Richard Byers - The Reaver

The harbormaster here had resorted to the same sort of improvisations as his counterparts in Westgate and elsewhere to cope with the rising sea. Many of the piers had a rickety, temporary look, and buoys alerted traffic to hazards recently submerged beneath the waves. In the city behind the waterfront, a few gray towers raised conical roofs above the surrounding buildings.

Anton glanced down at Stedd and was surprised to see a frown. “If you tell me Lathander didn’t really mean for us to come to Sapra after all,” the pirate said, “I swear, I’ll toss you over the side.”

Stedd smiled, but only for an instant. “It’s not that.”

“What, then?”

“The god sent me here to end the famine. I’m sure he did. But I don’t know if I’m strong enough.”

“You probably aren’t all by yourself. But that’s why we’re going to recruit some help. So stiffen your spine. If I learned anything as a pirate, it’s that the more dubious the venture, the more confident the leader needs to appear.”

The clerkish adolescent port official who met the Octopus reminded Anton just a bit of his younger self. He didn’t have quite the same martyred air of deeming his talents wasted on chores that were beneath him, but he didn’t appear overjoyed that duty had called him forth into the rain, either.

Anton took a deep breath and then climbed down onto the dock. The official didn’t shriek, faint, or snatch for a blade upon coming face to face with such an infamous malefactor. He simply recorded the names of the ship and its captain-Anton supplied aliases for both the pirate vessel and himself-and collected the mooring tax. Then he asked the ship’s business.

Anton saw no harm in giving a truthful answer to that question: “My passengers are here to seek an audience with the Elder Circle.”

The young man smiled a crooked smile. “Good luck.”

“Why?” Anton asked. “What’s the matter?”

The official hesitated. “It’s not my place to gossip about the Emerald Enclave. Just … don’t expect too much. And be careful passing through town.”

Anton grinned. “I never do, and I always am.”

Leaving the mariners to tend the Octopus , he, Stedd, and Umara headed into the city. The rain clattered down hard for a few breaths, then slackened for a while, then repeated the cycle. That, the gloom, the gaunt, haggard faces of passersby, and the empty marketplaces made Anton feel as if the city of his birth had never truly recovered from the night and day demons had burned and slaughtered a path through the heart of it.

But that was nonsense. Sapra had new problems now. He thrust thoughts of the past out of his mind and concentrated on watching for the danger the port officer had led him to expect.

Somewhat to his surprise, he didn’t see any chalked tridents or other signs that Umberlee worship was on the rise hereabouts. Perhaps the Emerald Enclave, druids of Silvanus all, and the secular authorities who looked to them for guidance had taken a stand against Evendur’s agents.

But he did see surly-looking outlanders loitering and sometimes even camped in public places. They all wore blue somewhere about their persons, and some periodically tossed powder into their campfires to make those burn a deep and unnatural azure.

Sitting on the rim of a fountain, five such fellows spotted Umara, Stedd, and Anton going past, conferred briefly among themselves, then rose and sauntered forward. Anton gave them a smile and put his hand on the hilt of his saber. Umara raised an arm gloved in seething shadow. The outlanders stopped short, then turned back around.

“Who are these people?” asked Stedd calmly. Apparently, after all he’d been through, he didn’t find street-corner extortionists especially intimidating.

“Scar pilgrims,” Anton answered. “Folk who willingly visit places like the tainted spot in Gulthandor for the wisdom and power they hope it will bring. Sapra is a way station for those who travel back and forth to the Plaguewrought Lands south of the Chondalwood. Turmishan merchants wring a lot of coin out of them, but we dislike one another even so.”

“Why?” asked Stedd.

“Turmishans worship the Treefather and therefore Nature. Scar pilgrims court a power that poisons Nature. It’s not a good fit.”

To Anton’s disappointment, it proved impossible to hire horses, mules, or even donkeys. Livery stables that still possessed such animals were keeping them close to make sure no one ate them.

He supposed it wasn’t a calamity. The hike was less arduous than some they’d undertaken together, and it remained so even after the Hierophant’s Trail commenced its climb into the highlands called the Elder Spires. Still, he was hungry and footsore when they reached their destination at dusk, and Umara looked as though she felt the same. Only Stedd, who’d walked thousands of miles since the day Lathander first spoke to him, was still fresh enough to gawk at the House of Silvanus with the appreciation the sight deserved.

Situated atop a sort of plateau, the supreme sanctuary of the Emerald Enclave was a structure of rough-hewn granite and wood, roofed but open at the sides. It sat on a little island in the middle of a pool pocked by plummeting raindrops. Hissing, the water plunged away in three places to become waterfalls that in turn gave birth to the Calling, Elder, and Springbrook Rivers.

Accompanying his father, Anton had twice visited the House of Silvanus as a boy, and despite his general boredom with religious matters, the scene had impressed him with its intimations of harmony, serenity, and hidden power. In and of itself, it still did, but the armed company camped near the pool struck a discordant note. A disparate lot, some wore the tabards of Sapra’s city watch, some, the jupons of the Turmishan army, and some, the green and brown of the rangers who patrolled the wild lands in the enclave’s service.

Anton turned to Stedd. “Does Lathander have any information to share about that crew?”

“What?” Stedd said absently. He was still gazing across the water at the sanctuary, and the pirate realized he had yet to notice the warriors.

Anton flicked the tip of his index finger against Stedd’s temple. “Wake up! I know the view looks interesting, and probably more to you than it ever did to me. But there’s something here we didn’t expect.”

“Right.” Orienting on the men-at-arms, the boy frowned. “I don’t know. Nothing’s coming to me.”

Anton sighed. “Of course it isn’t.”

“I see two options,” Umara said. “Walk right up to the warriors and ask why they’re mustering in a sacred, secluded place, or head on into the sanctuary. Either is better that waiting until a druid or ranger accosts us demanding to know why a Red Wizard is lurking about.”

“I agree,” Anton said, “and we came to confer with the chief druids, not their retainers. So …” He walked to one of the strings of steppingstones that meandered across the pool and then, despite himself, hesitated.

“What’s wrong?” asked Stedd.

Anton grinned. “There’s an old story that a guardian spirit will kill anyone who tries to cross with evil intent.”

Stedd cocked his head. “You aren’t evil.”

“Maybe not at the moment. But suppose the water spirit judges folk by their past deeds. Or the color of their mages’ robes.”

“Stop blathering and go,” Umara said.

The stones were flat and close enough to one another to make the crossing easy, and no guardian rose from the water to bar the way. But a druid with a bronze sickle hanging from his belt and a staff in his hand emerged from the interior of the temple to watch the newcomers approach. The staff had ivy coiling up its length.