Song of Sages

1. Sea Smoke

Iria

The sea smoke surrounding the harbor seemed thicker today. It spiraled upwards in columns, making the sound of lapping water seem even more hushed. Through the mist, Iria could just make out the darker shapes of the basalt pillars that surrounded the island, where ocean waves crashed and broke before bumping up meekly against the shore.

Iria had once tried to reach them, swimming out past the jetty limits even though it was forbidden. But she could never get close. The farther she swam, the farther away they seemed, and eventually the swirling sea smoke would confuse her so thoroughly that she would find herself swimming back towards the island. If it weren't for the water, Iria could be convinced that the island floated among the clouds.

She turned away from the view and continued down the hill towards the docks on barefoot soles that had long since hardened against the splinters of the old boards and bits of broken shell tossed aside by gulls. Her gray shift rustled around her legs like parchment, stiff from too many washings. Judging by the position of the hazy sun on her right, she was late. Father Anto would be displeased.

She quickened her pace, the smell of fish and brine growing stronger as she rounded the bend in the trail that led out to the docks. The robed figure of Father Anto stood at the far end. His head was bowed, observing something in the water or praying; Iria couldn't be sure.

Though he was her primary teacher, Father Anto discouraged her questions about the sea smoke. All he would tell her is that it protected the island and its temple hidden deep in the forest center. It turned away travelers who did not have the goddess' favor.

Iria wasn't sure she believed Father Anto. Not entirely. There hadn't been a visitor to Palmyra for as long as she could remember. And those on the island she had asked had confirmed it had been a very long time indeed since a foreign ship had docked in the harbor. When she asked instead why no one left, she was met with blank stares. Why leave the safety of Palmyra when the rest of the world was said to be in disarray? Why seek out foreign lands when those foreign lands were plagued by the demon Ruina?

Their island was fertile and temperate; their people skilled and pious. They were fortunate to live here and blessed in their duty: to guard the temple of the goddess for which their island was named and to tend Her history. Iria, of all people, shouldn't be asking such questions. So she had stopped asking them.

"You're late," said Father Anto as she drew even with him.

"My apologies, Father," she replied, giving a half bow.

His wrinkled face wrinkled further as he frowned. "These lessons are not for my benefit, you understand?"

"Yes. It will not happen again."

The elderly priest turned to appraise her. Everything about him was gray, from his stormy eyes to his full, pointed beard and receding hairline to his long robes. "Very well," he said. "Today's lesson concerns drowning. A fisherman perished here yesterday after..."

"What was his name?" asked Iria.

Father Anto pursed his lips at the interruption, but knew as well as she did that the man's name would be helpful. "Skall," he answered. He cleared his throat and continued.

"As I was saying, he died after his mast splintered and knocked him overboard. His wife has told me he was a strong swimmer, so we must assume he was unconscious when he went into the water."

Iria nodded. "What time of day?"

"Near sunset."

She glanced at the sky. It was just past midday. They had approximately six hours to spare.