Milkeila felt the warmth beneath her bare feet and knew that she had done well. But when her mentor, Toniquay, called to her as “permid a’shaman yut,” she felt more guilt than pride. For that was her title, the Prime Shaman of Youth, the most promising priest of her generation. She had earned that honor honestly, she knew, and was well on her way to the accolade before the Southern monks had ever come to Mithranidoon. But the fact that she had dared use an Abellican gemstone in this sacred ritual, or that she wore the necklace at all, or that she had given her heart to a man not of Yan Ossum, made Toniquay’s prideful remark sting.
Lost in the swirl of thoughts, Milkeila realized that she should step out of the cooking circle when her feet grew very, very hot. She came out facing the water and walked through the gathering down to the surf.
“Always this beach,” Toniquay said behind her. “This is Milkeila’s special beach.”
She didn’t turn to face him, for she knew that she was blushing fiercely. This particular beach faced Chapel Isle and also faced the secret sandbar where she met with her lover.
“The magic is strong here, do you think?” Toniquay asked.
“Yes, shaman,” she answered.
“It is the magic of the old gods that draws you to this spot ever again, is it not?”
She felt her cheeks grow even hotter at that double-edged question.
“I see it, too,permid a’shaman yut,” Toniquay said, his voice dipped in the syrup of sarcasm as he was so wont to do.
What did he see? Milkeila wondered. How much of the truth lay open to the wise and severe old man?
Despite herself, she lifted her gaze toward Chapel Isle, but only for the briefest moment before turning to face Toniquay. His knowing smile reminded her of her own whenever she chanced to catch some of the younger boys staring at her legs or breasts.
“A place of magic,” old Toniquay remarked, and walked away.
Milkeila felt her cheeks flush hot again. She glanced over to see the fishermen and their wives preparing the meal, cooking the catch in the circle she had magically prepared by calling to the old gods of Yan Ossum.
And by extracting the power of the Abellican ruby.
SIX
Keys to Debtor’s Prison
The settlement on the mouth of the river where it spilled into the Gulf of Corona was called Palmaristown. It seemed to Bransen, Cadayle, and Callen that this was really two distinct cities and not one. Indeed, a solid wooden fence ran the length of the town, separating the ramshackle hovels in the region of the docks and the great river from the larger and more comfortable homes of the town’s eastern section. That secure fence surrounded the inner town completely, with an open gate accepting the southern road from Delaval and a second one in the northeast, running inland just south of the gulf.
Guards walked their stations along a parapet built within that fence, with most concentrated in the west, looking out over the town’s poor section and the bustling docks.
And they were indeed bustling, Bransen and his companions noted as they neared the southern gate. Ferries moved continually across the wide river, and so many sailing ships, including many of Laird Delaval’s warships, were in port that several had to be moored out from the fully occupied wharves. Teams of dirty men moved to and fro, heavy ropes out behind them as they hauled skids laden with supplies, or thick trunks of trees brought in from across the river to the west, the region appropriately known as the Timberlane.
Drivers cracked whips on the heels of those poor laborers. The trio of visitors at the gate watched in astonished horror as one man fell to the docks beneath the weight of a heavy punch. He hit the ground, and the dockmaster began kicking him and stomping on him, despite his pleas, and none of the other laborers dared do anything more than look on.
“You haven’t the stomach for it, then?” one of the guards at the gate asked the trio, obviously noting their horrified expressions. He looked at Bransen mostly, who moved without the soul stone this day in full Stork disguise. The guard crinkled his face at the sight and turned his stare to Cadayle. A rather lewd smile spread across his face.
“My husband,” Cadayle said, stepping near to Bransen and taking his arm with her own. “Wounded in the war in the land south of Delaval.”
“Fighting for?” the guard prompted. Across from him a pair of other sentries took note of the conversation and watched with sudden interest. They looked at Doully the donkey, too, particularly at the bulging saddlebags slung over her back.
“Laird Delaval, of course,” Cadayle replied. “We are of Pryd Town, and Laird Prydae threw in with Delaval against Ethelbert, as has his successor, Laird Delaval’s own nephew.”
“Welcome, then,” said the first. “You have nothing the Abellican monks cannot fix?”
“I… I… I,” Bransen stammered and stuttered and drooled, and the sentry winced in obvious disgust.
“None have helped,” Cadayle interjected. “Though many have tried. Perhaps here we will find our answers.”
“Father Malskinner is mighty with the stones,” one of the guards to the side remarked.
“Come through, then, and find your way,” the first said, and waved the trio and their donkey through. “And don’t you worry,” he said to Bransen as the man staggered by him. “Those fools down there under the whip were brought from Ethelbert’s lines.”
“They are prisoners?” Callen asked with surprise.
“Until they die from their efforts, aye,” the guard explained. He didn’t seem bothered in the least by that eventuality. He glanced down at the docks and the bedraggled slaves. “I lost my brother in a ship fight in the gulf. I’d go down there and put the sword to the lot of them if it was my choice to make. But I’ll take my satisfaction in knowing that these fools are helping Laird Delaval put an end to Ethelbert’s claims. Every log they bring in from across the river, every crate of food or weapons sailing up from Delaval Town, works against the Beast of Entel. When Ethelbert falls, and fall he will, I’ll take my satisfaction in knowing that Palmaristown played her part in his demise!”
“I only wish that my husband had not been so badly wounded that he might still aid in the effort,” Cadayle said.
“Could be that his wife would offer comfort to guards loyal to Delaval,” one of the pair across the way remarked, and his companion chuckled.
Cadayle took care to keep her response muted, neither too insulting in rebuff nor too accepting of the slight that it could coax the man on in his carnal quest. She clutched Bransen’s arm tighter and led him through the gate, Callen and Doully coming up behind them.
Of all the towns they had traveled through none possessed the energy of Palmaristown. The city was not on the front lines of the fighting like so many of the settlements from Pryd to Delaval, and few wounded came through. Yet, Palmaristown remained in the very center of it all, for through here came many of Laird Delaval’s soldiers, boarding ships to be carried across the Gulf of Corona to the distant eastern reaches known as the Mantis Arm. Here in Palmaristown the war was very real but very distant, an exciting event to be discussed in every tavern and on every street corner but without the torn bodies and missing limbs that cast the pall of harsh reality.
That sanitized reality reflected in the eagerness and excitement of the townsfolk. As word spread down the lanes before the trio many salutes and bows came at Bransen from afar.
They secured a tavern room quite easily, offered at half the normal price to the wounded soldier, and set out to find a stable and buyer for Doully, for the old donkey had seen too much of the road. Whispers preceded them, however, and before they even had the time to walk from the inn to the hitching post to retrieve Doully, they were met by a smiling young Abellican monk.