The Destiny Detour

Lost in Translation

Drake

"The horses are soldiers with experience in defensive magic," muttered Drake as he hopped over a gap in the floor. "Of course they are."

"Ehno?" asked Sun.

"Nothing," answered Drake, waving him off with his bound hands. "Don't mind me."

Being arrested twice in one week was not a first, but being captive was not Drake's favorite way to pass time. Sure, this arrest was theoretically for show, but he missed free use of his hands. Mostly he was cranky about being sent on yet another detour when he needed to be meeting up with Rosaliy. Arlana claimed the prisoners Drake needed to free had been deemed "influencers" by Iketa and Dalor, and whether or not that was true, they would serve as a formidable distraction. So she claimed. She also claimed they were horses, so something was getting lost in translation.

Speaking of getting lost in translation, Sun put out an arm. "Slow, wait," he said in Old Baysellian. Actually, he said "lobster," but Drake was assuming Sun had mangled a word ending, especially when the footsteps of a guard patrol came down the hallway in the stead of a scuttling crustacean. It was useful they had a language in common, but neither of them knew it particularly well.

Sun chatted with his fellow guards for a bit while Drake tried to look sufficiently upset about his capture. After a brief exchange, Sun pulled Drake onward while the guards continued on their way.

"Sorcess eh Dan-ella—return back," Sun told him.

"Here?" Drake asked.

Sun nodded. "Ya."

Did that mean Iketa and Dalor had been successful or not successful?

In an empty hallway, Sun veered into an open room. "Stay here, yes? Quiet." Sun dug out the knives he had confiscated from his fake prisoner and set them on a lumpy driftwood table. He propped Drake's grappling hook next to the door as well. "Barnacle seaweed."

That last one was probably "Back soon."

Drake had a loose understanding of Sun's plan. He was intending to trade posts with the guard watching the Naxturae. Simple enough.

Drake's sun-emblazoned guide had left him in a wooden section of the palace. Harvested driftwoods knotted together with vines made up columns and chairs and bedframes and artwork. Being trapped on a heatsoaked island for centuries seemed to make people eccentric. Crafting furniture from driftwood was one thing, but crafting an entire palace wing from the material seemed like the act of a bored, creative people. Perhaps they should travel more.

Drake had forgotten to ask for the hand restraints to be unlocked, but he had insisted on being locked into the restraints with his hands in front, and he seemed to have a pocket full of hairpins. What kind of person subconsciously pocketed hairpins for later? The kind of person who regularly found himself in hairpin-relevant situations.

By the time he answered his question, his hands were free and he had sheathed his knives. He was just in time to hear footsteps pass down the hallway. Drake waited for Sun anyway, on the off chance there were more guards watching the Naxturae. Since the Naxturae were magic resistant, there were no magic barriers in this section of the palace. That begged the question why they had not escaped, but the answer was—no surprise—getting lost in translation.

Sun poked his head inside the door. "Bisque!" he said cheerfully. Drake had no guess for that one. It seemed to be an exclamation of success, so he followed Sun to a locked door. The keys Drake had taken from the head guard made short work of the door. Maybe freeing the Naxturae would be as easy as a locked door?