The Black Star (Book 3) (26 page)

Then again, maybe learning to do magic was as mundane as learning to do anything else. A simple equation of effort and time. Either way, the only way to move forward was to keep at it. Though she continued to keep watch on him, after a few days, Minn backed off to let his revelations come at their own pace.

For three days, a wind blew in that was so warm Blays would have sworn it came all the way from the Carlons. When it got cold again, it stayed cold. As for the nether, his progress with it was as fleeting as that warm snap—a summerblink, Minn had called it—but he found that, as he attempted day after day to melt it, to coax it away from the physical world it held fast to, he grew better and better at seeing it. At reaching it. It came faster and stood out sharper. This consoled him even when, a month into Spring, he still couldn't do more than make the nether shiver.

He didn't spend all his time in practice. Often, he poked along the shores, exploring closer and closer to the curled horns of rock enclosing Pocket Cove. The beach was nice. Somehow placid, even or especially when the wind whipped the waves into such thunderous hammers that he jumped out of his skin each time one boomed into the sand.

He still missed Lira. It made him angry that he'd known her less than a year, and had truly been with her for a handful of months, yet years after the fact, he still mourned her as if he'd lost some deep part of himself. Like a limb he'd never known he had. That was the galling part. He'd been happy before she came into his life. Even happier once she was there, granted, but once she was gone, in a
just
universe, he would have returned to that same pre-Lira baseline.

He had always pushed through his dark moods with a combination of hard work, an eagerness to try new things, and a happy fatalism. Maybe it was still working; after all, he had been far worse back in Mallon not all that long ago.

But as the winter deepened, and the snows came and went with the wild temper of the coast, he wished to his core that the feeling could be cut from his body like an abscess. He'd suffer a few moments of anxiety, an instant of heart-stopping pain, and a couple weeks in bandages. A small scar leftover, perhaps, to remind him to be more cautious in the future.

One day, he got up from the tide pools with a sigh and walked north to clear his head. The wind was bracing and tasted of salt. He passed the caves and kept going. A woman's voice carried over the waves. At first it was so faint and warbled he thought it was a memory or a trick of the wind, but then it repeated, distorted by the commanding gusts. He squinted out to sea. The water was in chaos, white-capped and as choppy as a bucket lugged in haste from the well. The scream came again. Piercing. Something thin and white waved back and forth from the water: the arm of a drowning girl.

Blays kicked off his boots and stripped off his cloak and dived into the freezing sea.

13

"All the way to..?" Dante stopped. He didn't actually know the name of the land east of the Woduns. He'd heard it before, and he knew he'd seen it on Cally's extensive maps, yet the place came up so infrequently he couldn't recall the word. The mountains blocked it off so well it might have been a different world. He'd never even
met
anyone from Wherever It Was.

"Weslee," the old monk laughed. "Or even further. Who knows?"

"How do we get there?"

"How should
I
know?"

Dante flapped one hand. "If you know so little about them, how can you be so sure they'll know about Cellen?"

"Because they're to blame for
our
lack of knowledge."

"They're hiding it from us? Why don't you quit wasting time and talk plain?"

"Because this is everything I know." The old monk sat on a fallen log. "And even then, I don't
know
. Not with any certainty. But the gaps suggest where the knowledge lies. If the answers are anywhere, you'll find them in Weslee."

That had the air of finality. So too did the actual air; the overcast light was growing thin and weak. Dante gestured toward the horizon, blocked by trees and ridges.

"It's too late to get down tonight," he said. "May we stay with you?"

The old monk gave him an amused look. "You're the reason we're out in this mess."

"Right, I summoned you here. Did you like the gilding on my invitations? Say the word and we'll make our own camp."

The man glanced at his fellow monks, but if any felt like arguing, they were too tired to advance their objections. He sighed. "It never hurts to have more eyes on the night. But if this is a ploy to learn more about Cellen, I can assure you we've told you all we know."

Before the darkness completed its victory, Dante and the others helped cut brush and branches to layer over fresh-cut shedwind poles. If there were another downpour, it wouldn't be nearly enough—perhaps Dante would sneak off and build himself a cave—but it would hold against lighter winds and rain. The Hanassans scraped a shallow firepit, loaded the bottom with rocks, and layered wood over it. This was drenched, of course, but they used the nether to heat the stones, drying the wood enough to catch fire. The smoke was thick and white and smelled of resin and steam. The monks had brought some dried fruits and meat with them. Dante didn't ask to share. Though it felt like several days since they'd left Keyote, it had in fact been that very morning, and they still had provisions from the inn.

They did borrow blankets, though, drying them by the fire and then settling down on ground that was depressingly wet. The fire shrank. The monks conversed in hushed, mournful tones, then settled down to bed.

"Weslee's really not that far, is it?" Lew whispered from the dark. "Why is it that hard to get to?"

Dante rolled over. "The impassable mountains, I would imagine."

"So you sail around them."

"They run all the way to the northern wastes. Even in summer, it's frozen. I'll show you the maps when we get home."

"Who says the mountains are impassable?" Cee spoke up.

"They do," Dante said. "With their snow and thin air and man-eating kappers."

"Well, we've heard of the place. You have maps, for Lyle's sake.
Someone
must have been both there and Gask."

"Will you shut up?" the old monk called.

A few of the others chortled from their beds. Dante gave it a moment, then whispered, "You're the finder, aren't you? So find us a route into Weslee."

Cee didn't answer. Damp and sore as he was, Dante was also incredibly exhausted. He managed to sleep till pre-dawn, when the monks started rustling around to rebuild the fire, empty their bladders, and dispense breakfast. Dante huddled at the fire, shivering, silently resolving never to return to Houkkalli again.

As soon as it was light, the group turned around and made their way back down the mountain. The rains had washed out portions of the trail, but nothing had fallen since yesterday's downpour, and for the most part the mud was bearable. Back at the clearing surrounding the monastery, two of the mules cropped the grass, but the third was nowhere to be seen.

"Thank you for enlightening me," Dante told the old monk. "No thank you for making me work so damn hard to find you."

"It comes at a price," the man said. "If you go to the east, you will return to tell me about it."

"Will I?"

"What you're after is dangerous. Some day, long after we're dead, it will return again. This order exists in part to shield the world from the consequences of ignorance. If you believe a word of what you said on the mountain, you'll bring us knowledge of what you find."

Dante took a half step back for a better look at the man. "I will."

He and the other two rode back down the trail toward Keyote; Lew insisted Dante and Cee get the mules, but Dante was having none of it, and rotated the beasts between them. The stablemaster was dismayed that one of her animals had been lost. Silver mollified her adequately.

On the piers, a few sloops would leave for Narashtovik that day, but given the weather, Dante didn't trust anything so small. He booked passage on a proper wallowing merchant carrack that would make way for Narashtovik at the end of the week.

Cee took advantage of the delay to go tearing across Keyote. Dante didn't know what she was after, but when she was that eager to get to work on the Woduns/Weslee Conundrum, he wasn't about to slow her down with questions. Lew volunteered to comb the local monasteries and temples for histories of Weslee. Dante made the rounds at the piers and taverns, buying drinks for sailors and travelers in exchange for whatever lore they possessed.

Their tales were as tall as the Woduns. Squamous dragons swimming the north seas. Eagles so big they snatched sailors from the decks. Floating ice sheets patrolled by white bears as big as a house. He was inclined not to believe a word of it, but after encountering the kappers firsthand, the foundation for his disbelief had eroded considerably.

As for routes, however, even the most boisterous speakers were stymied. One woman believed that, in late summer, the northern ice broke up enough to sail through. So long as you could make it past the dragons. And the eagles. And the storms, rogue icebergs, and merciless pirates who'd claimed the storm-churned northeast sea where no one else bothered to travel. Dante thought there might be something to her claims, but that would mean stalling their voyage for eight or nine months. He saw that as a last resort.

A man whose skin was as dark as the mahogany table they drank at told him about a possibility called the Five-Meddenlan Way. This involved taking the Riverway through the Dundens, heading down the Chanset all the way through Mallon to the White Sea, sailing past Collen and the Golden Isles to (this is where Dante's knowledge of geography gave out) the Territories of Kirkit, where you had the option of sailing up a jungle river (the man advised against this) or continuing all the way around the Southern Horn until you came to the high steppes of Tev.

There, if you could sneak, bribe, or fight your way through the nomads, you would have to cross the Mountains of Sorrow—not
quite
as bad as they sounded, the sailor claimed—and then ride northwest through five hundred miles of the Desert of Grass (a relative cinch). This, at last, would deposit you on the eastern fringes of Weslee.

"Is that all?" Dante said.

"It's not called the Five-Meddenlan Way for laughs," the sailor bristled. "It's five thousand miles if it's a foot. And frankly, I think they underestimate. Now where's that next beer?"

Sighing inwardly, Dante asked him to repeat this while he took notes. The man obliged, going so far as to sketch a map which he allowed was very much not to scale. Even so, the distance implied by his scribbles was enough to make Dante want to retire to a life of farming.

At week's end, the three of them reconvened at the carrack, a tremendous vessel much too fat to navigate Keyote's inner bay. Big as it was, it was fully crewed and booked, and Dante had only been able to secure one small cabin belowdecks.

He sat in one of the "beds," which were little more than hammocks. "Any luck?"

"Not much," Lew said, quickly losing the battle with his own bed. "I copied what little there was, if you'd like to read it."

"Of course. How about you, Cee?"

"I have some leads to run down in Narashtovik," she said. "I'll make my report then."

"Be fast about it," Dante said.

She smirked. "You're thinking of trying the mountains, aren't you?"

"Every other route sounds more likely to land us in a grave than in Weslee."

"The mountains must be snowed in already," she said. "But I'll move with the quickness."

The ship weighed anchor an hour later, heaving into the pitching waves. At once, all three of them were wretchedly seasick. So, apparently, were the rest of the crew; things were so dire their cabin was allotted a single extra bucket. With frequent excursions to the nearest porthole, they made do.

In between vomits, Dante read Lew's records. As he'd said, there weren't many. One followed the picaresque voyages of someone who appeared to have completed the Five-Meddenlan Way, but the account was so outlandish (one-eyed giants? Talking mushrooms?) that Dante was inclined to consider it fantasy. It spent little time in Weslee anyway.
If
it could believed, Weslee was split into loose factions, with each of its peoples sheltering in a different range of mountains to keep themselves safe from their war-hungry countrymen. Also, their women had two nipples per breast.

The other tales were far more fragmentary. One supported the factional composition of Weslee. Another claimed it grew very fine kilnuts, which Dante had never heard of. The others were largely concerned with the feats and prestige of various noblemen who were several centuries dead at this point.

Not much to go on. But that seemed to be the name of the game with everything regarding either Cellen or Weslee. The only solution to both mysteries was to get across the mountains and see for themselves.

On the second day, the waters calmed and so did their stomachs. They made port in Narashtovik early on the third day. Dante dispatched Lew and Cee to continue their search for information on reaching Weslee, then went to see Olivander. He summarized the trip. It didn't take long.

"Knowing you," Olivander said, "I assume your next move will be directly east."

Dante leaned forward in his chair. "Well, do we have any other choice?"

"You could always stay here."

"And do nothing?"

"And administer your city. While remaining ready to act should anything more come to light."

"Olivander," he said, fighting to keep the irritation from his voice, "do you know what Cellen is capable of?"

"Do
you
?"

"From all suggestions? Anything. Our inquiries suggest its capabilities are endless."

Olivander folded his arms across his broad chest and sighed through his nose. "Let's hear your proposal."

"We return to Soll. Hire Ast Modell to take us through the mountains."

"'We'? Meaning you, Lew, and this bounty hunter of yours?"