat took Marik and his two guards to land at first light. They encountered neither Dragons nor warriors, either on the beach or as they explored farther into the trees that came almost down to the water's edge.
Once they decided it was safe enough, most of us were set to unloading the sacks and the cattle from the hold, along with tents, bedding and cookpots that could hold enough food for a village. The Master asked for volunteers to go ashore to unload the boats at that end—I tried to reason with myself that there was safety in numbers, I should stay on the ship, it was tempting fate to go ashore where there would only be me, a few Harvesters and Marik with his men.
I never did listen to reason.
BOOK TWO
THE DRAGON ISLE
VII
THE DRAGON ISLE
If my memories of Corli are as an autumn fog, my first step on the Dragon Isle is a crisp bright winter day, cold and sharp and clear as diamond.
The land seemed to rise up to meet me as I followed my comrades out of the boat and into the shallows. It may have been no more than the effect of land after twelve days at sea, but the impression remains. I walked out of the sea onto small black rocks, and thence onto the rough grass that grew nearly to the water's edge. The scent even of the grass under my boot was like nothing I had known—it smelled like spring in the morning of the world.
Crushed grass.
I will always remember.
As I stood on the shore my heart beat fast and high, and I felt as though there were iron bands about my chest likee the faithful servant in the old tale, though mine were to keep my heart from breaking for joy, not sorrow. I worked hard to draw breath, there on the edge of my dream.
I took another step forward.
The island did not disappear under my foot or sink into the sea—or fade into the darkness of my room at Hadronsstead.
I walked on the Dragon Isle under the sun. My heart sang, and despite the danger I was in I laughed aloud for heart’s ease. I beheld the world clearly, more clearly than ever before, and realised that I had walked in a fog all my life and not known it. The threat from Marik was real and could not be ignored, but joy took me for that time and would not be denied.
As I moved through the morning, working hard but taking every spare second to look around me, I met more and more that was new to me and I delighted in it all. This was the dream of the traveller made real and at its best, working and breathing in a new place. The sun shone, the air was cold and crisp and smelt of something I did not know; like cinnamon and nutmeg but wilder somehow and deeper. I soon learned that this was the smell of lansip in the autumn, as the dying leaves dried in the salt air.