She turned to shake him awake. There was something strange about his body, about the stillness of his form.
"Uncle Brandon?" Ella shook him, first gently, then with insistence. "Uncle Brandon!"
The old man stayed seated, motionless.
Brandon Goodwin, soldier of Altura, who had fought his way from one end of the Azure Plains to the other, was dead.
The rain started again.
Ella’s sobs were inaudible above its patter.
6
What’s in a boneman?
What’s in a drudge?
Pretty little pictures
Made with love
— Halrana nursery rhyme
THE trader ship yawed in the strong wind, thrusting her great weight over the crests before plunging again into the troughs.
High above the decks, in the area the traders called the crow’s nest, Miro gazed out at the sea, enjoying the thrill of the ship listing first one way and then another. Here at the very top of the mast any movement was exaggerated. Miro felt like a bird caught in an unpredictable air current, tossed back and forth in the stiff ocean breeze.
She was what the traders called a storm rider — an armed cruiser, with a long range and enough firepower to hold her own against most enemies. Her name was the Infinity.
Two months ago, Miro could never have imagined life aboard the trader ship. It was like a complete community on the water, more than a house, something like a moving fortress.
Nearly every square inch of her was covered with runes, the structures among the most complex Miro had ever seen, particularly on the sails. They buzzed and glowed as they were activated by the Sailmaster, an imposing man named Scherlic. His calls as he activated and deactivated the runes were heard night and day, his voice had become so familiar on the journey that Miro no longer even noticed it.
So much had changed in the last two months. Miro almost felt like a different person — with the Pens, Sarostar, Brandon and Ella part of another life. He had now seen High Lord Tessolar in the flesh, along with several other members of the Alturan elite. It seemed everyone who was a name in Altura was a part of this delegation.
There were even ten bladesingers included in the group. They kept largely to themselves but Miro yearned to catch a glimpse of their zenblades. He’d thought they might participate in the regular sword practise on the listing deck of the ship, but they spent their time below decks in each others company, deep in discussion or reading books.
There had been some argument over the decision to make the journey to Seranthia by ship. Miro had only heard it second-hand of course, from the other guards, who had overcome their usual reticence in response to their new recruit’s endless questions.
Lord Marshal Devon was the named leader of the contingent, although from what Miro had heard about the High Lord, Devon would have a tough time telling Tessolar what to do. A stately, serious man with impeccable dress sense, Devon was a noble in every degree.
In charge of the men-at-arms was Captain Sloan, as different from Lord Devon as two men could be. Grey-haired, rough-voiced and hewn as if from a block of granite, Sloan was a veteran of the Rebellion.
Lord Devon had argued for the journey to be made by sea, his reason being that it would be difficult to protect the contingent over land. Not insulting Captain Sloan, he’d said, but over sea the traders of Raj Buchalantas held undisputed sway and to them a deal, once made, was unbreakable.
Captain Sloan had nodded politely at Lord Devon’s assertion, and then made the point that on land they passed through predominantly friendly lands and had the protection of many swords, while at sea if something went wrong they lost the entire leadership of Raj Altura at a single blow.
Lord Devon had made a brief comment about Captain Sloan’s description of the Azure Plains being "friendly lands" and won the argument.
Miro seemed to get along well with the older soldiers. For some reason he was able to avoid the sea sickness that affected many of his fellows, and his willing attitude made him few enemies.
It had been a long and eventful journey, filled with storms and clear days, arguments and late-night discussions. As they traveled south it had grown hotter, and many of the men, Miro included, had doffed their tunics to be bare-chested in the sun. At first the sailors had stared at Miro’s milk-white skin, but after a few weeks he had developed a deep tan.
Seeing the life of the traders, he sometimes wished he could be one, and leave his cares behind as he sailed the length and breadth of the world. He was amazed to see that many of the sailors were women. They looked similar to the men, wearing canvas coveralls much as the men did, and they had low, gruff voices.