Then the crushing sense of divine presence disappeared.
Evendur kicked upward until his head broke the surface. The howling, hammering storm was already subsiding into just another gray, rainy day. The harbor was half a mile away, an inconsequential distance for a fellow who could swim like a shark.
Anton put his hand on Stedd’s brow. That morning, it had been cold. Now, it was hot. The temperature swung back and forth for some reason the druids had failed to explain in terms a pirate could understand.
The boy’s eyes, vividly blue even in the subdued light of the House of Silvanus, fluttered open. “Papa?” he croaked.
Anton winced. “No, Stedd, it’s me.”
“I wanted to say goodbye. But you wouldn’t have believed. You would have tried to stop me.”
“Your father’s not here. I’m Anton. Try to remember.”
“I wanted to say it! I promise!” Stedd squirmed under his blanket like he was trying to sit up but couldn’t manage it.
“I believe you,” Anton sighed, “and everything’s all right. Why don’t you drink some water?”
The earthenware cup was ready to hand. But in the moment it took him to pick it up and turn back around, Stedd had lapsed back into unconsciousness.
Anton felt an urge to throw the cup at one of the granite slabs bordering the space that served as Stedd’s sickroom. He settled for growling an obscenity.
“At least he woke up,” Umara said.
Anton gave her a sour look. “Is that what you’d call it? Why doesn’t he have a druid sitting with him all the time?”
“I’m sure they check on him often.”
“Even if they do, why aren’t they healing him?”
Umara took a breath. “You heard what Shadowmoon said. This isn’t an ordinary sickness amenable to the usual cures. And in any case, it does no good to grouse at me.”
Nor was it fair. “Sorry.”
“It’s all right.” She cocked her head, listening to the drumming on the roof. “The rain’s slacking off. Let’s get some air.”
As they negotiated the turns of the sanctuary, a structure that, with familiarity, had come to feel less labyrinthine, he said, “I’m not truly angry with the druids or the boy, either.”
“I hope, not with yourself,” she replied.
“No!” he snapped. “With Lathander. Surely, he could help Stedd. But now that the boy’s served his purpose, his god’s tossed him away like a broken tool not worth the mending.”
“In Thay, we expect spiritual powers to favor the strong, not help the weak.”
Anton snorted. “Whereas I used to think they don’t truly care about anybody. Then Stedd nattered on and on about hope and goodness until, perhaps, he blathered the common sense right out of my head. Well, now I have it back.”
They stepped out under the gray sky. Anton took stock of how hard it was currently raining, and then, on impulse, squashed his drum-shaped Turmishan hat flat and tucked it in his sword belt. His hair was going to get wet, but he got tired of having it covered all the time.
Then a white horse and a rider in green and brown scrambled onto the plateau. The steed was lathered and rolling its eyes, and Anton wasn’t surprised. He wouldn’t have cared to take a horse up the steep last leg of Hierophant’s Trail, certainly not at any kind of speed.
But the ranger in the saddle showed no consideration for his mount’s weariness or frazzled nerves. He dug in his heels and urged it onward to cover at a gallop the remaining distance to the edge of the pool.
“The Elder Circle!” he half shouted, half gasped in a way that showed he was nearly as exhausted as the horse. “I have to speak to the elders at once!”
No doubt impressed by his urgency, druids came scurrying to assist him. A couple took charge of the horse and started to relieve it of its saddle. Others conducted the ranger across one of the chains of steppingstones.
Umara looked at Anton. “Whatever it is, I don’t care,” he said. Then they followed the ranger and his escorts back into the temple.
Once apprised of the woodsman’s arrival, the Elder Circle opted to receive him in a relatively spacious area where, on other occasions, Anton had watched older druids instructing novices five and six at a time. It was less imposing than the circular space at the center of the temple, but it was also drier, and the cryptic symbols daubed on upright surfaces gave it its own air of mystery and magic. Sometimes, they seemed to change when a person wasn’t looking, although afterward, Anton could never identify what was different.
A bench carved into one of the stone slabs afforded Shadowmoon, Ashenford, and Shinthala a place to sit. Everyone else-the ranger, those who’d brought him in, and curious souls like Anton and Umara who simply wanted to find out what was going on-stood.
The woodsman was a barrel-chested fellow whose bushy beard had grown out enough to lose any trace of a straightedge cut at the bottom. He bowed deeply but so quickly that the gesture of respect nevertheless felt perfunctory. “Elders,” he rasped.
Shadowmoon waved a dainty, copper-skinned hand, and the skinny adolescent girl who’d tried and failed to smite Anton with a spell emerged from behind a screen carrying a stool. A boy perhaps three years older than Stedd followed with a wooden cup.
“Something is clearly distressing you,” said the elf. “Sit, drink, and tell us what it is.”
But the ranger didn’t wait for the seat or the cup to deliver his tidings. “We’re going to be attacked.”
Shadowmoon’s green eyes widened. “Please, explain.”
The messenger dropped onto the stool. “This comes from another ranger, Vonda Pisacar. You know her?”
“Of course,” Shinthala said. “As well as we know you, Mareo Calabra.”
“Then you know she likes to patrol the wild lands along the coast. She was doing that west of Sapra, seeing what the sea had swallowed and what was still above water, when she spotted what she thought was likely a pirate ship anchored offshore.”
Probably one of Evendur’s, Anton thought, still hunting Stedd.
“Vonda wanted to find out what the ship was up to,” Mareo continued, “and she’s friendly with the merfolk. She knows a tune to whistle to call them if any are nearby. Well, one was, and she asked him to swim out and eavesdrop on what people were saying aboard the ship. He got there just in time. The pirates were making ready to sail.”
“Where to?” Ashenford asked.
“To meet up with other ships. Pretty much all the ones from Pirate Isle but extra, too-warships from places like Westgate sent because the church of Umberlee demanded it. The undead wavelord people talk about is supposed to lead them all to Turmish to destroy Sapra and everything else they can get at.”
“This is retaliation,” said a druidess with a sparrow perched on her shoulder and feathers adorning her three long braids, “for running off the waveservants when they tried to set themselves above us.”
“There’s more to it than that,” Shinthala said, “but the whys can wait until later.” She looked to Mareo, who was finally taking a drink from the cup. “I trust this same news has gone to Sapra and the Assembly of Stars.”
Mareo swiped the back of his hand across his lips. A stray drop of red wine dribbled into his whiskers even so. “To Sapra, yes, and it’s been sent to Alaghon as well. I just don’t know if it’s arrived yet. A messenger can’t get there by land anymore.” He grimaced. “And warriors on the mainland can’t just march here and reinforce us.”
People muttered to one another in dismay, and to his own surprise, Anton stepped forward. “You don’t need the army anyway,” he said. “You should meet the enemy at sea and sink them before they ever come within catapult range of Sapra.”
Mareo nodded. “I suppose that’s the strategy to try.”
“Why do you sound so pessimistic? The Turmishan fleet is as capable as any on the Inner Sea.”
“So I’ve always heard tell,” Mareo answered. “But the navy says some of the ships are far away on various errands. Even if they somehow hear about the trouble, they likely won’t make it back in time. And as for the rest …” He shifted his gaze back to the three elders. “Please understand, I don’t mean any irreverence. I’m thankful there’s food now. Everybody is.”