Ocean heart, p.1
Ocean Heart, page 1
Tales of Ymahlia:
BOOK TWO
There was once a great king who crossed the dark ocean, seeking a new land for his people to live.
His subjects feared the ocean, dreading what the depths might hold. The way was unknown, the waters wide and spreading across the horizon. But the king loved his people, and he had faith that a new land waited for them. So he and his people built a great ship and set sail across the deep.
Soon, they did not know which way to go, and the people grew anxious and fearful. But the king was determined, and to show his devotion, he lit a lantern and placed it upon the ship’s bow. If we follow the light, he told his people, surely we will find the way.
The people’s hopes returned, and they looked to the lantern in the dark nights across the sea, praying that its light would remain. But one night, a great wind blew across the ocean, plucking the lantern from its place and casting it to the waters below.
The people despaired, but the king still had hope. He looked down into the waters, searching for the lantern in the depths. To his great surprise, the lantern had been snatched by the most beautiful mermaid, who held it fast in her hands. Fear not, great king, the mermaid said. I will help guide you and your people to the new land.
And so, against the storms that raged and the winds that howled, the mermaid led the way across the ocean, the lantern kept preciously in her care. Soon, the new land appeared before them, and the people rejoiced to see the earth once more. In honor of the great mermaid who had led them across the deep, the king built a great light lighthouse on the shore, lighting the way for all who crossed the waters like he. It is said that mermaids remember the brave day by carrying their own lanterns to the shore, smiling at the lighthouse the king had made.
OCEAN HEART
Chapter One: The Willow Tree
The Tale of The Mermaid Lantern was but one of many the children of Depthimont learned, but despite his recount of the story to his companions around the campfire, no illuminating sirens swam through Wit’s dreams. The ocean, however, was always there, ready to nurture and soothe his aching heart.
Moonlight from Faedris trickled down through the waves, the subtle current coursing like fingers through his dark brown hair. Fish swam across his arms, intrigued by the freckles on his pale skin, and he felt a large tail brush past him as a parrotfish swam lazily by. He reached out touch the creature’s smooth scales, and it turned to blink its deep, large eyes at him.
A shadow passed overhead, and Wit looked above to see a ray soaring like a dark cloud, sending a chill over the boy’s skin. His tawny eyes narrowed as he saw more rays coming, twisting and curving as they swept through the water in a midnight dance. Wit’s parrotfish companion darted hastily away, but Wit remained, pushing himself closer to the rays.
Dangerous, rays were: beautiful, revered even, but dangerous. Old Man Maehken had always told him not to get cocky around them, to leave if one ever approached. But Wit had no fear of them. There were no birds to view in Depthimont, no feathered wings to flitter across the dusky sky. Rays had rarely given him trouble, and if they ever did, it was because Wit was careless. He swam closer, drifting along with the great sea giants as they spun onward across the blue. Where they were going, Wit didn’t know, and something about it comforted him. He wasn’t entirely sure where he was going, himself. But wherever the rays were going, surely it was someplace they were meant to be.
Wit eventually found himself gazing downward, searching for the wide, sandy desert expanse below. He spotted a large rock and traveled to it, searching for new shells. Depthimont had good use for common shells, sharpening their curved edges into tools to gut catches, or carving them into fine glasses to sell on Market Day. Wit was one of the best at finding good shells, being able to dive deeper and far longer than anyone else he knew. Most of the fishers appreciated his talent, grudgingly or not, though some of the older men saw him as they always had: abnormal, cursed. But Wit couldn’t care less when he was under the waves; in his own element, content and free.
As he tucked underneath the rock, searching for elusive treasures between fingers of gnarled coral, he heard a voice, crystal clear as if through air. Wit, the voice said, and he realized it sounded familiar. He flipped about, searching for the source of the voice, and he spotted a figure through the deep: dressed in black, red eyes peering from a dark, billowing hood.
The Dread Moor.
The instant he recognized the mythical woman, she was suddenly streaking towards him, faster than he could follow. She was almost upon him when he awoke, sucking in a deep breath as consciousness came to him. He opened his eyes to see flecks of dawn creeping over the open sky, dotting the clouds with the precious light of a sun that could never be seen…if the horizon light even came from such a thing.
“Wit?” A small hand reached for his shoulder, and a familiar petite face pulled into view, shadowed but for the look in her blue eyes. Fey crouched over him, a loose strand of long, blue-black hair spilling down onto his chest. “Are you alright?”
Wit took a few more deep breaths, supplying oxygen to his waking brain. Everything around him felt dry, dirt brushing the back of his hand as he remembered where they were: in an untilled field, gathered under a wide willow tree, grey foothills imposing and magnificent in the distance. He felt himself frowning, disappointed at the reminder that the ocean, his ocean, was so far away now, and that he grew farther from it with each passing day.
Fey saw his eyes, saw that she wasn’t reflected in him, and she felt the slightest prick of jealousy mix with the blood in her sober heart. She sat back on her heels, fiddling with the texture of her soft leather skirt. “Bad dream?” she tried again.
“No,” Wit answered half-truthfully. It was an amazing dream, until the Dread Moor had appeared. He focused on Fey’s troubled face, unable to decipher the truth there, and smiled with a wink. “It’s fine,” he yawned, stretching his muscles as he sat up. He noticed immediately that they were alone. “Where are Wolf and Church?”
“Church is over there,” Fey pointed almost thirty yards behind him, and he twisted his neck to see, exposing the nape to the gentle breeze. “He’s been trying to keep track of where we are, but I think he’s gotten his notes mixed up.”
“Again?” Wit shook his head. “The wind doesn’t help. He lost one of his maps the other day.”
“Really?” Fey looked alarmed. “He told me it was just a spare scroll of paper!”
“It’s been spared now,” Wit mused wryly as he rolled over and began folding his cot. “We only get so many stars during dawn-day, and at dusk-day, they’ve all moved around again.” He peered about, searching. “Where’s Wolf, then?”
“He said he was hungry,” Fey scrunched her nose. “He doesn’t like our rations very much, so he said he was going to go find something ‘better’ to eat.”
“What?” Wit dragged himself to his feet, the wind smoothing out the wrinkled folds of his linen shirt. “He told me he’d take me with him when he goes out to hunt!”
Color crept up Fey’s neck, and she looked away. “He knows you haven’t been sleeping well,” she told him. “He wanted to let you rest.”
Wit softened, and he suddenly looked embarrassed. “It hasn’t been that bad,” he mumbled. “Has it?”
Fey drew her fingers under her eyes. “You have bags, Wit.”
Wit hummed a disappointed note, his lower lip forming a terse pout. “I have to pee,” he grumbled.
Fey pointed to the tree. “Church left the trowel, if you need it.”
Wit trudged off to attend to his needs before making his way across the rough grass, his boots caked in dry mud from the past fortnight of walking. He didn’t mind them so much anymore, and his feet hurt less, but he still preferred not to wear them if he could help it. “Church?” he called as he approached from behind. “Everything okay?”
“One moment.” Eli Kingston didn’t turn, too engrossed in his spyglass as he searched the horizon. The ink that he’d used to dye his hair from weeks ago was almost completely gone, the color nearly back to its original striking ash blonde. His blue eyes were slits as he strained to see, and Wit could see that the muscles in his neck were stressfully tight. “I do believe,” the man answered as he lowered his glass in defeat, “that we are lost.”
Wit inclined his head, shrugging. “I figured.”
Church sighed sharply, closing the spyglass with a crisp click. “It concerns me. Nothing has ever kept me from determining the direction of Cavelon,” he muttered to himself. “So far from it now, but still…” His words then became an exasperated hiss. “Blast the duke and his feral sense of direction. He told me we were still heading east, and I believed him.” He frowned, shooting Wit a side-glance. “We’re lost,” he stated again, unusually perturbed.
Wit made a scene of looking around, spreading his arms wide. “I know that we’re here, in this place. That’s something.”
Church diffused at Wit’s humor, and he snorted, smirking. “Your idealism is not as contagious as you might think, Wit.”
“Yeah, well, your not-idealism is lame,” Wit gave his shoulder a single, firm pat and started walking away. “Stop worrying about it and come eat something,” he said over the wind. “Everyone always feels better after they eat.”
Resigned, Church joined Wit and Fey as they snacked on jerky and dry cheese, breathing in the open air as they stared out at the foothills in the distance. “Are those mountains?” Wit asked around a mouthful.
Church swallowed so he could chuckle. “No,” he a nswered. “That’s a foothill. You’ll know a mountain when you see it.”
Wit tilted his head. “It doesn’t look like a foot.”
“I don’t know,” Fey pointed. “That one does, sort of.”
“Unfortunately, the foothills only tell me where we aren’t,” Church grumbled as he dusted his hands across his trousers. “None of the notes or maps I have left say anything about foothills between Uthren and Paliat, which tells me we’ve either gone too far either north or south. Judging by the warmth in the air, I’d say south, but since the cardinal directions haven’t been told by the Sun for centuries, it’s…” He clapped his hands over his knees. “Frustrating.”
“It’s alright, Church,” Fey reassured him. “At least we haven’t run into any other trouble out here.”
“Fey’s right,” Wit leaned back on his hands. “We’re still safe, and once Wolf gets back, he can help us figure out where to go next.”
Church sucked in a sharp breath, gathering patience. “Lord Rein is the reason why we’re lost,” he ground out.
“I like Wolf,” Fey announced, rocking back with her legs crossed. “He’s funny.”
Wit blew out between pursed lips. “You just like him because he does half your walking for you.”
“I have short legs,” Fey excused indignantly, heat rising to her cheeks. “I can’t keep up!”
“Alright, you two,” Church stood, planting his hands on his hips. “Let’s pack up and be ready to move once our friend the duke returns.”
Half an hour later, the Wolf of Rein’s dark head appeared, trudging up the hill to where the others waited. His figure impressive, his red eyes narrow, he was an absolute bear of a man, his brow furrowed by the weight of burdens he refused to express. Slung over his broad shoulders was a well-sized buck, neck snapped clean, a set of three-pronged antlers crowning its limp head. Fey’s eyes went wide at the sight of it, and she instinctively crouched behind Wit as the duke took the deer and draped it on the ground before him. Wit accepted her presence with a flutter in his stomach, his heart inclined towards the tempo of a rabbit’s as he felt her breath warm his sleeve.
“Heaven’s sake, man,” Church looked far less squeamish and much more flabbergasted. “If you wanted a deer, I could have marked and shot it for you from a quarter-mile. It’s no wonder you’ve been gone so long, how on earth did you manage to catch it on foot?!”
“First like,” Wolf raised a thick, calloused finger at Church, his expression hidden by a fast-growing beard. “I don’t need the help of your bullet-spitter to feed my strength. Next like, a shooter would crack out all over the place and flinch everything with ears. Last then, my hunt makes quick work instead of letting the animal bleed out and sniff like death for everything else to know about. This isn’t the north, Fishbone. Things don’t just freeze like for you to harvest later.”
Church looked ready to wind back for a punch, but he forced his fists to unclench. “Fey,” he gestured to her. “Let’s go see if we can find some water.”
Wolf grunted, jutting his thumb in the direction he came. “There’s a great big pond around two miles down.”
“A pond?” Wit brightened. By now, he knew what a pond was, and he knew it was a body of water. Fresh water, but still.
“Yeah,” Wolf blinked at him. “Not one of them scummy ones, either. Real nice, good place for you little ones to wait for us to gather our bearings. I’ll show you skinning some other time,” he waved his frying-pan-sized hand at Wit when the boy started to protest. “We’ll find a rabbit or something to start you off with, something that won’t take all morning for me to show you. Take the fairy and go for a drink, and keep your noses clean.”
Wit glanced at Church, an unspoken request for permission. Church shrugged his shoulders, sighing. “Here,” he beckoned Wit over, reaching down into the cuff of his boot. From the stretched leather, he produced a pistol: small, inconspicuous, gunmetal grey. “This is Bithia,” Church showed it to Wit, a strange, somber smile gracing his lips. “It was gifted to me by my sister, after I returned home from my training. She is small, the pistol, but just as deadly as my rifle.” He raised a finger in warning. “This is only to signal me, in the event that you have need. Last resort, always away from you or anyone else. There’s only one bullet, and you can’t discharge it without releasing the safety.”
Wit shook his head, “I won’t need it, Church,” he assured him, his hand gravitated to the hilt of his knife: a unique dagger, made from the hard bone of an unknown fish, sharp enough to slice through any trouble that might come his way. “We can take care of ourselves.”
“I don’t dispute it,” Church agreed, “which is why I’m confident that you’ll be responsible with Bithia. Let her accompany you, for my sake.”
Grudgingly, Wit took the pistol, tucking it safely into his own boot. “For your sake, Church. We’ll be well enough.”
“Regardless,” Church told them. “Do keep an eye out. I’ll come check on you before midday.”
Wolf eyed his young companions nebulously as they gathered a few essentials and took off away from the hill, skidding down the grassy slope. As they grew smaller in the distance, he turned his attention to Church, frowning. “While you’ve been digging your nose through parchment,” he said as he knelt down, retrieving a steel blade from his rucksack, “I’ve been out scouting the area.”
Church gruffly folded his arms. “Did you happen to find us a way to Paliat through this…wherever we are?”
“We’re taking the south route,” Wolf explained as he began to slice and gut, working quickly and expertly with surprisingly deft hands. “Too much risk traveling true-east.”
“What sort of risk?” Church probed coldly. “Because so far, the one trouble we’ve had has been in your attempt to avoid risk.”
Wolf shot him a pugnacious look. “Oh?”
Church threw his hands out, clapping them down to his sides. “We’re lost,” he said. “I know it, Wit knows it. We have no way of knowing how to reach Paliat from here.”
Wolf returned his attention to stripping the deer, his hands bloody as he expertly removed the head. “I know these lands,” he asserted. “I know how to get to Paliat.”
“Why do I find that hard to believe?” Church grumbled.
Wolf raised the blood-soaked knife in his hand, leveling it in Church’s direction. “I’ll make something glass, Kingston,” he sneered. “You either trust me by now, or you don’t.”
Church exhaled through his nose. He remained silent for a little while, watching the older man work. “Why were you really put in that prison?” he suddenly asked.
The deer’s hide was scraped clean faster than Church had ever seen, and Wolf was making cuts from the flank when he paused in his work. He considered the question long enough to make Church wonder if the duke had even heard him. When he answered, it was in a bitter, caustic tone. “Five years ago, my brother was assassinated. I was around your age when it happened.”
Church stiffened. He’d heard rumors that the king was dead, but the kingdom of Rein had effectively closed its borders, allowing next to no information in or out. “I’m sorry,” Church said uncomfortably.
“Don’t,” Wolf scoffed, grabbing strips of meat and laying them out near the fire pit they’d made, close to the warm stones they’d placed around the embers. “He had it coming. Murder follows adultery like a cat to a pigeon. Goals aligned, and the seat of Rein was emptied.” He slowly shook his head. “Poor sod didn’t realize the impact his wrath would have.”
Church’s insight led him to believe the story was a complicated one. “What happened?”
Wolf didn’t seem at first like he wanted to share: characteristic, but perhaps a stumbling block before his desire to relieve himself of a burden he had shouldered behind prison bars. For so long, he had kept the truth to himself, and just this once, he wished to lift the weight of it, even if it was only words. “One of my lieutenants,” he began. “My brother had been seeing the man’s wife. Likely others too, but this one wasn’t blind. This man, he had been trained well, and he thought he could get away with killing the king. Thought I was stupid like, or wouldn’t care enough to investigate…or maybe that I’d sympathize. My brother was an idiot, but he was my flesh and blood. Even if he wasn’t, murder is murder.”
