The Lady of the Sorrows by Cecilia Dart-Thornton

Author:Cecilia Dart-Thornton [Dart-Thornton, Cecilia]
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
Published: 2011-11-24T16:05:49+00:00

6

THE ISLAND

Green Hair, Dark Sea

On rocky shores there used to stand, windblown,

A lonely tower built of graying stone.

O'er dark and restless seas it shone a light,

And beamed a message through the ageless night,

As if to reach the land where roses bloom,

Whose floral kiss abates despair and gloom.

—A VERSE FROM "THE ROSE'S KISS"

Three hundred nautical miles separated Caermelor from that uncertain stretch of water halfway between the Gulf of Mara and the boiling fury of Domjaggar Strait, south of the Cape of Tides and north of the Cape of Winds. Here was a region avoided by Seaship routes, a domain where, no matter how vapid the sky, no matter how placid the sea, mist and cloud gathered their skirts and muffled themselves in their mantles.

The bosun blew his whistle. Blocks squealed overhead as the main yards were braced round. HIMS King James XVI hove to at the frayed edges of this foggy obscurity. It was as if a smoky twilight hovered beyond the bowsprit and the starboard taffrail, while elsewhere the day gleamed as lustrous as polished crystals. A mellow sea-breeze came cantering out of the west to lift among the sails the Royal Heraldry of the pennoncels and the long ribbons of streamers, the gay banners and the swallow-tailed gittons, laying them straight along its flowing mane.

Chunks of charcoal imprisoned crimson heat in a brazier suspended on chains from a tripod on the fo'c'sle. Passengers and crew with their taltries thrown back stood watching as a pitch-smeared arrowhead was touched to the coals. Fiery hair sprang forth from that head. In one swift, sudden movement, Thorn fitted the shaft to the string, bent back his longbow—the shaft sliding through his fingers until his right hand almost met the red blossom—and sent it soaring with a twang and a hissing whine, straight into the twilight's heart.

Standing with feet braced apart at right angles to the target, in the classic archer's stance, he watched it fly high and far.

It vanished.

And then there came a thinning of the fog, and deep within the murk a form manifested as if seen through frosted glass. Across the waters, past a wild spume that was the white blood of waves suiciding in the jaws of reefs, a mountain loomed, indistinct, crowned with a pale cloud. An island, floating in the sea.

"Release the bird," said Thorn, handing the longbow to his squire. A snowball or a wad of paper scraps was tossed into the air, shaking itself out into the shape of a pigeon. It took wing toward the island. They watched the white chevron disappear, following the red flower. Waves spanked the port side. Ropes creaked, wood complained, and now the faint cries of gulls scratched the wind.

Presently a spark appeared, a brass button against the dark hem of the land.

"There she be!" exclaimed several voices. "The Beacon!"

At this signal, the crew swung into action again, hauling on the braces to swing the main yards back into position. The helmsman spun the wheel and brought the ship about.

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