For years, the faceless terror known as the Hand of Fate has been secretly manipulating the port city of Reyza for her shadowy ends. Those she favors rise in status while those who betray her are never heard from again. When the opportunity to elimi...
The coastline of the Reyzan peninsula was treacherous; accessible only by small fishing boats. Below the roiling surf, razor-sharp reefs thrust up from the shallows. The coral labyrinth with its unpredictable currents had claimed many ships whose wooden ribs littered the ocean floor. On land, narrow pebble beaches gave rise to imposing limestone cliffs with pleats and tucks where a myriad of birds raised their young. Above the bluffs, half swallowed by the jungle, stood the colossus of Umad the Snake. Constructed with the donations of pilgrims who worshiped at the Temple of Ven on Minstrel Rock, the stone guardian served as a warning to would-be raiders.
When Avaren surfaced with Jarle, three leagues northwest of Reyza, only Umad's giant head was visible above the jungle that spilled over the cliffs. Overhead, redbills and gulls squawked, skirting the waves in search of a meal.
Avaren hooked her arms under Jarle's armpits and hoisted his face above the surf. Her savior was cold and limp in her arms. His complexion was ashen, and red splotches mottled his skin. Part of her wanted to let go; to watch the thug slip beneath the waves; to see his eyes bulge with fear and his mouth gasp for breath.
Avaren's tears spilled hot and bitter into the sea. The morning sun held no warmth, the frolicking birds no joy. She cursed the indifference of the clouds, the birds and the breezes that caressed the whitecaps. She cursed Rigo, and Reyza, and the man in her arms.
If it were any other day, she would be whizzing through the coral maze; chasing schools of glimmering fish or collecting baubles from the shipwrecks. Inevitably she would miss her lessons, and return home to her father who would, after admonishing her, defend her absence to her tutors.
If it were any other day, her father would still be alive.
Avaren took one of Jarle's gloved hands and held it above the water. His digits, though slender, were a third shorter than those of typical Vendraedi males—a telltale sign that Jarle was a curskin. Avaren released Jarle's hand. Curskins were the lowest of all people, mongrels born of mixed bloodlines without any of the endowments of their antecessors. Even criminals of pure pedigree held a higher status than curskin do-gooders. Damned by the circumstances of his birth, Jarle would have had little choice but to turn to a life of crime.
Avaren thrashed her powerful tails against the current that threatened to dash them against the coral. Flanged rows of gills along her back flared as she sucked in her breath. The man's dead weight coupled with the effort of synchronizing her breath to his had sapped her strength. Her arms felt like bowed strings and her fingers cramped where they dug into Jarle's armor.
Keeping his chin above the waves, Avaren towed Jarle into a ring of coral spires where the surf broke with a deafening roar. "We are almost there," she gasped, unsure if the man could hear her. Wrapping one of her áel-like tails around the paralyzed man's waist, she shifted to face him. "We have to go under one last time. If you can hear me, blink."
Jarle opened his salt-reddened eyes and then closed them once more.
Avaren uncoiled her tail from around his body and circled her arms around his waist. "On the count of three, take a deep breath. We'll breathe with each other, alright? One, two, three."
When Jarle filled his lungs, Avaren pulled him under with uncanny swiftness. She swam through a narrow crevice on the ocean floor and into an underwater tunnel. Her black-finned tails beat against the riptide currents and propelled them through the silty murk. Before them, tiny crabs scurried along the walls, and blind cave áels hissed, fluffing their sand-colored dewlaps. Wedge-headed galefins darted back into their rocky spawning beds, their green, glowing eyes marking the contours of the passage.
Avaren wove through the tight turns until the narrow walls opened into a vast, underwater cave. Tunnels branched to the left and right, but Avaren swam upwards, eyes fixed on an opening through which shafts of sunlight pierced the darkness. Pressing her lips to Jarle's mouth, she gave him one last breath before shooting toward the surface.
Jarle gulped for air as they emerged in an underground pool open to the sky. Thick, twisted roots hung down into the water from the edge of where the cave's roof had long ago collapsed. The circumference of the natural oculus was choked with mosses, bright-hued ferns, and climbing vines. The air was warm, redolent with the scent of late-summer blooms, moist verdure, guano, and alkaline earth. Around them echoed the sounds of the jungle; hoots and howls; the singsong of birds; a waterfall gushing in the distance.
Avaren pulled Jarle's limp body to the shore and slithered beside him. Sharp pebbles wedged themselves under the scales of her cumbersome tails. Her gills opened and closed in desperate need of air. For the span of several breaths, she was neither a creature of the land nor a denizen of the sea. Avaren's tails thrashed, coiling like starved áels in the shallow water. She crawled onto dry land; gasping as the cartilaginous bones of her lower extremities shortened, and scales softened into to flesh.
Exhausted, Avaren lay on her back. She stared at the clouds drifting through the sky and pondered the intolerable length of time that existed between sunrise and sunset and all of the terrible events that could transpire in one day.
Beside her, Jarle rolled his eyes as if trying to communicate, but Avaren did not stir to help him.
For the first time since she had discovered the cave, she felt like a stranger within its walls. The ancient grotto bore traces of having weathered many storms. Striations of salt crystals left behind by high-water lines limned the walls, and in what remained of the ceiling, stalactites had begun to form.
Shadows lengthened. Bats fluttered. Beyond the opening, the sky blazed with a depth of color that bards would struggle in vain to describe in their ballads. Yet, for all of the sunset's mystifying glory, Avaren felt hollow.
As blackness swallowed the contours of the cave, a chilly breeze caused Avaren to shudder. Curling on her side, she brought her knees to her chin and clenched her eyes shut. She had never spent the night in the cave or anywhere but the comfort of her own bed. Loneliness wrangled with despair. Visions of her father's smile wrestled with the memory of his blood-splattered body. Her nostrils picked up the coppery stink of blood. Her nightmare had just begun.
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