Chapter Two
Laria. Petra’s homeland was a contradiction. A frigid and hostile place; it’s people and towns were warm and welcoming. The Anastra, a range of rugged and vertiginous peaks spanning the eastern horizon, dominated the island. The mountains had a profound effect on the Larian climate; a perpetual winter experienced in all but the western coastal fringes. On the edge of the Larissian Sea, Laria Port experienced a milder cold season. A shallow valley with steep sea-cliffs sheltered the capital, sparing Petra’s favoured city from the worst of the elements. Despite that relief, Petra was quick to remind her crew that a refreshing chill was the best they could hope for.
With the Anastra obscuring the sun’s ascent, the harbour languished in shades of ochre, and the western sky was dark in the Larian dawn. A breeze ruffled the canvas on the Melody of the Sea, and on deck, clasping a warm brew of Ouhla, Petra stared westward. Beyond the Larissian Sea, Kalleron was a divergent and dangerous world, fractured by politics and conquest. She had sailed to many places over the years, learned what was, and what was not, profitable territory. In the southern Free Lands, the pleasure capitals of Shaddenhyne and Hoydai were an excess of vice and opulence. Separated from the continent by the Rivyn, a vast and wide river, Petra regarded the Free Lands as a world apart from northern Kalleron. Hoydai, preferred by her crew, was a lush green paradise in the far south. The ancient city provided a relaxed sense of decay. Shaddenhyne, in the east, was a poor mimic of its cultured neighbour. Its vice was too vulgar; the pleasures less sweet. Even though it had a long and storied history, Shaddenhyne had, in Petra’s opinion, embraced too much of the modern age.
On the far western coast, Drohendrir and its northern neighbour, Dreyahyde, nestled among dense forests of pine. And though the route was long, Petra’s seasonal voyage to Dreyahyde had become a ritual. There, the finest artisans saw to the Melody’s repairs, and her crew could relax without fear of Kalleron’s reach.
Petra sighed, visualising the world beyond the horizon. All of those cities and the scattered towns and settlements lay south or west of the Rivyn. They all found solace in the ward of Water; the boundary of the elemental Earth. Petra’s world was a human domain; a place of love and hate, laughter and tears. But it was also theirs. Ambivalent yet powerful creatures that existed without reason and moved without thought. Water, Wind, and Fire appeared disinterested in mortal affairs. Unseen, untouched; these demigods could well be myth. Petra had learned early in her life, however, that there was one elemental whose presence was altogether more frightening.
The northern city-state, from which they named the continent, was as no other in the world. Ruled by Kalle, the Immortal, his consort was the elemental Earth. Infamous for her genocidal deeds, the Terrible Queen of Kalleron was a weapon wielded with impunity. Far removed from the elemental’s earthly reach, Laria was a sanctuary. And although it had never caused her concern, Petra couldn’t draw her gaze from the world beyond the horizon. What Felicitra had told her this morning had chilled her to the core. Beyond the Larissian Sea, the King had staked his claim on another nation, and the Queen’s power was rising.
Petra heard familiar footsteps and turned to greet her lover. Felicitra came close, a kiss offered to her cheek. A kiss goodbye.
‘Petra, you know I have to go.’
‘Why didn’t you tell me last night?’
‘And spoil the moment?’ Felicitra shook her head. She appeared amused; inconsiderate, given the circumstances.
‘What can possibly bring a smile to your face?’
‘It’s not pleasure. A cruel joke, perhaps.’
‘A joke?’ A spark of hope rising within; Petra lifted her head. ‘You think the news isn’t true?’
Felicitra raised her hand; a gentle grasp on Petra’s shoulder. ‘No, it’s true. We both know it. Kalleron has given Arkalla ample time to respond. The Seer’s faith is unshakable; he would never relent to Kalle’s demands.’
A frown to respond, Petra shook her head. ‘Then why the humour?’
‘The Rivyn. It’s her boundary. If only they had built Arkalla on the southern bank; they would be safe.’
Petra recalled the city. A proud and beautiful place. Pretty white buildings, often coloured with accents of amber and green, nestled among sculpted stone towers capped by golden spires. Arkalla, the capital of Arkallon, had long opposed Kalle’s claim over the northern swathe of the continent.
‘I don’t understand,’ Petra said. ‘Is the Seer so blind?’
‘Belief is a blindfold to some.’
‘But Tormelor, Thania. Even Bruhale. Can he not see what will come?’
Felicitra sighed. ‘None of them had faith in the new gods. The Seer has Arkana; Arkalla, if we must move with the times. He truly believes his god will save his people. How can Arkana let the greatest city built in his honour fall to a heathen Queen?’
‘It is foolishness. Madness, even. He is condemning his own.’
‘Perhaps.’
‘What of the soldiers?’ Although she asked of them, Petra knew they would offer no resistance to the march of the Queen.
Felicitra raised her eyebrows; a cynical smile on her face. ‘The Seer doesn’t need an army; he has his god, remember? Local militia and justices are all Arkalla requires.’
Petra shook her head. ‘It will be dangerous, Felicitra. I can come with you.’
‘You know my business. I must travel alone to Gwynerath. Then onto Arkalla.’ She turned and paced to the stateroom door, nodding for Petra to follow.
Petra hesitated. A sombre mood had descended. Felicitra’s invite wasn’t for pleasure. ‘Inside? Why?’
‘For your ears only. You understand?’
Not a lover’s words; they were pragmatic. Not a surprise coming from Felicitra’s lips. The crew knew little of her true calling. Petra presumed they thought her a travelling diplomat of sorts; often appearing in the company of town elders. Few had ever questioned her affairs, perhaps because of the rules under which they sailed; Petra’s commandment that forbade interrogation. Once aboard, and part of the crew, your past was your own. Only Shadow had questioned Felicitra’s presence, and Petra had told him all she could without breaking her bond to Felicitra. Anxious of what would come, Petra entered the stateroom and closed the door behind.
‘Cult business?’ she asked.
‘Not directly. But my father is too poorly to travel. The runner who came yesterday told me that people are already leaving. They don’t trust the Seer’s faith.’
‘And what of your father?’
Felicitra smiled; it seemed ill at ease on her troubled face. ‘I had warnings of this eventuality—of the Seer’s defiance. We’ve tried to make him see sense, but it doesn’t take a network of spies to see the endgame.’ She drummed her fingers on Petra’s wide desk. ‘I’ve hired help for my father. Though I’ll need to oversee his evacuation myself. Trust is a rare commodity in these delicate moments; too many profiteers and cut-throats waiting to take what isn’t theirs.’
Petra questioned the need for privacy. ‘Everyone has family somewhere, Felicitra.’ She gestured to the confines of the stateroom. ‘Why did you need to speak in here?’
‘Because of this.’ Felicitra removed a letter from the drawer in the desk.
‘What’s that? And how did it get there?’
‘I put it there yesterday. I’ve been carrying it for a while; wasn’t sure when to show it to you.’
‘Show?’
Felicitra inhaled and clicked her tongue. It was one of her rare tells; a trait to betray her anxiety. Petra understood that whatever came next wouldn’t be sweet roses and delicate perfume. She leant on her prized darkwood desk. Something solid to steady the nerves.
Holding the letter toward her, Felicitra said, ‘If I don’t come back, you…’
‘You bloody will come back!’
Felicitra paused; she kept the letter floating between them, giving it a gentle shake. ‘If I don’t…’
Grim thoughts in her mind, Petra shook her head. ‘Put it back in the drawer.’ She nodded to the desk. ‘You can do what you want with it when you return.’
Felicitra, her grip tight on the letter, stared at Petra.
‘The drawer,’ Petra said.
‘You’re a stubborn bitch. You’ll not relent, will you?’
‘I’d sooner burn that, than take it from your hands. I’ve no interest in what it says, not if it requires your absence to say it. You’ll come back, and you can read it to me over a glass of wine and candlelight. We’ll laugh at how you made such a drama about this. Understood?’
With a sigh, Felicitra placed the letter in the drawer. She appeared to hesitate before pushing it closed. It shut with a gentle thud of the solid Drohendrian timber. ‘You understand I have no desire to stay in Arkallon?’ She pointed at the desk. ‘One day, Petra, if the time comes, you’ll open it? Promise me.’
With the letter and whatever sombre message it contained hidden from view, Petra accepted Felicitra’s request without fear of loss. ‘I promise. I’ll listen to whatever it says… when you read it to me.’
‘You’ll truly not give up, will you?’
Petra shook her head. ‘Not for you.’
‘Then, when you hear my voice, you’ll listen?’
‘Always.’
‘Good.’ Felicitra appeared content, although her focus drifted back to the letter secured in the drawer.
Good. It was strange how it sounded. Final. Perhaps the atmosphere; the talk of a dangerous journey ahead. How better to be prepared than to ask Felicitra more?
‘So, tell me, if I’m forbidden to travel with you and your secretive friends; your mission to Arkalla, to your father; give me all the details. Reassure me of your safety and how easy this will all be. I’ve no wish to wait here and fret like a child.’
Felicitra moved around the desk and stood before her, reaching for Petra’s hands. ‘We wouldn’t want the crew to see that now, would we?’
‘While you travel, I can go back to being as cold as ice.’
Nodding to the outside, Felicitra smiled. ‘In Laria, ice is relatively warm.’
Petra leant in, kissing her on the lips. ‘Shut up. Now, your journey: tell me your plans and of when you’ll return.’ A pause, a thought. ‘Do I need to make room aboard the Melody for your father?’
.png)