The Clarion Adamant encounters a severe storm, with even more severe consequences.

Well. I'm sorry this one has taken so long. I wanted to make sure I had reader feedback on the whole of the novel before I committed to anything, and I think at this point I do have a clear sense of what needs to change. Most of it is fairly straightforward, so expect the rest of this to follow by the end of June! Thanks for waiting! P… pretend it hasn't been seven years, okay? Patreon subscribers, this should also be live for you with notes and maps and stuff.

Released under the Creative Commons BY-NC-SA license. Share, modify, and redistribute--as long as it's attributed and noncommercial, anything goes.

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Terra Nova, by Rob Baird. Ch. 4: "Upon the Chaos Dark"

Previously on: Terra Nova

The steam barque Clarion Adamant, sailing from Harradon, is carrying a strange cargo: a group of pilgrims, escaping religious persecution in their native Aernia to settle in the distant, cold Meteor Islands. The pilgrims are “Dioscurians"—heretics who believe in the integration of magic and technology, and the use of this synthesis to investigate their relationship with the gods.

Pursued by the Royal Navy, the Clarion Adamant, under the command of Captain Gethet Issich, manages to sneak away and into a strange area where charmed energies are less common—a “thaumaturgic eddy," in the parlance of pilgrim Dr. Siron Barnard. As a consequence, enchantments used to strengthen her engines fail, and one of the ship's boilers is damaged badly enough to be taken offline.

Now the damaged ship is resuming its journey to the Meteor Islands and, hopefully, a bit of peace and quiet. Gethet Issich longs to see his wife again, and is wary of a strange prophecy given to him on their departure: that he would never return…

Dramatis personae: the crew of the Clarion Adamant

• Gethet Issich: the captain, a tiger—descended from non-Aernians like many commercial sailors—and longtime owner of the steam barque Clarion Adamant
• Cedda Fletcherson: An Aernian fox, and the ship's first mate; the old sailor is superstitious, as are most sailors, but a reliable friend to Gethet.
  
• Karn Gebbenbech: A young wolf from Karpasberg, a city near Issenrik, and the second mate. A highly skilled sailor, responsible for most of the sail handling, if a bit coarse. He is good friends with…
• Sheshki Anariska: A jackal from Tiurishk, the third mate and navigator. Like Karn, she's young enough that the sea is not merely in her blood but something she finds exciting and invigorating.
• Jenssa Theovan: The boatswain, another old hand and longtime companion of Gethet and Cedda
• Milus Elerring: The ship's chief engineer. The bear is well-acquainted with steam technology—more so than his mate, the deckhand Rolen, who nonetheless trusts him.
• Rettari Halvas: The ship's mage, responsible for using minor enchantments (for example, reducing friction in the blocks, strengthening the engines). The panther is a Pala, native to the southern jungles, but more wary of magic than many of his kin, which is why Gethet trusts him.

Dramatis personae: the pilgrims

• Pærtha Kittaling: a dark-furred fox, and the leader of this group of 'Dioscurians,' Aernian religious heretics.
• Hannu Kirayara: an ermine, friendly with Karn (who has availed himself of her friendliness) and a meteorologist of some skill.
• Siron Barnard: a wolf, and doctor of thaumaturgy, academically interested in the phenomena of chaos storms and the like; she told Milus Elerring that the engines would fail before he was aware of it.
• Irim Kurma: a badger, and the pilgrim's chief mage—equivalent to Rettari, but far more capable. He is also in possession of Sanai, one of the fabled “wailing stones" that are capable of forbidden magical feats. He used this to help them escape from being pursued, although the effort taxed him, the most experienced magician in either group.

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“Let me be certain that I understand you: we have no idea where we are."

Sheshki Anariska shook her head. “No, sir. We had no way of knowing the compass was drifting until it flipped around completely. That's when I brought us to a stop and sent for you."

Captain Issich looked bleakly at the map she'd spread across the table. Their last reliable position fix was two days old: since then, heavy clouds had obscured the sky, and made taking any kind of sight all but impossible.

“The line said six knots," Anariska continued. “But…"

The jackal laid a sheet of onionskin over the map, aligning it to show her calculations. The Clarion Adamant could've been nearly anywhere in a corridor a hundred nautical miles across. Gethet Issich felt his heart sink. “And we've heard nothing, I imagine… No chance horns, no gulls…"

“Nothing on my watch. Mr. Fletcherson?"

“Nothing," the first mate confirmed. “We're probably within a day or two's sailing of the Meteor Isles. And we've plenty of provisions. We'd be better off waiting until the weather clears."

If it clears, Issich thought, but bit his tongue. You're just being overly cautious. This is only weather, and you've seen worse. “Agreed. Do what we can to hold position. I'll go speak to our guests."

Pærtha Kittaling was understanding. But then, he'd been understanding about their pursuit by the Royal Navy, too. And the explosion that crippled their steam engine. The quiet fox allowed that his gods occasionally behaved in inscrutable fashion: he was willing to wait.

But the weather didn't improve. By evening, lightning crackled in the fog above them. Gethet kept an eye on the compass through his watch. Now its drift was unmistakeable. And am I seeing things, or… “Ellea, I have a question." He beckoned the lookout over to join him.

She tore herself from the bridge window—not that there'd been much to see—and joined him at the binnacle. “Sir?"

“Watch the compass. When—" As if on cue, the clouds above them flashed. “Did it move?"

The vixen furrowed her brow. “Yes, captain. I think it did." Another, brighter bolt of lighting tore through the sky. “In fact, I'm certain of it. It's changing the compass."

It was another problem, about which he could do nothing. Their carpenter said the damaged boiler could not be repaired, not at sea and not in the Meteors—they'd have to return to the Iron Kingdom for that. Gethet doubted how well the patch over the hull would manage if the seas worsened. They were lost… and now, for the first time, in a storm that seemed to have wrought some effect on what he'd previously considered mostly unimpeachable.

When Sheshki Anariska came to relieve him, the compass twitched and spun with a mind of its own. “Don't even bother with the bloody thing," the tiger grumbled. “Just try to keep us out of the worst of this."

“Six-foot waves, I think," Sheshki said, and let the rising howl of the wind speak for itself. “I'll manage it, sir. Get some rest."

She was Tiurishkan, of course, and the Dominion produced the best sailors on the continent. He trusted Sheshki—but he was not ready to rest, not yet. Not while so much remained unknown to him.

Instead he went to the carpenter, and the two of them inspected the patchwork. When they started, light rain stung where the gusts whipped it. By the time they finished, the storm broke into open downpour, and the carpenter looked at the fresh planks fixed to the hull as though he was already doubting his judgment.

“If you think it won't hold…"

The carpenter had to raise his voice, too. “I'll reinforce it. You'll know if I'm worried."

Aye. But without knowing where the barque was, nor where the storm came from, how could they sail out of it? Nothing to be done, he told himself. There's nothing to be done, not for the moment. Gethet Issich made his way out of the storm, shrugged off his oilskins, and sat heavily.

They'd had worse. Worse storms, and worse clients. True, some of it was a little unprecedented, but he'd faced down gales far more severe. That time in the Shrouded Rocks, Cedda would remind him, when they'd shed the rudder at midnight, and until dawn every blast of driving snow seemed it might as well have hidden a reef to dash them against…

But it didn't, and they'd made it back to harbor safely. No, no: he'd had worse. So why was he so damned worried? Was it the saman? Kurma and his damned prophecy… Gethet eyed his bed and, at length, finally settled into it.

It seemed he'd barely closed his eyes before there was a rapping at his cabin door. “What is it? Come in, come in."

The crewman was badly soaked, and obviously panicked. “Captain, can you—Anariska wanted—uh."

He scrambled to his feet and pulled on his coat. “Out with it, lass."

“The water, sir."

Gethet saw it at once, as soon as he was on deck. The sea was aglow—not its normal phosphorescence but a rippling violet, dim at first but unmistakably strengthening. He sprinted the rest of the way to the bridge. “Take us about," he barked at Sheshki. “Do you know what's going on?"

“No! And I'm trying, sir. The rudder's hard over, but the paddles don't seem to be doing anything. I can't turn her."

“The engine room?"

“Says we're at full steam, captain. Best we can do."

The tiger looked from the pouring rain—illuminated every few seconds by lightning that seemed to be drawing closer—to the eerily luminescent waves. “I have the helm. Sheshki, get men on deck and be ready to take orders. And find Karn. Let him know we'll need him."

If she had reservations about it, Anariska said nothing: as soon as he'd grabbed the ship's wheel, she dashed for the door of the bridge. While he waited, Gethet studied the rain, trying to gauge its direction. It was coming from the bow—from the direction of the glow, in other words—but if anything, they were born by a current with the opposite course.

Later. You can think on it all later. Sheshki poked her head in, and he pointed. “Unfurl the foresail and the spanker. Haul in the spanker and I'll try to take us 'round to starboard. As soon as we wear, furl it up and get the foresail out."

She nodded swiftly. “Aye, sir."

And she understood that he'd want it done as quickly as possible—having the sailors exposed to the storm was dangerous, even without this newest mystery. He saw Karn Gebbenbech race to join her; watched them exchange words. Karn would understand, too. At least, Gethet told himself, he couldn't have had a better crew to face things with.

With the aftmost sail out, the wind caught it, hauling the Clarion Adamant around by her stern. Gethet managed what he could with the rudder, though Sheshki had been right—it didn't seem to matter much. The sails did the job instead, putting black water before their prow…

But they weren't making headway. The water ran against them, two or three times as swiftly. Even with the engines at full speed, and all the sails unfurled, they wouldn't best it. And their engines couldn't run at full speed; the ship was down at least one boiler, and Milus wasn't likely to let him fire up its mate. Nor could the sails be unfurled—not without having them torn from the yards. “Seaman," he barked at the lookout.

She glanced over. “Captain?"

“Go below. Get me Cedda and Pærtha Kittaling. And his scientist, that wolf—Barnard? At once."

“Yes, sir!"

They arrived one by one, all with the same look—one who's been roused from sleep, and had the tiredness banished instantly by what they found in the waking world. Pærtha and Siron Barnard, the scientist, seemed as lost as the Clarion Adamant's crew. “I'm not sure what's going on either, captain. This is beyond us."

Gethet was having none of it. “You knew something about magic," he insisted.

Dr. Barnard shook her head quickly. “If it's a chaos storm, it's not like one I've ever seen, captain. And those don't last long, not the ones I've encountered."

“Aye. All the rumors—"

“Fuck your rumors, Cedda, beg pardon," Gethet cut him off. “ Is this magical, Dr. Barnard?"

The wolfess lowered her ears. “Probably. My instruments are reacting to it. But… captain, nothing in my research hints at anything like this. And I imagine that's not what you're really asking. You want to know if I can help you, and… I don't think I know enough to. I'm sorry."

“What about your mage? The badger. Is he recovered?"

Pærtha Kittaling promised to fetch him and left; a gust of wind sucked the air from the room, tearing the door from Pærtha's grasp and slamming it shut again hard enough to crack the frame. Gethet put his muzzle in his paws. “I'm sorry, Cedda. I know you meant well."

The fox nodded, clapping his shoulder. “I know you do, too. We'll find something. We'll get out of this."

Telling himself that he'd been through worse no longer did anything to settle Gethet's nerves. The storm hadn't abated, and even had their hull been perfectly sound it wasn't anything the tiger would've tangled with by choice. A note from the carpenter said the patchwork held—for the moment. If it gets any rougher…

That was how the note ended: sinister implication.

Pærtha returned, all but dragging Irim Kurma with him. The badger ignored the wind, and the door that threatened to be torn from its hinges: he stared at the horizon, where hints of the glow to their stern could now be seen to either side.

Eventually, and with Karn's help, they got Kurma inside. He was shirtless, and his fur was drenched, but he didn't seem to notice. “The end," he said. “It's the end. The end of the world."

Everyone stared. Gethet finally managed to speak. “What does that mean?"

“The end of the world," Kurma murmured. “We're at the end of the world. Beyond it…"

“Rumors," Pærtha said. “Old stories. You know we don't sail to the west."

“Storms," Gethet agreed—storms, and there was no reason to sail west. The ocean, as far as he knew, extended forever. “Not this." What superstitious sailors called the Edge of the Known World amounted to worsening storms, and no good reason to keep trying.

“In some stories, there's a barrier to the edge of the known world."

“The world's a globe, though. Everyone knows that."

“Yes. Stories, captain. Just stories. But saman Kurma believes—"

The badger stiffened, eyes wide. “Not a belief. The world ends. We see it. It will consume us. There's no escape. There can be no escape."

Gethet felt his skepticism of magic-users increasingly justified. In the heat of the moment, he even discounted the unease he'd felt at Kurma's prophecy. He was just another mystic, another fraud, and one without Siron Barnard's decency in admitting he didn't have any answers. “I've not giving up that easily. Can you protect us?"

“No. Nothing can protect us, not from that."

Before the tiger could answer, Sheshki forced her way inside, panting from the exertion of contending with the storm. “Our speed's increasing, sir. Whatever 'that' is, we're being pulled into it faster and faster."

“'Whatever it is,'" he echoed bitterly, and growled: “The end of the world, apparently. Hold our course as best as you can."

“Yes, sir. But…"

Through the portholes, the glow had become brighter than the lamps they read by. Gethet waited for the jackal to close the door again. “What about that charm you have? Can you use that?"

“Sanai? Could I use Sanai? I doubt it, but…" Kurma pulled the figurine from a pouch around his waist. The carved wolf seemed to have gotten darker—all save for its eyes, which shone with an obscene, glistening red. “It speaks."

“What does it say?" Pærtha demanded. “What does it tell you?"

“The end cannot be fought. But if you turn towards it… if you face it head on, then… then maybe…"

“Maybe what? We can survive it?"

“Yes. Yes, captain. Maybe."

He didn't see that they'd been left any choice: engines and sail couldn't pull them from the storm—and though he dreaded the thought of surrendering to it, the ship was lost either way. He ordered them brought about, and aligned the Clarion Adamant in the same direction as the current. The sight before his windows was nightmarish; he focused on keeping the wheel steady.

Kurma stood before the bridge, exposed to the storm but evidently unbothered by it. The badger held up his charm— Sanai—and fog surrounded them. Thicker and thicker it built, until the mage disappeared from view. Sanai alone remained, jet black, its edges inexplicably crystalline. Gethet didn't know how it could still be seen.

And he did not know what else they might've seen. The ship plunged through hidden waves, while the air around them hissed and took on a brighter, purple glare. It was blinding, but he couldn't shut his eyes… could only stare at Sanai, whose shadow brought some strange relief to the chaos. To the glow, and the shapes that seemed to emerge in it.

Trees? Mountains? Faces. Panic gripped him. Strange visages flickered and danced. He thought—hoped—they were mere hallucinations, but even as they blinked in and out of existence Gethet could tell they were fixated on the totem. Long mouths slid open, and a keening howl drooled from liquid fangs.

“Mother?" Sheshki asked. The jackal's voice was clear—too clear; he heard it and the storm all at once, and he heard in a heartbeat a pleading conversation between the jackal and someone else, someone on their deathbed, someone who must've been Sheshki's mother, someone who transformed into another apparition, a curling tail, stripes— gods, is that me? am I looking at—

Sound and light and motion and sense stopped. Everything ceased. Gethet felt certain he had died, but then his stomach dropped out, and he hit the floor with a painful jolt. And, as he rose to his feet, his vision slowly began to return. “Sheshki? Karn? Pærtha?"

“Alive," Karn breathed. “We're… becalmed?"

Now that he could see again: yes. The sea on all sides was flat as glass. Stars twinkled on its surface, and though the constellations unnerved him Gethet saw the moons, too. It was their sky. Their sea. Their ship.

“Kurma…" Pærtha called out, carefully. Gethet and the others followed Pærtha outside, where the badger lay in a heap on the deck. His fur fluttered oddly. “Are you…"

Pærtha reached out to grab him. As soon as he touched the mage, though, a sharper ripple billowed outward from his fingers; Kurma's body wavered and sank down into a spreading puddle, dissolving even as they watched.

Only Sanai was left behind: cracked in half, glowing pale white under the moonlight. Even that crumbled in Pærtha's fingers, blowing away in a breeze so gentle only the fine dust seemed affected. “What happened to you, Kurma?"

“What happened to us?" Karn asked. “There's the real question."

Gethet ordered Sheshki to do what she could with the stars and went to speak to the engineers. Milus told him the boilers had been abruptly extinguished, but he thought they could be restarted. The hull patch held. The Clarion Adamant remained, as near as anyone could tell, seaworthy.

But, by now, even more utterly lost. Anariska had little for them: “That constellation is clearly the Beggar, and over there, setting… that could be the tail of the Lame Horse. But they're… not right. Tilted. We must be thirty degrees further south, at least."

“That's not possible."

The jackal twisted sharply, glaring at Karn. “I know that, kachka. We'd be at least a week off-course, if it was true. But I have no other explanation, and I imagine you don't, either. Do you?"

Karn didn't—nobody did. Gethet Issich ordered the officers from his room, and summoned Pærtha Kittaling. The fox looked drained; his ears barely twitched at Gethet's growl. “What the fuck is going on, Mr. Kittaling?"

“I'm not sure. We're in…" Whiskers drooping, he shook his head tiredly. “Uncharted waters, if you'll pardon the expression."

“And your mage. Saman Kurma—what of him? What was that that happened?"

“His youthful appearance was an illusion, captain. Kurma was older than either of us. We were never certain how old, exactly. I imagine that… he must've been using thaumaturgy to prolong his life, and…"

“He sacrificed himself for us?"

“Would that I could say, captain. It may have simply taken him by surprise."

Gethet managed, with effort, to hide his irritation. “It wouldn't be the first surprise, would it? I don't want any more, Pærtha. Why was the crown after you?"

“Our beliefs are heretical, as you know. Theology doesn't interest you, though."

“It doesn't. But knowing what I'm getting my ship and crew into is a different matter. I trusted you, Mr. Kittaling."

Pærtha nodded, but was quiet for a long, pensive spell. “It's absurd to believe that magic is something distinct from the natural world. Clearly they're related, or no mage would be able to act on physical objects. The rest of it is… more complex. Do you worship Aernian gods?"

“I don't really worship anything."

“We believe that our gods exiled us from the Coral Valley because we were not strong enough to live there. But one day, we'll find them again. We'll rejoin them. My sect believes it's a mistake to shun the role that charmcraft might have to this end—and, of course, to shun its uses in daily life. We became too vocal. The king decided we needed to be punished for that. I felt that if we settled in the Meteor Islands, we'd be so far away that we couldn't be accused of causing trouble."

“And that was worth sending the Royal Navy?"

“Apparently."

“Perhaps they knew about that storm, or that carving your mage carried. Maybe they were trying to warn me."

Pærtha shook his head again. “I doubt it. I don't know what they wanted."

“And you don't know anything about the storm. Or why we're here. Or where we are. Or where we go from here."

“No, captain."

“If you decide there's something you want to tell me…"

But the dark fox had nothing else to say. Gethet dismissed him and decided all that could be done was to stay in place until the dawn. Daylight brought no further clarity, and no greater reassurance; a warm breeze ruffled his fur, and the tiger sighed his irritation at the impossibility of it all.

Their noon sight confirmed Sheshki Anariska's speculation: somehow the Clarion Adamant was thirty-seven degrees further south than they'd been at the last position fix. None of their maps extended that far, and without a chronometer they couldn't even guess how far west they'd traveled.

“We have provisions for a long voyage," he told Pærtha Kittaling. “But without knowing where we are, I have no way of knowing where to go."

“Miss Kirayara had an idea. If you're interested?"

Hannu Kirayara, a white-furred weasel, introduced herself as a meteorologist. She had, she said, noticed the shape of the clouds billowing above them. “They hint at land, not too far to the west."

They did not hint that way to Gethet, in truth, but Hannu had studied such things and the tiger had not. Without any better clues, he adjusted their course and rigged the sails—there was no sense burning their precious coal when he didn't know when they might be able to restock the bunkers.

Early the next morning he was on the bridge, lost in contemplation, when the lookout's voice startled him: “Land, ho!"

Bit by bit it resolved itself as they drew closer: a deep, rich green, stretching to cover more and more of the horizon the further west they traveled. There were, however, no signs of habitation: no sails, no smoke, nothing to break the pattern of thick trees. Gethet brought the Clarion Adamant onto a northern tack, following the cliffs and taking regular notes of what they found.

They came to a stop in the early afternoon, a quarter of a mile off the coast, and Issich summoned his officers together in conference. Sheshki Anariska began by stating what should've been the obvious: she'd pored over their almanacs, but no coastline matched the one to their west. “It's new land, sir. At least, unknown to the Iron Kingdom. And the Dominion."

“A large island, though. We could put ashore for supplies, if it came to that. Fresh water… and game, I hope?"

“I saw what looked like a deer through the spyglass," Cedda Fletcherson said. “I believe. It was in a small clearing—one of few. It almost reminds me of the Dalrath. But not nearly so dense."

“And no people?" Gethet hadn't seen anyone, and he assumed the lookouts would've reported it at once, but he wanted to be sure. Heads shook around the bridge. “I think we should try to anchor, then: look for a sheltered bay and take stock. We don't know how long the pleasant weather will last, either, after all."

An inlet suggested itself by evening: a small cove, well-protected, serving as the mouth of a small river. Issich guided the Clarion Adamant in slowly, taking regular depth soundings. The bottom seemed welcomingly sandy—the entire area, indeed, was serene and desolate.

But safe? They couldn't be sure of that; he kept the ship in place overnight, with extra lookouts scanning the beach's narrow banks. In the morning, they all reported nothing. Nothing but welcoming dawn, and a growing contingent of wheeling gulls that looked for all the world like their counterparts in any Aernian harbor.

Pærtha Kittaling wanted to join the shore party, relenting only at Gethet's insistence that they didn't know how safe the land was—nor how long they'd be staying. He took Karn and Sheshki, instead, and a handful of the deck crew. And, on reflection at the last moment, Jenssa the boatswain.

“Sheshki, head upriver and see what you can find. Record as much as you can. Turn back at… noon, let's say. Mr. Gebbenbech and Mr. Mett will go with you. Take muskets, but don't use them unless you absolutely have to. We're not here to gather samples."

With Jenssa, he paced the outlines of a small camp on the beach. The cattle, if nothing else, could be offloaded—the hold was rank, and it would be good for stretching out the pilgrims' provisions if grazing material could be found. “Shouldn't be a problem," the wolf said. “Land looks plenty fertile. Nice an' green."

“True. I guess we'll see what the scouts say…"

It was, by his estimation, two hours past noon when the jackal returned. She shook her head when he asked what they'd found. “I don't know how to describe it, sir."

“Try."

“It's mostly forest, as far as we followed the river. Gets plenty thick—hard to see in places, or… or it should be, but there's light from the trees."

“Through?"

“ Qolesheçätïn ä boshlït?" Karn Gebbenbech added. “He asks."

“I know what he asks, kachka." The jackal shook her head again. “No, captain. Not through the trees. From the trees." She shot Karn a look. “Qolesheçätï."

“It was easier for her to see than me, captain," Karn told him. “But I'd agree. The light was strange. And we… there's a fork of the river… I think. About a mile up, on its northern bank. It looks like it should be a fork, but the water… comes out of the river. Somehow. There's a waterfall, a few rapids, but—but the water's flowing up."

Gethet froze, swallowing heavily. “Flowing up? Uphill?"

“Yes, sir. Running backwards. Char?"

Chalran Mett nodded. “Exactly. We didn't believe it. Sheshki dipped her paw in it… said it felt like it was goin' backwards, yes, sir. We don't know how to explain what's goin' on, sir, but that's what it seems to be."

He decided they didn't need to know what the saman had said, back at port—ancient history, by now. Besides which, Irim Kurma was dead. “And did you see anything else? Animals? People?"

“Tracks. Karn says they resembled deer hooves, and I think I agree." Sheshki seemed unnerved, though he could hardly blame the scouting party for that. “I haven't done much hunting. He has. I trust him."

Gethet Issich had to trust him, too. “Karn, take the launch back. Jenssa and Char, I'd like you to go with him. Tell Mr. Fletcherson we're going to offload the cattle and organize crews to build shelter here. I'd like them to start work at once. Bring Pærtha and Rettari Halvas back with you."

Sheshki didn't ask why she'd been left behind with her captain. They watched the boat return to the ship, and she said nothing until it was out of earshot. “How permanent of a shelter do you think, sir?"

“I'm not sure. I don't know how long we'll be here. Maybe we're lucky… the pilgrims were planning on settling in a new home, right? They've got supplies." He closed his eyes, focusing on the feeling of warm sun. No, it remained unsettling. “The Dominion knows more of magic than I do."

“You're from Dhamishaya, though, aren't you?"

“My parents. They were…" It wasn't a pleasant story. “They were guides. Aided the Aernians that first came to Dhamishaya, and their armies. They weren't popular, of course, and when war became inevitable… some favors brought them to the Iron Kingdom. I was born there. Grew up there. My parents didn't like talking about the homeland, especially not after the Bhiranate finally collapsed."

“I see. Well… yes. Tiurishkans know a little of magic. But they study it scientifically, not practically. I don't know what to make of this island either, captain. I'm used to knowing what direction rivers travel in."

“So am I. Light from the trees," he recalled, and shook his head unhappily. “Damn this place, Sheshki."

“Maybe Rettari will know more. Or Pærtha's scientist."

“Perhaps." He waited uneasily for the launch to return, and scanned the panther's face as the boat drew nearer to shore. Their mage showed no sign of alarm, at least—none of the panic that gripped him when confronted with Irim Kurma's totem.

Karn helped him from the boat, and while the wolf did the same for Pærtha, the feline padded over to Sheshki and Gethet. “Sir? You wanted to see me?"

“This place is… a bit odd. Is it magical?"

Rettari Halvas looked no more alert than usual. He merely nodded solemnly. “Yes. Soaked with it. My people would call it a… lake. Not literally. A place where the charmed aspects of the world gather and come to rest."

“Can you tell us anything more about it?"

The panther's eyes swept the edge of the trees, lingering from time to time on things Gethet couldn't perceive. “I'm not certain. The rules are different here, sir." He turned from the trees, back to his captain, and lowered his ears at Gethet's expression. “My explanation would not please you."

“Give it anyway."

Halvas sighed heavily. “By 'rules' I mean the laws of what cannot exist. And, by comparison to the terrain above such places where magic gathers, the laws of what can exist. I don't know enough to divine them, sir."

“There are trees, though," Issich countered. “They're growing normally. There's sand, and animals—apparently."

“Yes," the mage answered, though noncommittally. “I do not mean to imply that there are no rules, Captain Issich, only that I don't know them. The trees are slightly strange to me; their leaves blow in a wind I perceive but cannot feel. I will learn what I can, but… no promises can be made, about this sort of thing."

Not only did the trees grow, however, but they could be felled without unusual difficulty. Gethet Issich enlisted the help of the carpenter, and they began to assemble a palisade. It was well above the high tide line—whatever “tides" meant when water could flow in the wrong direction—but close enough to keep the Clarion Adamant visible.

The presence of the ship gave him strength over the next few days, as their camp slowly came together and they transferred more of the cargo from it. Kittaling was happy to be ashore; his pilgrims aided willingly, and their skills proved as diverse as he might have hoped.

Half a week later, they had Sheshki's maps of the terrain for three miles in any direction, shelter, and sturdy walls. In case, he'd told Pærtha—but if Cedda Fletcherson really had seen deer, they kept their distance from the bay, and there was nothing else worth shooting at.

Until.

The fifth day finally gave the tiger reason to appreciate his caution. A shout, from the palisade's watchtower: “something's coming! Walking this way!"

“A person?"

“Yes, sir," the lookout called back. “Just one, I think. I can't tell if they're armed…"

Gethet weighed his options quickly. Hopefully they were not armed—hopefully they'd be friendly, even. But they knew nothing about the land beyond their maps. There'd been no sign of farms, or towns, or anything but the wilderness. He beckoned Karn over. “Who's our best marksman? You?"

“Sennechia, probably. He was in the Royal Army, I think?"

Gethet hadn't known that about Ræder Sennechia, their senior carpenter, but considering the badger's demeanor the revelation didn't really surprise him. “Fine. I've seen you hunting, too, Karn. Get a dozen men armed and waiting—half with each of you. You're to do nothing until I say so… or unless harm comes to me…"

“Of course." The second mate nodded crisply, and headed in the direction of the storehouse.

He signaled Cedda Fletcherson and Sheshki Anariska to follow him—then, on second thought, Rettari Halvas as well. And, preparing himself for whatever lay ahead—putting Kurma's words from his mind—he pushed the gate open.

The figure was obviously no mere animal: it wore clothes, a simple grey tunic and loose-fitting breeches. A bow appeared to be slung over its back, and its movements were cautious and deliberate, approaching the palisade. For whatever it was worth, Issich felt no true hostility…

But nor had he seen anything like the creature. It had a ringed tail, like the Bayeh of his ancestral mountains—but this was grey and black, thick like a fox's brush. Its ears were short and triangular, and its eyes were framed by fur so deep and black that Gethet assumed at first the mask had been added with charcoal.

And it seemed just as puzzled as he was. Staring at the tiger, its head tilted first one way, and then the other. Then it spoke, a rippling, fluid tongue that sounded closer to music in its rhythm than anything else.

Issich held his paws up, to show that they were empty, and took a step forward. “I don't understand you. I'm sorry, but I don't know your language. I don't understand," he repeated, slowly, spacing out the words as though that might help.

His voice only puzzled the creature further. Its ears pinned. It tried to speak again, no more comprehensibly than the time before. Only ten paces separated the two now. With an unmistakable frown, it swept its paw in the space between them, and a small apparition of the strange figure appeared, followed a moment later by one of the tiger.

Issich pointed to his ghost. “Gethet Issich," he said.

“Gethet Issich," the stranger echoed, working its muzzle unsteadily around the name. It tapped its nose, then flung its paw towards him, drawing a ribbon of colorful glyphs— writing, he thought immediately. The flow stopped abruptly, halfway between them, and they gradually dissolved. It repeated the gesture in the opposite direction, with the same result.

Captain Issich nodded. “Yes. I can't understand you."

The other figure—a man, Issich decided—ran his finger over Gethet's spectral image, and repeated the first gesture. This time the symbols flowed freely, soaking into the figure's own doppelgänger. He stared pointedly at Gethet.

“You can help me understand you? You can learn to understand me?"

The man stepped closer. “No!" Both of them turned at the same time to look at Rettari Halvas. “You can't, captain."

“Why not?"

Hesitantly, as if shaken by his own outburst, the panther stepped in the middle of the pair. His eyes closed, and when they reopened a soft light seemed to fill them. He snapped his fingers, and a new figure joined the two summoned by the newcomer.

“You—wait, you can do that?" Issich asked, startled. “I thought you said…"

“I couldn't before. Something about—a moment," he cut himself off, brow furrowing to focus. His dark paw waved, and as images—Aernian letters, this time, and too quick for Gethet to read—spilled from the tiger's charmed counterpart the ghost's brightness faded, its color shifting into a mysterious hue Gethet struggled to perceive.

The stranger held his paw out to Rettari Halvas, instead, and their mage reached out to grasp him. Rettari tensed, trembling with some new form of exertion, but as Gethet watched the glow in his eyes seemed only to strengthen. And when the stranger let go, the panther didn't collapse, or gasp for breath, or falter.

“His name is… it is difficult to say, for us. Jalamin."

“Jalamin?" Gethet tried. “It doesn't sound so difficult."

“Jalamin Narim Polliistä Ruari Mento Tellamaatama. It is a rough approximation of his name in my own language: 'He who is always searching for the silver birds that circle above the storms.' Their own language conveys some meaning through tone, and some through a charmed inflection of their words. It would be very difficult for you to speak, captain."

It was, perhaps, the most Gethet had ever heard Rettari Halvas say at one time. “But you understand us now? Do you mind that name, sir?"

The trio of illusions vanished, and Jalamin inclined his head. “If it's easier for you. Why are you here, 'captain'? We saw nothing from the coast to north or south."

“We're from the east."

The native clicked his teeth together skeptically. “Nothing comes from the east."

“We do."

“He said that as well…" Jalamin indicated Rettari with an open palm. “I felt no guile in his words, but this… it defies belief. You're in our territory. If you're not invaders, you're at least trespassers. I must insist you come with me."

“Are you the ruler of this country?"

“Country?" Jalamin asked. Rettari Halvas touched the man's paw gently, and he stiffened. “As I suspected. No—I am not. But our elders will want to speak to you. Give you a chance to make what you've done right."

“Where are they?"

Jalamin took the bow from behind his back, aiming it just above the trees. The arrow traveled a few hundred paces before freezing abruptly, splintering into a glittering ring: a portal, behind which lay blackness. Along its path, a glowing ribbon formed.

He took a step onto it, and beckoned them to follow. “We can't just… leave with you," Gethet protested. “Where are we going?"

“To their home," Rettari answered. “I believe his intentions are friendly, captain. And… I have the sense he could take us by force, if he so desired."

Issich frowned. “Very well. Cedda, tell Karn what's happened. Keep him calm. I'll be back as soon as I can." And, swallowing his nerves, the tiger followed Jalamin up the bridge and through the dark portal. The air changed immediately: the breeze vanished, and the cool, calm replacing it had a strange, novel scent. “Where are we? Is it… night?"

“We're underground," Rettari said.

And Gethet saw that he was right. It was a great cavern, the ceiling impossible to discern. The portal had opened on a ridge overlooking some town beneath: obviously a town, with roads and buildings and inhabitants making their way between them.

But the buildings looked less like structures than they did organic outgrowths of the rock beneath, and the roads glowed in gentle greens and purples that added a peculiar hue to the figures striding along them. Jalamin wasted no time in guiding them to a track that wound down the rocks to join one of the main roads into the town.

“Osani," he said. “I suppose you could call it that. About a thousand of us live here."

“But not a country," Gethet surmised, based on his reaction to the earlier question.

“No. We don't have those. Every town is more or less independent. We watch over an expanse of territory. Safeguard it. Steward it. In the times before, there were no such guardians. It was a catastrophe."

Osani had been formed somewhat like a spiderweb, with a defined center, and the roads brightened the nearer they got to it, ending in a ring around a source of radiant, pulsing light. Gethet meant to ask Jalamin about catastrophe, but the light distracted him. The path circled what seemed to be a well, sixty feet across.

He noticed their interest, and paused. “This," he explained. “Is Osani itself."

Far below them was the light's source. It made Gethet think of a crystal, resplendent in its iridescent hues. The longer the tiger looked, though, the more he realized it had no physical form at all: purely radiance, so bright it should've been blinding, but instead of dazzling it merely calmed his senses.

It was almost difficult to tear himself away, but Jalamin insisted they continue. “Incredible," he heard Sheshki Anariska mutter. “ Impossible, even."

Jalamin stopped them in front of a sheer stone wall. When he held up his paw, the stone melted, and a day-bright interior lay beyond it. “I've brought them to you," he announced to its as-yet-hidden occupants, then turned to the sailors. “Enter."