able to buy earmuffs.’
ACT TWO
Shores of White and Black
Interlogue
FLEETING NIGHT
The Departure
The Sea of Buradan
Summer, late
I don’t remember much about my father, save for the fact that he was a humble man. He made an honest living which, by his definition, was one that involved hacking dirt and killing nothing bigger than a pig as a wedding gift. He lived well, I think, and I try to think of him whenever I have the time, in the moments when I remember the scent of dirt and feel a deep-seated hunger for pork.
I don’t recall what he sounded like.
In the dawning hours, however, before the sun has risen, I think of my grandfather. In truth, I think of him quite often: whenever I’m about to be killed, whenever I’m about to make a mistake, whenever I’m ready to do something stupid. I hear his voice, even if it is distant. It’s his voice I hear as I clutch his sword, my sword.
Today, I can’t hear him. I can’t hear anyone. No one’s talking.
There’s been precious little sleep aboard the Riptide. The crew remains fearful, preferring to go without sleep as they patrol, ever-vigilant for the return of anything that might crawl out of the water. Miron has been locked up with Argaol, discussing whatever it is men discuss when they’re about to send people off to die. I should note that they’ve been avoiding Argaol’s cabin, preferring to do their discussing in the ship’s hold. I don’t know the reason, but I’m finding it difficult to trust the decision behind anything Miron does.
More than that, I’m finding it difficult to trust myself.
The Aeons’ Gate, the relic we’ve been hired to seek out, is named for demons. Not just demons, but arch-demons, demons supreme. Demons with actual titles: ‘Kraken Queens’ and ‘Mother Deeps’. Demon aristocracy, though I’m certain there’s a fouler term for their social class. These are the things I’ve been hired to chase down, these are the things I’ve been told will be the salvation of mankind, the bridge between heaven and earth.
Despite all the lies . . . well, hold it, there’s only been one lie, really, but it was rather prominent. At any rate, despite that, I’ve still agreed to go off in search of the thing in exchange for one thousand pieces of gold.
It’s a respectable sum, to be certain, but there remains a tart taste around the knowledge that one’s soul, dignity and livelihood come at a price. For a while, I actually began to believe Asper when she told me that the human soul was beyond the weight of metal. I suppose I showed her.
There’s time to turn back, to reject Miron’s offer, to stay on board the ship and jump off at Toha and find the next priest, pirate or person who requires a sword arm and a lack of questions. For the life of me, however, I simply can’t go down there and tell him I quit. I suspect it’s because, as I’ve turned the possibilities over in my head, I continually fail to come up with a reason to turn back.
Dismemberment, death, decapitation, decay and drowning, on dry land or otherwise, are certainly deterrents. On the other hand . . . one thousand coins, split evenly amongst five people, still exceed the number most people will ever see in their lifetime. Certainly sufficient to find more respectable work, perhaps opening a smithy or an apothecary, or investing in slaves in the cities where the fleshtrade is permitted. This is presuming that everyone comes back alive, a staggeringly unlikely estimate by even generous accounts; if someone dies, the shares increase.
I suspect this line of reasoning should strike me as considerably more horrifying than it does.
And yet, it’s not just about money, even though I know it ought to be. I suggest that whoever is reading this should season the next few lines with a bit of salt.
I want to find the demon. I want to find it and kill it. I want to find it and kill it and I don’t know why.
It’s far more likely that the thing will find and kill me first, I know, but all the same, there’s something inside me that makes me want to track down the beast and put my sword through it. I never got the chance to strike it directly, as something roiling around in my head reminds me often, and I have to know what will happen when I do. Between blinks, I know