“When her younger sister died, Neporo decided to end the suffering. She would dive for rare golden pearls in the Unending Sea, where other pearl-divers dared not go. The water there was too cold, too rough—but Neporo saw no other choice. She rowed her little boat out from Ampiki, into the open sea. As she dived, a great typhoon blew away her boat, leaving her stranded among the unforgiving waves.
“Somehow she kept her head above water. With no idea how to read the stars, she could only swim for the brightest in the sky. Finally, she washed up on an island. She found it devoid of human life—but in a clearing, she beheld a mulberry tree of marvelous height. Weak with hunger, she ate of its fruit.” He traced some of the words with one finger. “Neporo was drunk on the thousand-flower wine. In ancient times, this was a poetic description for the elixir of life.”
The Golden Empress continued to sharpen her sword.
“Neporo finally escaped the island and returned home. For ten years, she tried to lead an ordinary life—she wed a kind painter and had a child with him. But her friends and neighbors noticed that she did not age, did not grow weak or sick. Some called her a goddess. Others feared her. Eventually, she left Seiiki and returned to Komoridu, where no one could look upon her as an abomination. The burden of immortality was so great that she considered taking her own life, but for her son, she chose to live.”
“The tree granted her immortality,” the Golden Empress said, still whetting the blade, “yet she believed herself able to take her own life.”
“The tree had granted her protection only from old age. She could still be hurt or killed by other means.” The scholar glanced at the tree. “Over the years, many followed Neporo to her island. Black doves and white crows flew to her, for she was mother to the outcasts.”
Laya tightened her grip on Niclays, and he tightened his on her.
“We should leave,” she breathed against his ear. “Niclays, the tree is dead. There is no elixir.”
Niclays swallowed. The Golden Empress seemed absorbed; he could slip away unnoticed.
And yet he found himself rooted to the spot, unable to stop listening to the story of Neporo.
“Wait,” he said out of the corner of his mouth.
“Around the time the Dreadmount erupted,” the scholar continued, “Neporo received two gifts from a dragon. They were called the celestial jewels—and with them, the dragon told Neporo that she would be able to lock the Beast of the Mountain away for a thousand years.”
“Answer me this,” Padar cut in. “Why did the dragon need to ask a human for help?”
“The tree does not say,” came the calm reply. “Though Neporo was willing to stand, she could only control one of the jewels. She needed someone else to wield the second. That was when a miracle came. A princess of the South arrived on the shores of Komoridu. Her name was Cleolind.”
Niclays exchanged a stunned glance with Laya. The prayer books said nothing about this.
“Cleolind also possessed eternal life. She had vanquished the Nameless One before, but believed his wounds would soon heal. Determined to end him once and for all, she had gone in search of others who might be able to help her. Neporo was her last hope.” The scholar paused to wet his lips. “Cleolind, Princess of Lasia, took up the waning jewel. Neporo, Queen of Komoridu, took up its twin. Together, they sealed the Nameless One in the Abyss—binding him for a thousand years, but not one sunrise more.”
Niclays found himself unable to shut his jaw.
Because if this tale was true, then the founding legend of the House of Berethnet was nonsense. It was not a line of daughters that kept the Nameless One chained, but two jewels.
Oh, Sabran was going to be most upset.
“Cleolind had been weakened by her first encounter with the Nameless One. Facing him a second time destroyed her. Neporo returned the body to the South, along with the waning jewel.”
“And the other jewel—the rising jewel.” The Golden Empress spoke softly. “What became of it?”
The scholar placed a bony hand on the tree again.
“A section of the story is lost,” he said. Niclays saw that the bark had been viciously hacked. “Fortunately, we can read the end.”
“And?”
“It seems that somebody wanted the jewel for themselves. To keep it safe, a descendant of Neporo stitched the rising jewel into his own side, so it might never be taken from him. He left Komoridu and started a humble life in Ampiki, in the same pit-house Neporo had once lived in. When he died, it was taken from his body and placed into that of his daughter. And so on.” Pause. “The jewel lives in a descendant of Neporo.”
The Golden Empress looked up from her sword. Niclays listened to his own heartbeat.
“This tree is dead,” she said, “and the jewel is gone. What does this mean for us?”
“Even if it had not died, it says here that the tree only granted immortality to the very first person who ate of its fruit. After that, it withheld the gift of eternal life,” the scholar murmured. “I am sorry, all-honored one. We are centuries too late. There is nothing on this island but ghosts.”
Niclays began to feel very sick. The feeling intensified when the Golden Empress rose, her gaze pinned to his face.
“All-honored captain,” he said tremulously, “I brought you to the right place. Did I not?”
She walked toward him, sword held loosely in her hand. He grasped his cane until his knuckles blanched.
“Your prize may not be lost. Jannart had other books, in Mentendon,” he pleaded, but his voice was cracking. “For the love of the Saint, I was not the one who gave you the bloody map in the first place—”
“Indeed,” said the Golden Empress, “but it was you who brought me here, on this futile pursuit.”
“No. Wait— I can make you an elixir from the dragon’s scale, I am sure of it. Let me help you—”
She kept coming.
That was when Laya seized Niclays by the arm. His cane fell as she hauled him into the trees.
Her sudden move had taken the pirates by surprise. Ignoring the stairs, she crashed through the undergrowth, dragging Niclays with her. Behind them, the scouting party bellowed their fury. Terrible as the horn before the hunt.
“Laya,” Niclays gasped out, “this is very heroic, but my knees will never outrun a pack of bloodthirsty pirates.”
“Your knees will manage, Old Red, or you will not have knees,” Laya called back. Her voice had a razor edge of panic, but there was laughter there, too. “We’re going to beat them to the boat.”
“They left guards!”
As she dropped to a lower scarp of rock, Laya grasped the dagger in her belt with one hand. “What?” she said, extending the other hand to him. “Do you think all this time on pirate ships has taught me nothing about fighting?”
Niclays hit the ground with knee-jarring force. Laya pulled him down against a tree.
They lay still in the hollow of the tree. His knees screamed, and his ankle throbbed. Three pirates ran past them. As soon as they had disappeared into the foliage, Laya was on her feet again, helping Niclays up.
“Stay with me, Old Red.” She kept a firm hold of his hand. “Come on. We’re going home.”
Home.
They forged on, slithering where the mud was slack, and running when they could. Before Niclays knew it, the beach was in sight. And there was the rowing boat, with only two guards.
They were going to make it. They would row northward until they reached the Empire of the Twelve Lakes, and from there they would cast off from the East once and for all.
Laya let go of his hand, drew her dagger, and ran across the sand, cloak billowing behind her. She was fast. Before she could strike at the first guard, hands fell upon Niclays. The pirates had caught up with them. “Laya,” he shouted, but it was too late. They had her. She cried out as Ghonra twisted her arm.
Padar forced Niclays to his knees. “Padar, Ghonra,” Laya pleaded, “don’t do this. We’ve known each other so long. Please, have mercy—”
“You know us better than that.” Ghonra wrenched the knife from her hand and held it to her throat. “I gave this blade to you,” she bit out, “as a kindness, Yidagé. Beg again, and it will have your tongue.”
Laya clamped her mouth shut. Niclays wanted desperately to tell her it was all right, to look away, to say nothing. Anything so they might not kill her, too.
His bladder was threatening to give out. Clenching every muscle in his body, he tried to divorce his mind from his flesh. To float away from himself, into memory.
He quaked as the Golden Empress, unperturbed by the fleeting chase, crouched in front of him. And he imagined himself as a notch on her arm.
And he realized.
He wanted to feel the sun on his face. He wanted to read books and walk through the cobbled streets of Brygstad. He wanted to listen to music, to visit museums and art galleries and theatres, to marvel at the beauty of human creation. He wanted to travel to the South and the North and drink in all they had to offer. He wanted to laugh again.