The Merman and the Moon Forgotten

Seven • A Question for the Road





What a tragedy,” Yeri said, as he held the parchment bearing the secret of the Merrows. “Of course I will deliver this for you.”

“No common humling or creature has ever known, until now,” said Nia. “You understand why the pearl-of-devotion was so necessary.”

The guard took the scroll from Yeri and returned it to Lir. Another attendant held out a large fish scale with a puddle of steaming red wax. Lir rolled up the scroll, then lifted the scale, and poured the wax over the edges of the paper.

Lir raised a signet ring and, with a commanding tone, said, “Be ye the hand of the Steward Nikolas Lyons or be ye the hand that turns black and dead.” A hundred strands of black swarmed between the signet ring and the scroll. He pushed his signet ring over the flap. The wax sizzled and transformed into glass, sealing the scroll.

“Remember,” said Lir, “only Nikolas Lyons may read this.”

“Of course, Duke,” said Yeri, as he took the scroll from the attendant. The senior stagecoach driver felt a new emotion creep up his spine. He took it for heroic.

“Please, Yeri,” said Lir. “Follow the attendant downstairs.”

Nia gently pressed her hand on Lir’s arm, “My body has betrayed my will. I must rest now.”

He nodded to an attendant, who quickly brought a velle to the tired duchess.

h

Yeri could hear the ocean water break between fortress and cliff side. The only thing that kept him from plummeting down to his death was a thin plankway leading to the cliff, on which he currently stood. Yeri took the last step and exhaled. Lir and Captain Jonn followed slowly with the help of their automaton legs. Having crossed, all three were now outside of the fortress and walking down crude steps hewn into the cliff side. After a few minutes of descent, they entered a cave. The only sign of life was a lamp dangling at the stern of a small boat at the edge of a pool.

“In the boat you will find enough provisions to last you two weeks,” said Lir. “This pool leads to a merway, much like the ones you’ve seen in the fortress, except this particular one is not completely submerged, allowing for humling travel.”

Yeri looked again. Sure enough, at the far end of the pool was a watery tunnel.

“The water is enchanted, carrying you inland and along the merway. This merway cuts through the Dorseteen cave system and will take you four hundred miles west to the Fendrow village. There, you will find a blacksmith by the name of Mullen. She will know you by the signet. Do not reveal anything to her until you give her the password. Do you understand? Simply say ‘squall.’ Once you’ve told her the password, Mullen will provide you with a horse and a few week’s rations. Do not forget. Do you have any other questions or requests? Once you row down the merway, you will not be able to return. We must undock from this port for our own protection.”

“It’s a bit dark in there, isn’t it?” Yeri’s voice reverberated down the tunnel. “The fouls couldn’t make their way down there, right?”

Lir clutched Yeri’s bony shoulder. “You are our only means of salvation, Yeri Willrow.”

Yeri nodded.


“Do you have any other questions?” said Lir.

“None that I can think of, Duke,” Yeri shook his head. Secretly, he wished he had a myriad of questions—anything to stall the inevitable.

With that, Yeri awkwardly placed his left foot over the boat. He held tightly to Captain Jonn’s muscular forearm until he found a seat. Yeri lifted the oar, dropped it into the water, and stopped.

“I do have a question, sir, if you’ll forgive me. Anyone might call himself a steward. How can I tell one from another?”

“Every city speaks to her steward.”

“Very good.” Yeri did not drop the oar. “One more thing. He could simply lie and claim the city speaks to him?”

“That is why the scroll has been enchanted and will recognize a true Steward of Huron from a false one,” Lir nodded.

“Right. Very good . . .” Yeri still did not drop the oar. “One last thing. It seems I’ve already forgotten his—”

“Nikolas Lyons. His name is Nikolas Lyons.”

“Read my mind, sir. Thank you, sir.”

Yeri Willrow dropped the oar and pushed away. As the water squeezed into the frothing merway, he said the name over and over, “Steward Nikolas Lyons. Steward Nikolas Lyons. Steward Nikolas Lyons . . .”