They called the land Galdren, and it was like nothing Sarka had ever imagined.
The first sign that land was ahead was the seabirds wheeling in the sky. Birds on the continent of Kogoren were rare. The environment was harsh, food was scarce, and hungry animals and people over-hunted any kind of wildlife. But these birds were a multitude; they dotted the sky, elegant in their white and gray plumage.
Sarka could not see how anyone could ever be get their fill of watching them. When she asked a sailor what the birds were called, betraying naked wonder with her expression, he grimaced and pronounced the birds, which he called gulls, "narsty critchers."
As their ship glided into the docks, Sarka saw other ships, some with white sails like those of The Crescent, others with sails in bright colors or stripes. Some of the ships were half the size of Etza's, others thrice as large. Beyond the ships stretched wooden docks crowded with busy people, and beyond that rose a stone wall. There were towers visible inside the city wall, some with pennants, some with spires that gleamed in the light.
Etza had come to watch as they approached the port; she stood at the prow of the ship, her arms crossed.
"What is this place?" Sarka asked in wonder.
"Stupid girl," Etza replied. "You might have asked that before deciding to sail across the sea."
"I didn't care then," Sarka said, which was true. She hadn't thought this far ahead. "Now I'm here."
"This is Deynaport. It's the largest coastal city in the country of Galdren and a major port of trade. It's the main stop The Crescent makes in Galdren, although we'll pull into two more ports before we leave."
"Galdren," Sarka repeated, tasting the name of the place. Now that she was here, it was suddenly real; before, it had simply been a concept, perhaps a dream. "And after you're done, where do you go?"
"Sayoria, for wine, wool, and grain. We make several stops along the coast there. And then Yhva-mostly for tools, weapons, and armor. Metalsmithing and war are the chief trades of the Yhvai."
"And in doing this, you see the world."
"Some of it, at least. Do not get any wild ideas. You, Sarka, are a piss-poor sailor, and I want to be rid of you as soon as I can. Where do you plan to leave us?"
Sarka had not given this much thought, either. In her mind, the only destination was the first destination. She had planned simply to disembark as soon as they made landfall and move into the next phase of her journey, ill-planned as it was: to find a way to support herself. "Here is as good as any place."
Etza glanced sidelong at her passenger. "I won't lie. You've been a pain in my arse. But look you, girl." She reached out, indicating the mottled yellow and blue marks on Sarka's neck where her bruises had begun to fade. "You're the seventh. And you're the first. You are not a wise woman, but you do have grit."
Captain Etza had not asked about Sarka's experience. Sarka suspected she did not wish to know. She kept her own gods: the God of the Crescent and the Sun-Goddess. Not one of the crew had shown interest in uncovering the details of Sarka's torment, and considering the fate of those who had come before her, Sarka understood. There was a sort of safety in ignorance.
"I will leave you here, then, with my thanks," Sarka said. "I tried not to give you much choice, but I know it was your decision to take me, and I am grateful."
"What is your plan once you make land? You cannot know anyone in this city. You'll be without a home, without occupation."
"You know I am seamstress. A very good one. I have not thought far enough ahead to consider the details, but I plan to find work in my trade. There is always a need of a seamstress, fine embroidery or no." Sarka still carried her small satchel of treasures everywhere she went; she indicated it now with a pat of her hand.
"True enough. I wish you good fortune, Sarka."