Don Bassingthwaite
The Grieving Tree
CHAPTER 1
Karth raced down the narrow hallway below the deck of Lightning on Water and slid to a stop outside the captain’s cabin. He pounded a fist against the door. “Captain! Captain!”
Vennet d’Lyrandar’s response had the edge of someone just roused from sleep to an alarm. “What is it, Karth?”
The sailor choked, trying to spit out his message. “Birds, captain!” he said. “Dozens of them!”
The words were nothing compared to the sight that waited above deck-an entire flock of eerie black herons dropping out of the dawn-pale sky to take up roost all over the ship-but Karth heard Vennet spit out an exclamation and begin to stir. He sagged against the wall with relief. The captain would know what to do.
The sudden yelp of surprise that came from inside the cabin sent fear stabbing through Karth’s guts. Already on edge, he didn’t stop to think-he just reacted, lowering his shoulder and slamming his weight against the cabin door. “Captain!” the sailor shouted. “I’m-”
He was a big man and the cabin door had been built for privacy, not security. The force of his impact flung it wide and sent a hail of splinters flying through the cabin.
“-coming.”
Two pairs of eyes looked at him. One pair belonged to Vennet and were wide with shock. The captain crouched atop his bed, still in his smallclothes, his bare chest heaving in surprise.
The other pair were bright acid-green and belonged to the tall black heron that stood in the shadows of the cabin. Thin bars of light fell through the shutters of the cabin’s windows, striping the bird’s feathers. Its eyes betrayed no surprise at all. Like the other herons that had burst out of the dawn to alight on the ship, it seemed utterly without fear. Even Karth’s sudden and loud appearance didn’t seem to have startled it.
If anything, it looked annoyed. It cocked its head at him and its eyes glittered.
“Leave us,” it said. Its voice was as rich and smooth as oil.
Karth’s guts clenched again. “Lords of the Host!” he whispered. He swallowed and glanced at the captain.
“Do it, Karth,” said Vennet. The captain slid out of his bed, his expression softening from shock to amazement. He rose to his feet and stretched out an arm to gesture for Karth to leave. The dawn light flashed on the complex pattern of the dragonmark that covered the back of his neck and shoulders. Karth saw him glance at the heron before he added, “And tell the crew not to harm any of the birds.”
“That,” agreed the heron, “would be wise.”
Instinct and long service more than anything else sent Karth backing out of the cabin. He couldn’t quite manage to get an “Aye, captain” out of his mouth, though Vennet scarcely seemed to notice. As Karth stepped out through the doorway, he reached back inside, seized what was left of the door, and pulled it closed. The latch was broken. He settled the door against the frame and started to turn away.
But not before his gaze fell through one of the cracks that had opened in the wood.
Karth froze, staring like a butler at a keyhole. Inside the cabin, the heron stalked out of the shadows and as it moved, it changed. It grew taller and broader, its legs thicker, its neck shorter. Its wings became arms, its beak a face. The bird became a man with pale skin, black hair, and eyes the same acid-green as the heron’s. What had been feathers blurred and merged, becoming robes of fine black leather. Crystals were set down each sleeve, half a dozen polished dragonshards that glowed a soft red against the black leather. Or rather, five shards that glowed red and one that was dim and scorched, as if it had burned from the inside out.
At the center of the man’s chest, his robes were torn. The raw, bloody flesh of a deep wound showed through, though the man moved as if it caused him no pain at all.
Vennet fell to his knees before him. “Dah’mir,” he said. “My lord, command me.”
Karth jerked away from the broken door. Something wasn’t right. He darted silently down the narrow corridor and back up onto the deck.
The crew of Lightning on Water stood clustered together, all of them staring at the herons that clung to the ship’s rails and any other horizontal surface. With a chill, Karth realized for the first time that all of the birds had the same acid-green eyes. He tried to slip around the clustered crew, but someone noticed. “Karth! Is the captain coming?”
“What did he say?” called someone else.
“Does he know what’s going on?”
“He’s coming! He’s coming!” Karth fought past the other sailors, then turned back. “He says not to hurt the birds.”
“Can’t anyway,” said one of the men in a nervous voice. “Whenever you try, they just fly up out of the way, then settle back down, bold as halflings!”
A chill shivered along Karth’s back. “Well, stop trying!”
He hastened to the stern of the ship. Mounted on huge beams behind the ship, the great elemental ring that drove the galleon roiled like storm clouds. Just enough wind escaped the ring to keep Lightning on Water moving and on course. Vennet’s junior officer, Marolis d’Lyrandar, stood at the ship’s wheel, his hands clenched on it. Like Vennet, he was a half-elf and carried the Mark of Storm that enabled him to command the ship while the captain slept. Though it had only been a short while since the herons had appeared-the sun had barely cleared the horizon-Marolis’s face showed the strain of crisis. He glanced at Karth. “Where’s Vennet?”
“He’s-” Karth found his words sticking in his throat.
The three passengers that had taken passage with them on this run-a trip from Sharn in Breland to Trolanport in Zilargo, a departure from Lightning on Water’s usual routes along the southwestern coast of the continent of Khorvaire-had joined Marolis rather than clustering with the common sailors. One of them, a pompous little gnome woman, spoke up. “Speak up, sailor! What did the captain say when you told him what was happening?”
“He-he said that he’d be out shortly, mistress Feita,” said Karth.
“Shortly?” demanded one of the other passengers, a young Brelish man named Tomollan. “Shortly?” His voice rose and cracked.
Marolis turned to look at him. “There’s no need to panic, master,” he said tautly.
“Indeed.” The third passenger was Cira, a beautiful woman and apparently a seasoned traveler to judge by the way she was keeping her head. She folded her hands. “If there was reason to worry, Tomollan, the captain wouldn’t be so casually taking his time. If it makes you feel better, though, stay close to me. I have some skill in magic that could be-”
Marolis let out a hiss of relief. “There’s the captain!”
Karth spun around. Vennet had emerged onto the deck. He wore his shirt open, hastily donned, but he had buckled on his sword belt and his cutlass hung at his hip. He strode past the gathered sailors without a word, making his way quickly toward the stern.
“He … uh, he seems to be in a hurry now,” said Tomollan.
“Who’s that?” asked Feita. “Boldrei’s blessing, he’s wounded!”
Dah’mir had followed the captain up from below. Where Vennet was hastening along the deck, however, the green-eyed man was strolling, nodding and smiling to the crew. All over the ship, the herons turned their heads to follow his casual progress. Strangely, the clustered sailors were dispersing in his wake, calmly returning to their duties.
“Captain d’Lyrandar!” Tomollan said as Vennet mounted the aft deck. “What’s going on?”
Vennet ignored him. “Marolis, come about.”
The junior officer stared at him. “Captain?”
“Come about, Marolis!”
Feita looked ready to spit venom. “Captain d’Lyrandar, what’s happening here? Are we going back to Sharn? We’re due in Trolanport tomorrow!”
Cira stepped forward. Her eyes were narrow and suspicious. “Captain, is something wrong? If my magic-”