The Redemption of Erâth: Exile

By Satis

Exiled from his homeland, never to return, Brandyé Dui-Erâth finds himself lost in the wilderness on the coast of a black sea, with the influence of Darkness closing in around him. Here, he learns the true meaning of solitude, and begins to discover that he indeed has an influence on the world that is beyond the natural.

Soon, he finds he is not alone in the greater lands of Thaeìn, and is captured and taken in by the Cosari, a seafaring nation whose delight is in battle, glory and death. Thus begins a new chapter in Brandyé’s life, one that will lead him from the rocky islands of Cosar through the dangerous forests of the Trestaé Mountains, and ultimately to the greatest kingdom of men in all of Erâth.

Along the way he discovers old friends and new enemies, and learns ever more about the world of Erâth, its history and its future, and the role he has to play in its fate.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Christopher North
• Release date: Feb 21, 2016
• ISBN: 9781310867033

Satis

Satis began writing stories from childhood and studied music composition at the Guildhall School of Music and Drama in London. His twin loves of music and writing have stayed with him throughout his life, and he regularly introduces his son to new music, as well as writing bedtime stories for them to read together. He currently lives with his wife and their son in northern New Jersey.

Book preview

Part I:

Cosari of the South

Chapter 1

The Black Sea

Brandyé Dui-Erâth was alone, and cold. The mouth of the Tuiraeth was many miles behind, left to empty itself into the dead and ugly sea. Some way inland he had found meager grass and running water, and there he lived among the hard stone and moss. He wandered aimlessly along the coast, not wishing to look upon the dark waters, yet unwilling to lose sight of the coast for fear of becoming lost.

He was ten slow months from the Perneck and the last trace of what he had for all his life known as home, and was indeed as exiled as the Fortunaé could have desired. Comfort was nearly forgotten, now but a stray memory of firelight, tea and rich tales. His chin grew thick with bristles, though he knew it only by touch—there were no mirrors to be found, nor even a pool of calm water.

He sought refuge under what little cover there was; here and there at the foot of the cliffs were many hollows and caves, and these sheltered him from the worst of the elements. Among the weeds near the small streams that filtered down through the rock were bitter grasses that he could nonetheless stomach, and small animals and vermin that he could catch.

The winter he had once spent with his grandfather, isolated from Burrowdown and unwelcome by all the village folk, now proved its worth; whilst he had neither soil nor seed to cultivate a garden, he had collected a good flint as soon as he was able, and kept always a pinch of dry grass beneath his tunic. Thus he could make fire when he wished, and the toads and mice were not half so bad once they were well-roasted.

More rarely there was larger game, and it was then that he was glad to still be in possession of his crossbow. Though he still held it in bitter contempt, he could not deny its usefulness in bringing down hares and marmots, which provided the best meat he could find. It was the only tool he owned though, and he longed for a knife to skin and butcher his dinner, even if it was the black dagger that in his flight had been lost from his hand, if not from his thoughts.

As it was, he sharpened a flat stone against a rock as best he could, and it served to provide him with food, and also with warmth. His cloak was lost, and his torn tunic and ragged breeches did little to cover him. With each new skin, however, he was able to patch the rents in his clothing, stitched roughly with a tough weed stalk, and he soon found he was wearing more fur than cloth.

He was grateful of such sustenance and cover, for it was often rainy and always cold. Despite what he could catch or graze, he was ever hungry, and grew thin and pale. His wounds were poorly healed, and he limped as he walked; his left shoulder remained stiff and sore from the constable’s blade that had pierced him there.

More than the cuts and bruises, though, which he did not feel, and more than the desolate and numb landscape that surrounded him, which he scarcely noticed, his thoughts were filled by a bleak gray that was deeper even than the clouded skies. During sleepless nights and long, gloom-filled daytime treks, his mind wandered here and there, both recalling the haunting imagery of the past and envisaging the drear of the future. Oddly, he dwelled little on Sonora’s death; perhaps guilt and loathing had taken of his heart what they could, or perhaps he feared he could no longer survive if he more than saw her face behind closed eyes in the dark. Instead, he found himself focused more on the visions and impossible journeys to unimaginable lands that Shaera—figure of Death—had led him through. Throughout his childhood these had been intangible; though he could not explain how he appeared in such unfamiliar places, they bore so little resemblance to his own world that he had ultimately dismissed them as fantasy, places lost from another time.

Yet here lay a sea every part as dark as that over which he had stood when Shaera had revealed herself and her company to him. He desired nothing more than to forget her words, and those of Elyn of Light, whose words of hope still tore at his heart. Yet faced with the inescapable reality of that black ocean, he began to fear the reality of the other lands that he had seen.

These thoughts occupied him incessantly, for here there was no respite, no distraction from the complete absence of mankind. He had at first thought that he might find comfort in the solitude of these barren lands, but instead he felt more alone than when every child in Burrowdown called him a demon. On some days, the wind would die low, and if he lay sheltered in a small hollow he knew a silence like none he had ever heard; a deafening, numbing dearth of noise that left his ears aching with the pulse of his own blood.

Yet a part of him remained encouraged that he might not find his death here among the cliffs, having never breathed a word to another soul. He remembered also Reuel’s tales, and the writings that had filled his room. If there were indeed men who lived outside of Consolation, there was some small hope that he might one day encounter them.

It was this more than any other thought that kept Brandyé moving daily. One day, he came across a valley that led inshore, and he saw that as it rose, the rock became dressed in green and the land looked less tainted, and so he ventured forward and away from the dread sea.

He soon found himself under the cover of tall firs whose needles softened the ground, and his feet ached with relief from the unforgiving stone they had been treading for so long. The cold coast wind failed, and to his astonishment he thought he heard the sound of birds in the distance. Ahead he saw that the valley’s stream tumbled over an outcrop, and he caught the scent of good moisture and moss and mold, and wondered if he might find mushrooms there in the shadows.

His eyes had become accustomed to the dull brightness of the gray sky, and so it was not until he was quite close that he noticed the buck standing motionless at the foot of the waterfall. It was deep in shadows and shrouded in ferns, and it was only the passing glint in its eye that gave away its presence. Brandyé felt a small thrill at the sight, and he raised the crossbow from his side and fixed a quarrel to the stock. The animal’s gaze fell upon him—at the bow’s twang it leapt high, and just as swiftly fell dead upon the ground.

Brandyé approached the felled beast, and retrieved his quarrel as he knelt beside it. He rested his hand upon its throat for a few moments, and though the fur was warm, he felt no pulse. Its head lay at an angle, held by its antlers, and he could not look into the black eye. Always when he killed, he remembered learning to hunt, and his vow not to bring death to any beast unless it was for his own survival. Yet this one animal would provide him meat for some days—weeks, if he could find a hollow trunk in which to smoke it—and with its hide he could fashion a veritable cloak, like he had not seen since leaving Consolation.

Satisfied the buck’s life had indeed departed, Brandyé released it and laid his rabbit-skin purse upon the ground. It contained what few tools he had gathered or fashioned, and from among these he drew forth his cutting stone. Wide, flat and sharp, it would serve for butchering for meat now, and later for tanning.

As he brought the stone blade to the buck’s throat to let its blood, the tiniest of movements caught his eye from across the waterfall, and he saw there three further deer, a doe and two fawns, and they were looking upon him as he knelt over their kin. Though he expected no response, he broached his throat and spoke to them, low, for he was unused to speaking: I do not apologize; it’s is for my own life that I have taken that of your companion. I would thank you, though, for allowing me this food. One day you will graze upon my own bones.

To his surprise, the deer started and fled, and he thought perhaps he had spoken louder than he knew when he sensed a further movement almost behind him. In his haste to dress the buck, he had failed to see the cave that led under the waterfall, and from it had now emerged a huge beast, on its four legs as high as a man, with four great paws ending in equally great claws. Keen and bright eyes faced forward at him over a muzzle that would have seemed soft if not for the rusted teeth that were now bared at him. With its dark fur and low growl, it reminded Brandyé of nothing so much as what his grandfather had once described as a bear.

The bear snorted violently, and with a great heave brought itself upon its rear legs, towering over Brandyé so that he was cast into its shadow. Brandyé froze, for he saw no escape.

The bear then fell, crashing down upon him, and with a massive swipe of a paw threw Brandyé far across the ground, away from the fallen deer and away from its cave. Brandyé found himself breathless, and the bear let loose a great howl and turned upon him, maw gaping. Brandyé saw his death and cowered, one hand over his head and one outstretched, as though in futile supplication to the bear not to kill him.

But to Brandyé’s astonishment, the bear suddenly ceased in its charge, and approached Brandyé more gently. Still awaiting the bite of its jaws, Brandyé remained motionless, and the bear lowered its muzzle to his outstretched hand and breathed in deep. It gave a low moan and suddenly backed away a step, lowering its nose to the ground. It then stayed, as motionless as Brandyé, frozen in a deep bow.

After a moment of silence, Brandyé opened his eyes and saw the bear laid down before him, and his thoughts were filled with wonder. For many moments he gazed upon the bear, and for many moments the bear stayed, stirring the pine needles with its breath.

Slowly, Brandyé raised himself from his crouch, watching the bear for further signs of aggression. There were none, however; the bear seemed content where it was, and Brandyé, hand always outreached, settled upon his knees. A sudden impulse overtook him, and he brought his hand gently down and laid it upon the bear’s snout. A great peace filled his thoughts, and he knew the bear meant him no harm.

Do you—do you wish to eat? Brandyé asked of the bear. The words were odd to his ears, as had been those to the deer, but at his voice the bear opened its eyes, its gaze focused upon Brandyé, and heaved itself to its paws. Brandyé fell back, releasing his touch, and the peace fell from him, leaving only an ache, and an odd sadness.

The bear growled—a comfortable, gentle sound—and turned to look back at the deer. Marveling, Brandyé said, Perhaps we can share its meat. You seem as hungry as I am.

The bear turned from him, gripped the deer in its maw, and began dragging it back toward its cave. Tentatively, Brandyé made to follow. The bear did nothing to stop him, so he passed beneath the waterfall and entered its home.

The cave was oddly warm, and was a relief from the cold outside. It was not deep, the rearmost wall only just black with shadow. The great bear carried the deer’s body to the center of the cave, and then from the shadows came small shapes, first one, then another, and then another. Brandyé saw they were young cubs, no larger than a dog, and at the sight of their ribs he keenly felt their hunger. He began to realize that the deer meant a prize meal to this small family, and as he thought of his own struggles for nourishment, a deep sympathy grew in his breast for these great creatures, who surely must need far more to eat than him.

The mother bear released the deer and sat upon her haunches, her small cubs circling around her and finally settling by her side in imitation. Brandyé stared into the gloom at this family, and they stared back at him. You have beautiful children, he said to the bear; naturally, she did not respond. For a moment Brandyé’s brow furrowed, and a thought occurred to him unbidden. May I give you a name? he asked the bear. She did not object, and so he said the word that had come to his mind, though he knew not what it meant. Andèl, he said. I shall call you Andèl.

Andèl snorted, though not disapprovingly, and gently pushed the deer’s body toward Brandyé. His lip twitched, though he did not smile. I see you are not one to waste words. Shall we eat?

It was strangely fortunate that Brandyé should have chanced upon this creature’s home and gain her trust, for winter was soon upon them, and when frost struck the ground and the air grew clear with cold he was glad of the shelter. The deer’s hide had made an excellent coat, and he was quite warm and comfortable as he left light tracks in the frost, searching for his evening’s meal.

Andèl and her cubs soon turned to sleep, her great body curled around her young ones, and they stirred only every few days, and even then only to drink from the stream. As they passed him they seemed quite fascinated by Brandyé’s fire, and failed to understand why he desired its warmth, nor why he burned his meat upon it. There was no shortage of wood, and Andèl seemed not to mind him keeping it dry in her cave.

After many months the frost finally lifted, and then the rain came. It felt hardly any warmer, and Brandyé wondered at the seasons of this place; it appeared to shrug the conventions he knew in favor of a cold season, and a slightly colder season. The rags of his tunic had fallen to shreds, and he now was clothed in patchwork hides that kept him quite dry even in a downpour. Nonetheless, the dismal atmosphere of the rain quite lowered his spirits, and he spent much of his day at the entrance to the cave, gazing into the rain and into nothing.

Somehow the presence of Andèl and her cubs began to impress upon him the true weight of his isolation even more than when he had been alone. For some time he had been content with speaking and singing to himself, but he now passed the hours in silence, and quite forgot the sound of his own voice. He began to long for the sight and voice of another person, and he knew that soon he must leave this place, if only to prevent his own insanity.

Yet he had come to think of Andèl’s cave as home, and felt quite safe; she and her cubs had awoken from their deep slumber with the rains, and her young grew swiftly. His protection now was not only his bow but sixteen sets of claws also, and this was important to him, for in all his time in the wild he had not forgotten the fierundé. He had seen no trace or sign of their presence, but they were nonetheless always a shadow in the back of his mind.

After endless weeks, there finally came a day when the rain ceased, and the clouds lifted higher than usual (though did not part; Brandyé had yet to see the sun even once in this land). Brandyé had taken the chance to pass further up the valley than he had ever done before, curious to see where it might lead and what he might find at the head of the stream.

He soon came to a place where the stream coursed over a short cliff, higher than that under which Andèl had made her home, and he thought that from its height he might have an unobstructed view over the treetops. It was not a difficult climb, though he felt quite exerted by the time he lifted himself over the top, and he took a moment to drink from a waterskin he had made from a badger’s coat.

From here he could see once more the black expanse of the sea, and he felt an illness return to his breast that he had forgotten since leaving the shore. Its waters were as lightless and bleak as ever, and he turned his eyes away to look over the valley’s trees instead.

It was then that he saw the wisps of smoke rising high beyond the forest, not two miles down the coast. At first he thought perhaps it was lifting fog, but it persisted and did not spread, and he knew it for what it was: fire.

His heart leapt in his chest, and mad thoughts and hopes of the company of men dashed through his head. He drew himself up from the ground and nearly threw himself down the cliff. All caution was gone; that the fire might be natural, that the men he imagined might prove hostile to him—these were things that did not occur to him as he raced among the trees and down the valley.

He had gone perhaps half a mile when he was brought suddenly to a halt. Quite unexpectedly, a great howl thundered through the trees, deep and angry and hurt. For an age it went on, and his blood ran cold. He had never heard such a sound, yet knew its provenance at once: Andèl!

Redoubling his pace he leapt among the trees, and in minutes had arrived at the cave beneath the waterfall. There was no sign of violence; the cave was empty, but such was not unusual during the day when Andèl and her cubs foraged the woods, and his own things were undisturbed. Nonetheless, he knew from Andèl’s terrible cry that there was something fearful in the woods, and he traded his waterskin for a pouch of quarrels fashioned from wood, bone and horn. He made this fast about his waist, and with crossbow in hand, he ventured from the cave, cautious now, to search for the bears.

It was by chance alone that, after perhaps twenty minutes, he came across one of Andèl’s cubs by the waterside, pawing nervously at the wet stones and looking this way and that. He approached him gently, hand outstretched, and the cub—now almost as large as a pony—made a grateful sound and nuzzled his head against Brandyé’s palm. Kneeling, Brandyé held the cub and felt his fear, and knew something had happened to Andèl.

Come, he said gently, I’m here, and I will protect you. Lead me to your mother.

The cub made a doubtful sound, but raised himself to his feet, and set off at a pace through the woods. Walking swiftly, Brandyé followed the young bear, his bow gripped between white-knuckled hands.

It was not more then ten minutes before Brandyé was led to a scene that rent his heart. In an open space of pine needles lay Andèl, on her side and back to him, and without a thought he let his bow fall to the ground as he sped to her side. The earth around her had been greatly disturbed, and many branches hung broken from their trunks or lay splintered on the ground. One small tree had been uprooted entirely, and he saw upon it a great stain of blood. Its color matched that which now reddened the needles beneath Andèl, and he saw that she was wounded.

To his relief, though, she was yet breathing, and he nestled beside her, her head in his hands. What happened? he asked her. She let out a soft moan, and he laid his hand upon her bloody coat. Gently, he felt for the wound, for it was difficult to find beneath her fur. He knew he had come across it only when Andèl let out a wrenching cry of pain, and he pulled away his hand.

The wound was deep, he saw, but—for such a large creature—perhaps not fatal. To his astonishment, it was not teeth, or even a claw, that seemed to have struck her; she suffered from a great gash, some two feet across her chest and shoulder, deep and clean and perfectly straight. This was not made by any animal, he spoke to himself. It looks like a blade wound.

He cast his gaze around him, looking for something to staunch the bleeding, when he saw that Andèl was accompanied now by only two of her cubs. Andèl, he whispered. Where is your third child?

Andèl growled pitifully, and he knew that the cub had been taken. Quite suddenly a fierce anger took him and he stood, retrieving his bow. They will not kill him, he said to Andèl. I’ll return your child to you.

Andèl’s cub appeared to have been dragged across the ground, and the disturbed needles and broken branches provided an easy path to track. As he started down the hill, the cub who had met him by the water began to follow him. He stopped and gestured toward Andèl. Stay! Your mother needs you, and I won’t have you harmed as well. The cub stopped and appeared to frown at him, but Brandyé turned his back to them and set off at a run.

He sped as fast as his feet could carry him, and the broken path led down the valley and toward the dismal beaches. He knew not what evil he was tracking, and wondered if it might gain power in view of that evil ocean. He was encouraged, though, that there was no blood to be seen, and held hope that Andèl’s cub might remain unharmed.

After some time, the trees began to thin and he found himself running across the gray pebbles of the beach, and came to a halt. The marks he had been following faltered here, and he set his gaze about him, searching for any sign of his quarry. In the distance to the south he thought he saw a movement, as of some wounded animal pondering slowly on, lurching violently with every step. The surf was loud, but the wind was in his face and carried to him, faintly, the sounds of whimpering, and with renewed fury he began to sprint desperately across the beach.

As he drew ever closer, he saw that what he pursued was in fact two men, dragging the bear cub in a net behind them, and the astonishment of finding other breathing souls in such wilderness was buried under his desire to bring them down. Upwind, they did not hear his approach, and in his rage he threw himself upon the nearest man, casting him down and driving him into the stones.

His companion gave a startled yell, but Brandyé was quickly upon him. He struck him hard upon the chin, and the second man sprawled on the ground also. Furiously, Brandyé turned his attention to the bear, who was still struggling madly against the net that had ensnared it. Brandyé drew his stone and began to cut at the ropes, but they were strong, and he could not more than fray them.

Behind him he heard the two men fumbling. Before he could react, they had grasped his arms and hauled him from the bear cub. One of them snarled at him in a language he did not recognize, and when he did not respond the other struck him hard and split his lip. The first repeated himself, and the second man released Brandyé and drew forth a great scimitar, and held its tip to Brandyé’s throat.

And then, before Brandyé could even think that these men might very well kill him, there came a great bellow from behind, and Andèl fell from her full height upon the two men. As her claws dug deep into their flesh she cried out in pain, her wound opening yet wider, and she fell to her side. In a flash the man with the scimitar swept his blade across her and drew fresh blood from her cheek.

Andèl turned to face the man with a roar, but Brandyé, who had fallen from the fray, leapt to Andèl’s side. No! he cried. Leave them! They’ll kill you, Andèl, and all your cubs!

Andèl ignored him and bellowed once more at the man, who seemed very much terrified in spite of the sword he held. The first man had crawled away, bleeding from Andèl’s claws, and as he held his wounds with one hand he grasped a stone with the other, and flung it at Andèl.

The stone struck her ear and she howled, torn now between her attackers. She made a move back toward the wounded man on the ground, and Brandyé, seeing the man with the sword advance once more on her, did the only thing he could think of. With all his might he hefted a great stone from the beach, and brought it crashing down upon Andèl’s head.

Without a further sound, Andèl collapsed onto the gravel; her cub, who had ceased struggling at her arrival, began to cry out. For a moment all was still; and then, the wounded man called out angrily, and the other returned his sword to its scabbard and lifted his companion to his feet. He spoke to him roughly in that strange language, and then gestured toward Brandyé. The wounded man drew forth a short dagger, and with a few painful steps put it to Brandyé’s back. He pushed it into his skin, and Brandyé saw that he meant him to move ahead of him.

Then the first man took up the net, and together they resumed their march across the stones. As they left, he looked back at Andèl, worried that he might have struck her too hard. Then, just as they rounded a jut of rock, he saw her begin to stir, and was relieved.

Chapter 2

Isles of the Cosari

What now awaited Brandyé was a thing beyond his imagination. Who these men were remained unknown, but where they had come from was now clear, for before him lay a creation of a size and nature that he had never heard spoken of, even in his grandfather’s wildest tales.

It was a water vessel—so much was clear, for it lay half upon the beach, and half in the shallows of the sea. But it was as unlike the craft that had borne him from Consolation as a pebble is to a mountain. The vessel’s hull rose some ten or more feet above his head, and atop that he saw a great mast, towering high toward the clouds, and from which hung vast drapes of canvas. To the rear of the craft stood another mast, though shorter than the first, and the tapered bow ended in a carving of some fanged beast that reminded him uneasily of a fierund.

There were perhaps a dozen men on and around this great craft, and Brandyé could see many more animals—small deer, foxes, a kind of wild pig, and birds that resembled pheasants. Each was bound in a cage of wood and iron, and whilst some cried and barked, many others remained curled and silent.

The man who had been dragging Andèl’s cub took him on to one of these cages, where, with the aid of others, he forced him in and fastened the bars tight. Despite his fear, curiosity arose in him, and he wondered what purpose these caged animals could serve.

The man who had been guarding Brandyé bled still from his wounds, and had begun to sway. Before he could fall, another man approached and led him away from Brandyé to sit upon the dark sand. Brandyé wondered if now might be the opportunity to escape, but no sooner had the thought crossed his mind than before him stood another imposing figure, in a finer cloth than the others. By his sword and manner Brandyé knew he must be their commander.

Dark and sharp eyes peered upon Brandyé for some time, and despite the many weapons around him he was less frightened than before, for this man appeared quite calm. After many moments, the man who had stolen Andèl’s cub approached, and spoke some words. The commander appeared to listen, though his eyes remained fixed upon Brandyé, and nodded once.

Khi rahn? he spoke finally.

I’m sorry? These words were nonsense to Brandyé, and sounded like nothing he had heard before. The man repeated the phrase, and still without comprehension, Brandyé shook his head. I don’t understand.

At his words, the commander seemed to become quite curious, and he spoke further: Dû strat-hen khi rahn. Dû khimí nèrahn, ma í. Mat-om dû om?

Brandyé shook his head, and could not reply. Nètít dhin khi om? the man said, and he touched his hand to his lips, and then his ear. After a moment the commander repeated the gesture, and Brandyé wondered if it was a question: Do you understand my words? Slowly, he repeated the man’s movement himself, and followed it with a vigorous shake of the head. At this the commander nodded, and though he did not smile, Brandyé saw understanding in his eyes.

Then the man placed his hand upon his breast, and said, Khana. He repeated this, and Brandyé knew what he meant.

Brandyé, he said, placing his hand upon his own chest. The man named Khana repeated this, testing the word on his tongue, and Brandyé nodded, hope rising within him. But then, without warning, Khana barked an order to his men, and Brandyé found himself grasped roughly by the arms, and he was forced away from him and toward the vessel.

There was a ladder made from rope that descended from the side of the ship, and it was up this that Brandyé was led. As he climbed, he saw that the ship had been damaged; many boards at its bow had been greatly splintered, and the men were attending to this, hacking at branches from the forests with large axes to form new planks to repair the rent.

As he reached the deck, he saw that it was well built from strong wood, and formed a large open space along the length of the vessel. From the center of this space rose the mast, and now that he was closer Brandyé was yet more awed by its size. Thick around as a man, it rose high above the deck of the ship, crossbeams holding aloft the great canvases.

On the deck were piled many things: crates and boxes, large barrels, tools, piled canvas, and endless lengths of cord and rope. Yet they were not orderly; he saw that many items had been pushed hastily to the edges of the deck, ropes trailed here and there, and many of the crates and barrels appeared as damaged as the hull—splintered, cracked and shattered.

Brandyé had little more time to survey the ship, for as his captors mounted upon the deck, he was once more taken away, now toward an opening in the deck, whose hatch was flung wide. He saw that it led into the belly of the ship, but there were no stairs; rather, a straight pole stood to one side, from which many short bars protruded: a kind of ladder. In their haste, the men pushed him roughly, and he missed a step and fell heavily to the deck beneath.

The fall brought renewed pain to his arm and shoulder, but the men were swiftly beside him and lifted him bodily from the floor. They brought him to the very rear of the ship, where there were a great many cages and barred spaces, floored with hay and grasses. He was thrust into a large cage, and behind him the iron bars rang as the door was bolted. Then he was alone, and the dark gloom enveloped him. Despite his growing fears, exhaustion overtook him and he slept.

Not a ray of sun shone into his prison, but Brandyé felt many days pass as he endured his isolation. Occasionally food was brought—hard bread and water—but not a further word was spoken to him in any language, and there was no sign of what was to come.

Though he could see little, sounds drifted to his ears from the outside world, and he heard the unfamiliar voices and the sounds of the crew at their labor. Much hammering and splintering came from the ship’s bow, and he knew they were repairing the torn hull. Sometimes he would hear footsteps above him, and the dragging and heaving as they moved large things upon the deck.

After almost a week, lanterns were brought to the lower deck, and there began much bustle as many barrels and other items were lowered through the hatchway and stowed throughout the ship. To his astonishment, among the cargo came the many animals he had seen captured on the shore, still alive and well, and these were now stowed in the cages all around him.

Finally a particularly large creature was brought down, and he saw with a lightening heart that it was Andèl’s cub, well and unharmed. The two men bearing him stopped at Brandyé’s cage and spoke to each other. There seemed to be much argument, and finally one of them drew his sword.

Brandyé thought perhaps he would cut down his crew mate in the heat of their words, but instead he thrust it through the bars at Brandyé. Startled, Brandyé stumbled away until his back was against the ship’s hull. At his apparent fright, the man grinned, and withdrew his blade. The cage was then opened, the cub heaved in, and the door bolted once more.

Brandyé bent to untangle the cub from the net that still ensnared him. After some time he was able to pry apart the many knots in the cord, and the cub then burst forth and dashed madly here and there, pawing at the floor and the walls and bars, and cried out many times in fright.

It was many hours before the cub was finally spent, and he curled into a corner and passed into sleep. Brandyé gazed upon him as his breath became soft, and a deep guilt came over him, for he had failed to free him, and instead had injured his mother. Even here in the wild, it seemed, his fate was to bring doom to those he held dear; he knew not what the crew intended for the poor beast, but he held little hope that it would be good.

I will call you Andèlin, he said gently, though the cub would not hear. In his mind this meant Little Andèl.

Though he saw little of them, he sensed throughout all their labor and efforts that a great anxiety was upon the crew—a sense that felt very close to fear. He had lived here in the wilds now for nearly a year, and though the land was dismal, he had found nothing to greatly frighten him; he worried thus at what greater terror the crew now shuddered.

Eventually, the men ceased their work below deck, and one day he was startled awake by a great heave of the ship’s keel. In his panic he grasped the bars with all his might, though Andèlin appeared nothing more than curious. The sharp movements continued for many minutes, and then were replaced by a slow, soft rocking. It struck him then that the ship must now be mended, and they were floating free upon the black sea.

Terror took him, for he had little reckoning of the sea, and behind his closed eyes he saw great and terrible creatures rising from the deep, bent and twisted by Darkness, and imagined that the very waters themselves might rot the ship’s hull and drown them all.

Yet after much time, the ship remained unassailed from the deep, and no water had seeped between the boards, and Brandyé slowed his breath and released the bars. The ship continued in its sway, and he began to feel quite ill at the incessant motion.

Some days later, after he had been brought a meagre meal, the commander of the vessel appeared before his cage, accompanied by several of his crew. Khana bade one of the crewman unbolt the door, and as it swung open, he beckoned that Brandyé should follow him.

He led Brandyé to the odd ladder and up through the hatch. Brandyé shut his eyes, for the daylight was painful after his long confinement in the dark. As he stood upon the deck, his hands were grasped and bound with heavy manacles, but it meant little to him, for what was laid before him struck him senseless.

Around him, endless in all directions, the sea lay stretched as a vast, empty plain, without an object or mark upon it, bar the crests raised by the wind. Its color remained as black as ever, and it was so imposing that Brandyé felt wholly crushed by its presence. In his desire to turn his eyes from the sea, Brandyé looked upward instead, and was met with a sight that, to him, was equally astonishing.

The canvases that had hung loose and drear from the yards now billowed outward with great force, filled wholly with the wind, and Brandyé saw that the ship was propelled forward at far greater a rate than any manned oars could manage. Indeed, the sea seemed to rush by, and he thought that they must be covering many miles for each hour that passed. As he looked longer, he saw that there were men high on the mast among the sails, pulling on ropes and passing cords down to their fellows on the deck.

This was all more than Brandyé could comprehend, but Khana stood silently beside him, allowing him much time. Finally, when Brandyé seemed to have seen his fill, Khana took Brandyé by the elbow and pointed in the direction of their travel. Bahran, he said.

At Brandyé’s obvious confusion he repeated the word, and then turned and pointed behind them, whence they had come. Tohran.

With wonder, understanding dawned on Brandyé. Taking up the commander’s gesture, he pointed to their rear and said, North.

Tohran, said Khana. Norts.

Yes! Brandyé said. North! He then turned and pointed to the bow. South.

Bahran—Souts.

Yes! Brandyé repeated. South! And he then smiled, and it was the first smile he had had in an age, for he felt no small joy at the commander’s understanding.

Still indicating to the south, Khana now added a further word, but this was more than Brandyé could decipher: Cosar.

Brandyé remained still, gazing southward and wondering what Cosar might be, but suddenly the commander took a step back, and motioned sharply. Swiftly, Brandyé found himself once more seized and brought below the deck, and returned to his cage, where Andèlin awaited.

As the men left him, Brandyé called after them: Please—what are you going to do with me? Can you give me no sign?

The men did not respond, but mounted the ladder once more to the deck, and Brandyé was left again in silence and solitude.

For some weeks the voyage progressed thus; Brandyé would be allowed on deck once each day, and he was generally allowed to go about where he pleased, though his hands remained manacled at all times. He was clearly a prisoner, but was nonetheless treated well: he was not once threatened with violence, and, once the voyage had begun in earnest, fed as well as any of the crew. The commander seemed to have a particular affection for Brandyé, for he spent much time with him, showing him about his ship and introducing him to his men, and their nature.

So different was this to his suffrage under the Fortunaé that he became quite at ease, and began even to speak to the crew. Though of course they could not understand him, he began to learn some of their language, and the crew found amusement in teaching him new words.

He soon learned the purpose of the animals that he had seen captured on the land, for he began to receive meals of salted goat meat and roasted fowl, and even once large eggs, which