Of Mortal Dreams: Chapter V

Althioc

FIVE HUNDRED YEARS AGO

Days like this dispelled any doubts Althioc had as to whether the sea was cursed.

It stretched out before him—furious, roiling, churning around the collection of isles that had become his unlikely home. The gale howled like a wolf at hunt, buffeted against him as if daring him to sway. From his vantage point, the white caps below seemed small but experience assured him that the waves licking the rocks were twice his own height, or taller. Not long ago, the strait had seemed a gift from the gods, a kind of protection that kept his family divided from their enemies. But many years had passed since lesser hands had seized power and forced the Dragars into cold exile. Many summers and winters, all sparse, all harsh, each turn of the season hardening then sharpening his rage into the plan that he now contemplated. For, as he looked across the grey sea from the highest point on Seraq, the largest of the islands that made up the archipelago, he understood what it had become.

The sea was a wall. A wall between him and his birthright.

On a day like this, even Althioc’s keen eyes were unable to find the dark strip of land that drew both gaze and soul westward. But it was there. At all times he felt its presence, an ever-growing awareness, an ever-deepening intention. He remembered the warmth of the summer breeze, the towering sandstone halls, the scent of herbs burning under the sun. He remembered the rich, dark earth soft under his feet, remembered running with his brothers through woods that knew and feared them. The memories, once sweet, now only served as easy kindling for a deep and abiding fury.

He turned from his westward watch and began making his way down what could barely be called a path. He took it in great leaps and abruptly dropped out of the screaming wind. It was no more than a rush by the time he set foot on flatter ground, its force blocked by the towering rock formations that jutted upward and had earned Seraq its name. For, in the first tongue, seraqmeant crown and, from the mainland, the island looked like a king’s ornament against the eastern horizon.

Impassable sheer cliffs hemmed in its sides, and its northern, southern, and westward points rose high above the sea, but the heart of Seraq was a basin where rain collected and created a freshwater lake. Along the edge of this lake lay Seraq’s one village, a collection of stone and mud houses and a great throne-hall that had taken too long to build. They called the place Gesu.

Althioc had never learned what the name meant. Nor did he care. As with everything here, Gesu paled in comparison to the beauty and grandeur of the true capital, with its architecture and agriculture, its music and sophistication. Gesu would be one of the most forgettable villages on the mainland. Yet it was where Gisgar, ruler of these islands, held court.

If it can be called that. Court, indeed. It was closer to a handful of bedraggled men whose ancestors had resisted the rule of Althioc’s own family and chosen exile. The irony of finding refuge with such people would have been amusing, if the situation wasn’t so dire.

Out of respect for his family’s hosts, he did not run past the herd of small, horned sheep that was grazing on one of the upper slopes. If he had, they might have scattered or run themselves off the cliff, as they had once already, when the Dragars had first arrived on Seraq. His pace—slower than was natural for him—did offer one benefit.

Time.

The plan to retake his father’s throne had been a seedling in his mind almost as soon as they had fled to the islands. The Usurper’s betrayal lay at the back of every thought, every dream, every memory. Even the rare moment of levity was stained by the unforgivable and faithless. Althioc would have gone mad without the hope of their return, but he still coveted these few moments before he revealed his intentions. They were possibly the last moments of peace he would have for a long time.

As eldest brother and heir to the throne, Allar would find every weakness with the idea, coming at it from every angle, exploiting every uncertainty—and there were many. He had been trained to rule as a king, not to rebel. And they were rebels, now. Ayari would find every reason to go through with it and Alphen would follow whichever two siblings joined arms, as he always had and always would. But their father and mother were another matter, much harder to predict and with opinions that carried ultimate weight. They had begun to build a life on these isles, the place of their exile and humiliation, and showed no signs of redressing their grievances.

This lack of protest disturbed him most of all.

Althioc often saw his father, the King, walking with Gisgar among the berry fields and sheep herds, or along the upper cliffs looking to the east. They had developed a genuine mutual respect—even a friendship—something Althioc would never understand. His mother, too, had made herself a part of the Seraqinas, attuning herself to their way of life and teaching their children long-forgotten histories. Wherever the King and Queen went, what few allies his family had brought with them followed suit. Those who had fled Karahas with them had long since moved between the different isles, settling into the seaward-life. It was as if they’d all forgotten this wasn’t their choice.

We have time, he’d heard some say. There is no reason for haste.

They lived many, many hundreds of years longer than the most long-lived mortal or mage. They could lie in wait for all time and return to Karahas when they sensed a weakness in their enemy. They would ask him—why now? Why not wait until the way is absolutely clear?

Because the longer we wait the deeper the roots.

Heartbeats quickened as he neared the town, drawing him out of his reverie and back to the present moment. Tawny-headed children scattered into the shadows of cured fish barrels, between rows of drying eight-legs that rattled in the wind, or behind the group of women that was butchering a recent catch of morfil’gweyln—a fatty, pale whale that sometimes beached itself on the rocky northern shore or got stranded in the ocean caverns, where schools of fish could hide but could also escape when the tide dropped.

Four of the mories had paid dearly for their greed. Their mistake would provide precious meat, fat, even oil for what lamps existed on Seraq. Their skin and blubber were also good for trading with the rogue merchants that dared cross the channel every few months, bringing with them things that were not native to the isles—soft cloth and clothing, spices, medicinal tinctures, sheep, goats, even dogs for pets. Southern sugar stalk was a great treat for the people here, whose tongues were accustomed to finding sweetness even in the bitter flesh of the bright red winterberries that clung to every crevice and protected nook.

The last merchant skiff had appeared in the isle’s only harbor two moons ago. The whales could not have made their fatal error at a better time. Seraq was due a visit. This fact, that they might need to barter at any moment, had made the women almost frenzied in their carving of the meat.

Their hands were slick with it, the fronts of their coarse dresses blackened by it, their weathered, honest faces flecked by it—it poured out of the dead whales and made gory rivulets through the grass and gravely earth. A couple of the women were half-singing, half-humming a familiar song in the same, ancient language that survived here, the same language that bore seraq and morfil’gweyln. Althioc barely heard them, tense and eager to be gone. His lungs burned and his insides stiffened at the scent of the blood as he passed.

They whispered amongst one another at his arrival. He only understood one word between them—ilfyc. It meant ‘hungry one’ in their tongue, the meaning and reality of which Althioc was intensely aware as he passed the carnage. The wind was blowing favorably, drawing the scent of the blood away from him, so it was only a few moments before he found relief on the northern side of the village. But the sound of sharpened knives slicking through skin and sinew followed him.

His family lived just outside the capital of Seraq, high up one side of the lake basin, in a house much larger than the rest by necessity, nestled among the rocks and bursts of bright red winterberries. From the vantage point, one could see the whole of the isle, far out to the sea in the east, and each of the other islands to the north and south. The only direction one could not easily see was westward, towards Karahas. It was half the reason Althioc refused to live with them. It was as if his father was intentionally forgetting the past.

As if to prove the point, Gisgar and King Alstior were sitting outside, their faces aglow from a fire in the deep pit his father had dug with his own hands. Even from here, he saw the smokey stain on their faces. The air smelled of salt and a foul burnt stench. Dried seaweed made for common kindling, along with the driftwood that found its way from the sea-side forests of the northern mainland and the blackish tar that oozed from many of Seraq’s crevasses. With the tar, the one thing the Seraqi could be sure of was fire.

Althioc approached the fire pit slowly. The King wore rough, sheepswool garments the women in the village had woven for him with great effort. From afar, and if he were not beside a much smaller mortal, his father would have looked like a common man. The sight made Althioc shudder.

They were deep in discussion. King Alstior was listening intently.

“Rwy’din vy mendi vrth i’mi dy fendi,” Gisgar recited, gesturing. “Di vrth i’mi vy mendi. That is our way.”

“You bless me as I bless you as you bless me—roughly,” Alstior mused aloud. “A recalling that we are treated as we treat, are given as we give.”

“Just so.”

The King waved Althioc over. “Come, sit.”

Althioc had no desire to sit with an irrelevant mortal. Gisgar looked uncomfortable at his arrival, sitting up a little straighter. Good.

“Tell me another,” Alstior demanded. “Your language is an interesting one.”

After another round of insistence, the man relented. “Fel y llyad, felly'r bywyth.”

Alstior frowned in thought. “As the mind…”

“Aye.”

“…so the life.”

The translation was accurate, apparently, because they chuckled together, seeming very pleased with themselves. Althioc waited what felt like a fair amount of time before clearing his throat. His efforts did not matter. Anything he did drew Gisgar’s instant attention. The people here feared Althioc the most of all his siblings. He had not yet taken the time to figure out why. In fact, he preferred it. Gisgar stood, correctly assessing that Althioc wanted him gone.

“My Seraqina will be about done with the mories,” he mused incorrectly. Althioc could see that the women below were still knee deep in blood and innards. “Will just see if she needs me.”

The King nodded. “Goodnight then.”

The two rulers said good night. Althioc turned to find his father’s jewel-green eyes fixed on him, in the unnerving way that only his could be. Normally, it was Althioc’s gaze that frightened. As always with his father, it was his turn.

“What brings you to the house?”

Neither of them were cold and the only mortal had gone, but Althioc threw a clump of dry moss onto the fire out of habit. He wanted something to do.

“Am I not welcome?”

“You ever expect my derision,” Alstior sighed. “I have begun to think it is your own mind that condemns you.”

His father had grown fond of platitudes.

“Perhaps that is why you do not come home often,” the King mused.

Home.

“This,” Althioc said pointedly, gesturing at the isle. “Is not our home.” 

He had enunciated every word so that his meaning was inescapable. He knew this had had the proper effect when his father stilled and his gaze darkened. But neither explanation nor agreement nor anger was forthcoming. The silence was enraging.

“You sit among rocks while a usurper sits on your throne,” Althioc finally gritted out. “You barter words with lesser men while he ravages our ancient lands. You care for the Seraqi more than you do for the honor of our people. Have you no shame?”

His voice had risen of its own accord, and he heard the swift footsteps of his mother from inside the great, stone house. She appeared at the doorway, dark hair braided intricately in the style of the Seraqina. Her bronze eyes glowed with a warning.

“Duty, yes. Shame, no.” His father’s words were plain, thoughtful. “Shame has no place in the mind of a king, nor in the mouth of his son.”

The air between them was tense. Were this any other moment, any other place in all the years they had known one another, Althioc would have apologized. But exile had changed him. He would not relent.

“You will beg your father’s forgiveness,” his mother said coolly. Her normally sweet voice had an edge. “Or you will never return.”

“Heretha.”

“He questioned your honor.”

“Will you now question me?” No answer came. “Leave us.”

She lifted her chin and went back inside, disappearing into the shadows beyond the doorway. But the scent of her anger lingered. She would be listening. When the silence settled, Alstior spoke again.

“Your brothers are on Klysmos,” he began, peering at his son. “Is that why you challenge me now?”

Althioc had waited for their absence, but not in the way his father imagined.

“I do not come to challenge you. I come because I can look away from Karahas no longer,” Althioc replied. “We must act.”

Alstior folded his hands between his knees. “With what army? Most of our allies turned to the Usurper and those that followed us here are no great force.”

“I propose an alliance.”

“With?”

And this was where Althioc’s courage nearly failed him. Say it, he ordered himself. If he could not say it to his father, he would have no hope to follow through on it.

“Bladmuir.”

The King’s face, normally so measured and unreadable contorted into an unmistakable expression of disturbed disbelief. The sense of incredulity at his son’s foolishness was palpable. But again, Althioc did not relent. He did not even move, waiting. His father’s voice had the tone of a teacher when he finally did respond. His gaze had darkened with anger and disappointment.

“Mages cannot be trusted,” he said. “You know this.”

“Perhaps not, but their motives can be.”

His father’s gaze narrowed. “Such words expose your ignorance.”

“Survival is their greatest object, as ours is for us,” Althioc finished. “If we offer them something more advantageous than their current circumstances, they might take our side.”

His words gave the King pause. “What could we offer them that would be more advantageous?”

“We would recognize the mage-king and Bladmuir as their land,” he explained. He had to speak quickly, or his words would fail him. “He would answer to you, but speak on their behalf. A kingdom within our own.”

His father said nothing but his eyes glinted. Althioc swallowed drily. He had only once or twice felt the burning need to flee, and both had been in the presence of his father. When angry, the King could be terrifying. Even so, Althioc managed to say one more thing.

“Would you rather dwell in exile?”

The King’s gaze softened, grew distant. Thoughtful. Althioc knew that to say more would do more harm than good. His father unfolded abruptly.

“The greatest challenge to your plan will be finding a mage that you can trust,” Alstior continued pointedly. “Only when you do, will we discuss this matter again.”

He peered into Althioc’s face for another moment then disappeared into the house, likely to seek the Queen’s counsel. He had not agreed, but he had not said no unequivocally. That was good enough for Althioc.

Althioc made his way back to his hut, a much smaller stone structure that faced directly west. The scent of blood reached him as he neared, and he found a chunk of morie meat on his doorstep. The lack of ceremony and the trace of bloody footsteps suggested it was the work of one of the women who had butchered the creatures—more an offering than a gift. 

His mouth began to water, primed by the carnage from earlier that day. He looked around, broadening his hearing until he was certain he was alone. Then he ate the offering raw, as his people could and preferred to do except when in the company of the Seraqi, who found the practice barbaric and frightening.

Ilfyc indeed. The isle-folk weren’t wrong. Hungry ones.

As Althioc looked out over the strait and ate his meal, hoping to glimpse a merchant’s ship, his satisfaction at having approached his father faded. His father had challenged him to find a mage of honor, but the work began with getting a message back to Karahas. The mages of Bladmuir were no enemy to the rogue sea merchants that defied the Usurper’s new government—he had smelled their magical wares on ships more than once—but Althioc’s message carried with it far greater consequences than that of any potion. And who could he trust to deliver it? As he wiped his bloody hands on a patch of moss and licked his lips, his next battle with the King became clear.

I should go. Alone, he could move freely and swiftly, ensuring delivery and giving the offer of an alliance more weight. I should go.

But his father would never allow it.

The next day, dawn broke with a whisper. The howling wind had stilled in the night, leaving the sea strangely calm and the sky perfectly clear. The sun rose and spilled over the eastern horizon, casting the isles’ shadows towards Karahas and lighting up the far line of cliffs. Leaning against the western side of his hut, Althioc heard the soft, quick beat of a runner approaching. It could only be one of his people—no one else could move that fast. But it was the scent that gave his sister away. There was no need to look over his shoulder. She came to a stop, not even winded. Althioc shook his head. The Seraqi knew what his family was and Althioc cared little for their comfort, but there was no point in spooking them at every turn. Their father had been clear on that.

“Is it early enough to be running at full pace? The fishermen have been up for hours.”

Ayari glanced ironically to the right then to the left, without a word, then bent down to dust off her bare ankles. She refused to wear shoes.

“Mother just told me about your aim to retake Karahas and I was hardly going to walk.”

His sister’s candor was one of her strong suits, but he did dread it at times.

“And?”

“I stand with you.”

She unfolded again, almost as tall as he was. She had taken to weaving sea-bird feathers in her hair with braids, as many of the younger Seraqinas did. But at least her spear-shaped ears—yet another sign of their true nature—remained unhidden.

“Indeed, sometimes I cannot believe how long it has taken us to act. And father is considering it, perhaps because he has been considering it for longer than we knew,” she mused, turning towards him. “But do you have an actual plan? One that is also political?”

Althioc scoffed, standing beside her. “Yes.”

“The mages,” she replied, waving away his testiness. “Why would they side with us? They have already withheld their support once before.”

He kept his gaze on the western sea, hoping to see a ship. He was not keen to tell Ayari the truth just yet. That the mages would have a king.

“They hate Deladari as much as we do.”

“Shared hatred makes for weak alliances. You know that,” Ayari said. Her voice was distant, as if she were talking to herself. She had been a great reader and writer when they lived at Dabdagan but, on Seraq, she had only her memories of the ancient scrolls and tablets. She blinked, returning to the present. “How do you really intend to inspire them?”

Ayari had so far been friendly towards his plans. But the next piece, a crucial one, might mean the end of her support entirely. She waited.

“With a chance at their own king and kingdom.”

Almost before he was done speaking, something like a snarl rose at the back of her throat. Althioc felt his own defenses rise at the display, another hallmark of their kind. It was why the gods had sent their ancestors to Karahas—to tame it. At this moment, Ayari looked every bit a creature, her dark eyes ablaze with rage and indignation, her overlong teeth visible, her head lowered. They faced one another, holding their ground.

“Ayari, calm down.”

“Calm.” She let out a scathing laugh. “You would split the kingdom?”

“Never.”

Her upper lip was still curled. “What then?”

“Their king would answer to ours,” Althioc snapped back, trying to reel in his own savage nature. “Besides, we have time. They do not.”

It was a moment before she understood him. She peered at him askance.

“Treachery then?”

He disliked the word, but yes.

“The mages have never been able to master themselves in the simplest of matters for long. A mage kingdom would collapse,” he quipped. “And we have thousands of years to undo whatever tangle they create.”

The strain between them had drifted away. Ayari looked out over the sea, deep in thought. She took a breath, seemingly calmed.

“It is different, certainly from what father taught us,” she offered. “Your plan also requires a great number of mages to pass through the white-tree and emerge with true magic. Most do not even deign to try. They fear it. Too many have gone and not returned.”

He knew this. “The Nossidar bloodline is promising. Uelas and Einfal were impressive in their own right as youths and they will be stronger now,” he said, remembering the mage-king and his two sons. “I believe they would prevail, if they took the chance.”

“Nossidar—Evershade. Powerful blood,” she admitted, using their common-name. “Though I always thought the other children were more impressive.”

He had no interest in which mages were more impressive to Ayari but, before he could say so, something flashed white in the distance. Althioc stepped forward, training his eyes on the speck. His sister followed his alert gaze. A lone merchant vessel was skuttling across the waves towards Seraq—the first to brave the crossing after the storm.

The path down to the island’s harbor was slippery and narrow, with an unforgiving slab of grey stone on one side and a sheer fall into churning waters on the other. It had claimed many a traveler and many a foolhardy youth in the years since he’d lived here. Not for reasons of safety, Althioc bypassed the treacherous path entirely, leapt from the cliff, and landed surefooted on the uneven jetty that made for an equally dangerous berth place. Ayari followed behind. It was harder to see the lone skiff that approached from where he now stood, nearly level with the sea. Only its spindly, bobbing mast was visible at times.

Overhead and at their backs, excited voices announced the merchant vessel’s long-awaited arrival to the rest of the island’s inhabitants, who only now could see it. Moments later, the smell of near-fresh morie meat wafted down to him. The women of the isles were ready for their long-awaited windfall, whether they sought herbs, or precious metals, or wine and spirits that were otherwise out of reach. The small boat was in full view now, its oars extended as the captain maneuvered through the narrow channel that led into the small, rounded bay. 

Althioc loped to the end of the jetty. The first sailor to see him needed no encouragement to throw him the mooring line, a grin on his young, round face. Althioc looped the rope over one shoulder, briskly drawing the skiff in one forearm length at a time. It was like pulling in a leaf boat. Althioc whipped the rope back to Ayari, who snatched the rippling line out of the air. She looped it around the mooring then joined him, shoulder to shoulder.

“Always glad for the hand at this spot,” called the sailor who had thrown him the line. He was young and buoyant, not unlike a piece of cork bobbing in the sea, and hopped onto the jetty as the small band of travelers began to unburden the boat. He straightened his woolly cap. “I swear this port is always tryin’ to kill ya.”

“You must have been caught in the storm,” Ayari said, surprised.

“Aye, full face to it,” the boy sniffed. Althioc and Ayari towered over him. “But good fortune herself was with us.”

The way he said the words and the way he looked back at the boat, alerted Althioc that something was amiss only a heartbeat before the scent of magic reached him. Powerful magic. His eyes were drawn to the doorway of the boat’s tiny cabin, where a head of ash-white hair appeared, framing the narrow, pale face of what looked to be a young mortal woman. At first, she saw the landing with relief. But just as quickly, and as if she knew just how much danger she was in, she froze—her eyes flicking between Althioc and Ayari. She stood there until someone pushed her aside.

“Dear gods,” Ayari muttered. “Fate has been hard at work.”

Indeed. Here before him, with frightfully perfect timing, was a possible answer to the questions he had been asking himself just last night. Yet, now that he was looking at her, he found himself unable to think of anything except the mages’ betrayal. If they had taken his family’s side twenty years ago, Deladari never would have prevailed and his father would still be seated on the throne. Ayari’s swift, unyielding grip on his arm was a needed warning. He uncurled his fists.

The slim she-mage made her way onto the dock, helped by the boy who had spoken to Althioc. She smelled faintly of seasickness, her hair badly matted. Her clothes seemed to have been worn for many days, soiled by food and drink and other, less pleasant stains. Yet she carried herself with pride, and made straight for Althioc and Ayari with measured steps. Once in front of them, she swept her dirty skirts aside and fell to one knee at their feet. Brother and sister shared a surprised look but, even then, neither of them spoke. After a moment, the traveler stood again with effort.

“To be plain, this is not how I had hoped to meet,” she began, head bowed. “I was to go to Klysmos and contact you from there, but the captain was unwilling to hold to his original course, given the storm.”

How she had ended up on one island versus another was irrelevant. “Why have you come at all?”

His question hung in the air, surrounded by the busyness of the dock as the islanders unloaded the merchant vessel. The mage seemed to weigh her options, glancing around, as if she wasn’t sure whether it was safe to speak. Althioc noted the strange, silvery color of her eyes. It was a color he had never personally seen. She lowered her voice to something just below a whisper, something only Althioc and Ayari could hear.

“My name is Isydenia,” the mage murmured, again so quietly that only they could hear over the din. “And I seek an audience with your father, the true King.”

“Why?”

“My uncle is preparing to make war against our shared enemy.”

Althioc scoffed. “And who is your uncle?”

“To some, he is a king.”

Nossidar. Fate had, indeed, been at work. Beside him, Ayari’s breath caught.

“I know of you. You and your brother—did you come alone?”

“Yes,” the she-mage said simply. “I would risk no other lives.”

One could call that bravery. But it might also be pure desperation. Althioc watched the she-mage closely, searching for falsehood in her face, her movement, even her heartbeat. He had not found any. Yet.

“Do you then speak only for yourself?”

At his question, the faintest frown gathered on her forehead, but her voice was even. “I speak for my uncle and for many.”

Distrust swelled up in him suddenly. The timing, the urgency, even the words she used felt entirely too coincidental. It could not be so simple.

“Why now?”

She turned her face towards him fully. “I have traveled long and far and there is much to tell. May I sit?”

“Sit there,” Althioc bit back, pointing at a barrel. “If you do not speak true, we will know it. And we will be as close to the King as you ever get.”

The deep breath, the way she held her head and set her shoulders as she slowly made her way to the barrel and sat—she was not used to being commanded. It was the first thing that convinced him she truly did speak on the mage-king’s behalf. That, and the fact that she had come alone. She must have great confidence in her magic.

“The Usurper has begun burning the white-trees,” she said, the pain clear in her voice. “There is one left in Bladmuir and one at Dabdagan. Young mages are escorted there by a great company, once a year, and few are permitted even to make the journey. They are discourage”

Ayari and Althioc shared a surprised look. Whatever the Dragars’ opinion of mages, their right to the allwood trees was considered as sacred as the borders of Karahas. It was a birthright so old that no one knew when it had begun. Without touching one of the white-trees and enduring whatever hidden trial lay in store, a mage would never be anything more than a healer. Their magic was earned, through light and fire.

“To sap your numbers,” Ayari concluded. “I assume?”

Isydenia nodded once. “Very soon, we will not have the strength to oppose him in any way. I cannot say for certain what will happen but mortals dreams have begun to show the mages’ destruction,” she went on. “Time is running short.”

Althioc smelled the acrid scent of true fear on her for the first time. He heard the sudden stutter in her heartbeat. There was no lie in her words. Ayari looked at him, mirroring his own belief. But she had a mercy that he lacked.

“If only you had taken our side in the war,” he mused. “None of this would have happened to your people.”

The mage’s silvery eyes flashed.

“Your father treated us as badly as any king before him. We had hope that it would be better under House Deladari,” she bit back. “How could we know that it would make no difference in the end? That he would treat us as traitors—that he would be worse?”

She suddenly looked out to sea. Her face had contorted into a kind of pained expression. He could not tell whether she was angry or sad or whether she was simply going to be sick. She had paled. Ayari gave him a stern look.

“We will find you a place to rest in the village,” his sister said. “Then we will take you to see our father.”

Isydenia stood, wobbled and gripped the barrel’s lip. “I would see him now.”

“No. You will need your strength,” Ayari said. “The King’s gaze is not for the faint of heart or flesh.”