Salt of the Gods

Chapter 1

The sky cracked in warning overhead. She felt it in the tug of the wind. An envoy of the sky, whispering her urgent song. Go, take shelter.

Arther heeded the first part of the warning at least.

She picked up her pace, walk becoming jog, becoming run until she was sprinting down the white worn path along the cliffside. Below her, dark waves crashed against the rocks at the base. Ocean spray burst upwards. Fresh and salt water mingled on her skin. From the clouds overhead, fat-laden drops promising of an oncoming deluge began to fall.

She couldn't help it – Arther lifted her face to the sky and smiled.

Her feet skimmed over the familiar path as she allowed herself that moment of observation, of revelry. A fork of lightning cleaved the dark clouds. She counted 1, 2, 3, 4. A mighty boom shook the earth. The true storm was still a few minutes away.

Arther returned her attention to the path. She knew the way well, but not blind. She was going to be in trouble. Both for what she had already done and what she was going to do. But she had no interest in the tongue lashing her corpse would receive if she took a spill into the craggy rocks below.

So, Arther finished her weaving descent, careful to avoid the Salt Tress searching roots. Panting, she reached the small alcove at the base. Smooth white rock extended in a thin jetty, dinghies bobbing in the swelling water. Across the bay, Arther took in the islands with their connecting bridges and jutting houses, shaded by the trees. The curtains of roots which draped down the craggy sides and into the sea. The curling spires of the White Palace reaching up, up, up, their tallest just brushing some low-hanging clouds.

She should have taken the bridge from the mainland. She had been sorely tempted by the promises of getting home quickly, tucking herself away dry and warm in a north-facing window to watch the incoming storm. But she had lingered at a fork in the path, while the guards had adjusted the load on a wagon. And she had decided.

She gave in to the lure of the ocean.

Truth be told, her defense had been perfunctory and weak. This was just the right type of tempest for swimming. Swift and blunt but kind.

And after days of trailing one of her father's aids as he inspected the seaweed farms to the west, reporting on estimated crop yield.... being so close to the ocean while still sweating in the sun... she had been itching for a diversion. Her father, Devin, had organized the trip to get her away from the Isles. Busy work. He never let her near council meetings if he could help it – especially closed sessions. It angered Arther to no end.

She swung her oiled leather pack from her shoulder and tied it to her wooden staff. Next, she stripped off her pants and tunic, stuffing them into the waterproof bag. She checked its fastenings. Once. Twice.

Arther bent down and touched the smooth plaque pressed into the stone of the jetty. A small silver square with a carved circle at its center - the O of Belief. Her fingers brushed against the familiar metal, smooth with the countless hands that had come before. She sent out a Prayer of Affirmation to the world. Not imparted with words, even in the mind, this was a feeling - a shared hope for continued prosperity. This was the custom of Faith. Such plaques could be found all around the Continent and the devout sent out a silent Prayer whenever they passed one.

Arther straightened, gripped her staff tightly, and leaped into the brisk water at the end of the jetty. She let it's current take her. The rip was a familiar rush underneath, guiding her body across the bay as it had countless times before. She let her Belief guide the current, be guided by the current. Layering assurance on assurance.