Joseph Lewis - Wren the Fox Witch

An entire land of southerners, of people with brown skin and black hair and funny accents. No more snow. No more cold. At least in the north I could hide my ears and blend in, even better than him. But now…

The little Espani caravel rocked and dashed across the dark waters of the Black Sea, and they sighted many other ships out on the horizon. Wren described their masts and sails and flags to Omar, and he told her which were Europan and which were Ifrican, calling them brigantines and xebecs and carracks. Most were merchantmen, but a few were fishers or trawlers with huge booms and nets dragging behind them.

After a while, Omar went below to take a nap, leaving Wren alone to stare at the thin black line of the western shore.

How many other towns are out there? How many are empty? And how many are clinging to life at the edge of the sea? Maybe when summer comes, the buried dead will thaw a bit, enough for the aether to leave their bodies and let the dead rest in peace.

Maybe.

Eventually Wren went below as well and found Omar snoring violently in a hammock swinging over a row of barrels that smelled faintly of salted pork. She climbed up into another hammock beside him and stared with her fox eyes into the deep shadows of the hold, wondering if Omar was right, if it really was safe on the ship, if they really were alone. She was still wondering when she fell asleep.

The rest of the day and the night and the following morning passed quietly and sleepily. Wren took long naps, ate sparingly, and spent only a few minutes here and there on deck to gaze at the waves and stars before going back to her swinging hemp bed above the salted pork.

On the second afternoon, she stood at the railing again with Omar beside her, this time looking west where the black line of the horizon had grown into a rippling body of hills and towers and walls on either shore of the Bosporus.

“So that’s Stamballa?” she asked.

“No, those are just lighthouses and fishing towns. The cities are on the other end of the Strait.”

She sighed and leaned her head down on her arms, and closed her eyes.

Traveling is so boring. Woden, what sort of sacrifice would entice you to whisk us away to Alexandria today? I have an old sling, a pouch of stones, and some dirty clothes. They’re yours for the asking.

The cloudy sky did not answer her.

She lifted her head. “So are there any other immortals like you in this part of the world?”

Omar smiled a little. “Not right here, no. But there are two to the north, in Rus, and three others to the south, in Syria. Those five are the youngest, and the last I ever made.”

“Why the last?”

He shrugged. “It never really seems to work out. Immortality, I mean. I kept thinking that if people only had enough time, they could solve all the mysteries in the world. Science, philosophy, even God. In India, I met a wonderful young man, a prince, and I made him immortal, thinking that if a good man ruled long enough, his goodness would reshape his entire people, his entire culture. And it worked, for a while. But he grew lonely and bored, just like me, and he wandered off. I have no idea whatever happened to him.”

“What about the ones in Rus and Seera?”

“Syria,” he corrected her. “The Syrians were supposed to be my great philosophers. I chose each of them because they were intelligent, disciplined, and dedicated. I taught them everything I knew at the time, and asked them to continue my work studying sun-steel, and aether, and soul-breaking. And they did, for a while, but it didn’t last. Nothing lasts.”

Wren watched his face for a moment, seeing the same faraway sorrow and weariness that always came over him when he talked about his past. She waited, hoping he would keep talking, and when he didn’t she had to nudge him. “And in Rus?”

“Just two. The very last, about five hundred years ago.”

“Lovers?” she asked, her face brightening.

“A mother and her son.”

“Oh.” She let her chin sink back down the rail. It was an uncomfortable position, but she was in the mood to be uncomfortable. Living below decks in the warm rocking belly of the ship had been the quietest, most peaceful two days of her entire journey across Europa. And she hated it.

“Actually, the mother could probably tell us something about those walking corpses back there.” Omar nodded in the direction of Vlachia. “She fancied herself quite the aether-wright, too. She liked talking to the dead. It was something we had in common.”

“You liked her?” Wren elbowed him gently in the ribs.

Omar hesitated, the pale ghost of a smile tugging at his lip. “Maybe once, or twice.”

“That’s not what I meant.” Wren rolled her eyes. “Is there anyone you haven’t slept with?”

As the sun sank and the wind rose, the caravel cruised into the mouth of the Strait, passing a slender white lighthouse on the north shore, and soon after they passed a broader gray lighthouse on the south shore. Traffic on the water quickly increased as more and more fishermen came in from the Black Sea to their homes for the night. Other merchantmen cruised along with them, most of similar size to La Rosa, but there was at least one ship far ahead of them, hidden by the glare of the setting sun, that Wren believed to be something much larger.

They entered a wider section of the Strait and she saw a pair of huge sailing ships riding at anchor. The current had swung them both to the west so their long, sharp bowsprits were pointed at La Rosa as it approached from the east. Many men in blue and gray and white shirts and coats stood on the decks of the ships with swords on their belts and knives in their hands. They leaned on the rails and looked down at the small caravel as it passed between them. The hulls of the ships wore iron plates along the water line, and the open doors below the railings revealed the dark mouths of the guns, dozens of huge guns arranged in two tiers. Wren recalled Omar’s description of these weapons, and she swallowed loudly as she thought of the black iron shells flying out and smashing their poor little boat into splinters with a roar of fire and smoke.

“Eranian galleons. But don’t worry,” Omar said. “They’re just here to keep the Hellans out of the Black Sea. They won’t bother us.”

“What about the check points?” Wren asked.

At that moment, a smaller gunboat that rode at the same height as La Rosa emerged from behind one of the warships and came alongside the caravel as it passed the hulking ironclads.

“Here come the imperial bureaucrats now. Turks, by the look of them.” Omar pointed at the gunboat. It sported a pair of small cannons near the bow and another pair near the stern, but there were no sailors near any of the weapons. Instead there were four grim men by the railing with ropes, and four of the Espani sailors went to stand opposite them. The ropes were thrown across and the two ships were pulled together as other men above deck set about reefing the sails and slowing both ships as they continued west.

Captain Ortiz went to the railing with a leather satchel in his hand, and he tossed it across the rails to his counterpart on the Turkish ship. The other captain opened the bag and flipped through the papers for several minutes, nodded, and threw the satchel back. Then six of his men climbed up on the rails and jumped across to La Rosa.

Wren instantly reached for the small bone knife on her belt, but Omar shook his head, and she forced herself to stand still as the six Turkish sailors moved quickly across the deck, glanced at the men, and then trooped below to inspect the cargo. For several long minutes, Wren stood at the rail in the gathering dark as her fox eyes came into focus and she watched the men on both ships go about their duties just as before, tying lines and taking soundings and muttering quietly. Then the Turkish sailors came back on deck and headed for the rail where their own ship awaited. One of them moved away from the others so he could lean in close to Omar and say, “And who are you?”