A heavy fog settled in with the death of Mogens.  Everywhere, it clogs the narrow paths between the paqa’s domes, clings to the masts and sails of the ship, and teases at the lapping waves of the bay.  Rain continues to fall, and through the fog, it acquires an eerie, claustrophobic feel.

Guiromélans paces back and forth across the decks of the Knight’s Torment, alternately drinking from his stein and watching his men work.  They are so close setting sail, and yet there is so much yet to do!  And with every minute that passes, the Ravens get farther and farther away.

He pauses on the aftercastle and peers down at the choppy water below.  Beneath his feet, he feels the rumble of his ship’s engine, long silent, now trembling with the same urgency that Guiromélans feels.

Looking back, he eyes the Knight’s Torment’s long lines.  He watches the darkened shadows of his crew hastily loading the last of their supplies and preparing the ship for the storm beyond.  The fog is thick enough that he can only see as far as the main mast, and the torches and lanterns beyond are only surreal balls of light, mysteriously floating in cold, wet whiteness.

What kind of fool would set sail in weather like this?  Guiromélans knows this is the question on every sailor’s mind.  Word has spread that they are setting sail to pursue a ship.  How will they find such a thing in these seas?  It is an impossible task, certainly.  Guiromélans smiles.  Impossible, perhaps, if they were not being guided by the Hand of God.

The Hand of God?  Guiromélans stares out at the hidden paqa outpost, invisible yet no more than 100 yards away.  It must be the Hand of God, right?  He is being guided to his destiny.  He was meant to survive his duel with Mogens.  To have it otherwise would be to thwart the plans of God and as such would be an impossibility.  Everything depends on there being a plan; because, if he is not being guided, then he is lost.  He looks around him, at the ship and the crew, at the water below.  No, there must be a reason, a plan, for all this to have happened.

It is his one lifeline to sanity.

Guiromélans takes a long drink from his stein.  The whiskey nearly gone, he made sure plenty of Muttese gin—the best the auberge had to offer—was loaded as a reserve.  The keeq beer was fair, but the fool paqa always bake the damn alcohol out of it before it gets served.

A dark shape approaches and slowly materializes into that of Abandinus.  The Bo’s’n eyes Guiromélans warily.  He had always been an ally of Mogens.  With the Quartermaster so suddenly gone, he is not sure where he stands with the Captain.

Before the Bo’s’n can speak, Guiromélans snaps, “Any sign of Caidryn yet?”

The Brack grinds his teeth and glances back down at the main deck.  “Yäh.  We found her with the scarred boduus yä was askin’ about.”

Guiromélans raises his eyebrows.  “He and Caidryn know each other?”

The Bo’s’n shrugs, “Seems tä.”

Guiromélans shakes his head thoughtfully.  “Was he difficult to find?”

“Nage.  Seems he was lookin’ fer yä just as yä was looking’ fer him, uh?”

Guiromélans frowns and pulls at his short beard.  Caidryn and this Mynyddi sorcerer know each other?  Stranger and stranger.  “Thank you, Abandinus.  Send him up, please.”

“And Caidryn?”

Guiromélans hesitates.  “Have her wait below.”

The Brack glares at Guiromélans briefly before turning away to shout the orders down to his men below.  Moments later, the Mynyddi Baldruus is standing before him.  On the main deck below, Guiromélans sees Caidryn’s figure pacing about nervously.

Trying vainly to shield his eyes from the rain, Baldruus smiles warmly at Guiromélans.  “Looks like we might get a little rain if it keeps up this damp weather!” he chirps.

Guiromélans looks up at the hidden sky.  The rain runs across his brow and down his cheeks, soaking him despite the oilskin cucullus he wears.  “I hardly notice it anymore,” he says flatly.

He looks back at Baldruus, his solemn attitude taking the edge off the other’s cheerful mien.  “I wish to thank you.”  When the man frowns slightly, Guiromélans adds, “For your assistance yesterday.  On my behalf, it was much appreciated.  Things may have turned… awkward had you and your comrades not stepped in.”

“Ah!” Baldruus laughs, “It was the only honorable thing we could do.”

“Honor among the Söderkarl is an extremely selective thing.  I appreciate that it chose to favor me this time.”

“Perhaps next time you won’t be so lucky?”

“Yes.  You never know about the Söderkarl.”

“Or duels to the death,” Baldruus laughs.

“You know,” Guiromélans says reflectively, “a funny thing happened to me during that duel.  Something, perhaps, you can help explain.”

“Really?” Baldruus asks, appearing innocent and clueless.  “What can that be?”

Guiromélans raises his left arm, heavily bandaged from the wound caused by Mogens’s gully.  “The wound I earned in the battle with Mogens,” he observes

Baldruus examines it closely.  “Yes it is.  Hurt much?”

Guiromélans looks closely at the man.  “Why, yes it does.  A great deal.”

“I am sorry for that, but seeing as you were in an einvigi, I suppose worse could have happened.”

“Yes…” Guiromélans hisses.  “But worse did happen, didn’t it?  Before your intervention, I was hurt.  Cut in the side, I was bleeding badly, and my other arm, that arm was nearly useless from an older injury.  But then, just in time to face Mogens, I seemed to recover!”

“Ah!” the Mynyddi exclaims, “A miracle of God, yes?”

“Not likely,” Guiromélans corrects.  “I checked my wound after the fight.  Except for where I reopened it, it was nearly healed.  Healed!  God works in wondrous ways, my friend, but not usually that dramatically.”  He steps away from the man.  “By any chance,” he asks, “would you be a stone-summoner?  Sacardd?  Häxa?  Anything like that?”

Baldruus laughs, shaking his head.  “Now don’t be foolish!  It would be imprudent of any sorcerer to lay his hands on a Raven, especially one known for slaying witches as you…”  His voice slowly fades away as he sees the look in Guiromélans’s eyes.

“Yes,” he agrees, “It would be imprudent.  Now, you seem to know quite a bit about me and my crew.  How could that be?”

“Now wait!” Baldruus exclaims, extending his hands as if to fend of an attack, “That has nothing to do with being a stone-summoner… or not being a stone-summoner!  I just hear things—”

“Are you a witch, Baldruus?”

“No!”

“Ah.  I see.”  Guiromélans moves with speed that belies his injuries.  He raises his wheel-lock pistol and fires.

Baldruus flinches, and as the smoke clears, Guiromélans sees a pale blue field glowing in the fog.  A shield of magic.

“That was unkind,” the witch murmurs.

Guiromélans shakes his head and lays his pistol upon the table.  “You lied to me.”

With a cry of outrage, Caidryn pulls herself up upon the poop deck, followed by Adalgis and a handful of sailors.

“Don’t yä hurts him!” she screams.

Raven and witch stare at her, neither quite sure who she is talking to.  Ignoring her outburst, the other Bracks close quickly on Baldruus.

“Ho!  Stop there!” Guiromélans shouts, halting their charge.  The Bracks stop and stare at the magical aura surrounding the sorcerer.  “Put your weapons away,” Guiromélans adds as he tucks his pistol back into his belt.

Adalgis blinks through the smoke, “But the gunshot—”

Guiromélans smiles.  “It wasn’t loaded.  Only powder and paper.”

“What were yä doin’!” Caidryn shouts at him.

“Merely a test to prove our guest’s honesty.  He failed.”

Baldruus grimaces and mutters to himself.  Slowly, his shield begins to fade.

“So tell me,” Guiromélans says, slowly, painfully easing himself into a seat on the deck, “Tell me, oh witch-who-is-not-a-witch, how is it you came to know so much about me and the habits of this crew?  Tell me about Forré!  How did you learn such things?  Spirits?  Circles?  Are you casting demons after us?”

“No, my lord!” Baldruus insists, “Nothing like that!”

“You controlling our friend Caidryn here?”

“Shuts the fuck up!” she screams, lunging at him.  Guiromélans is sure she would have struck him if Adalgis hadn’t restrained her.

“Then tell me how you did it, witch!”

“A witch?” Adalgis blurts.  “Yer a stone-summoner?  Yä son-of-a-bitch, yä never said—”

“I’m no stone-summoner,” Baldruus protests, “I worship no Brackish gods!”

Guiromélans looks from Adalgis to Baldruus.  “You know this man too?”

The Brack stammers for an answer, “Yäh!  He works fer the paqa!  He’s the one who’s been warmin’ Caidryn’s bed these past days!”

“Caidryn’s lover?” Guiromélans exclaims, surprising himself with a rush of jealousy.

“Yäh!”  Adalgis looks at the Raven closely, “I thoughts yä knew.”

Guiromélans looks at Caidryn and notes the gleam of defiant pride in her eyes.  “Caidryn doesn’t choose to share with me such news, and so long as it doesn’t put this ship at risk, I don’t care.”  His eyes narrow as he glares at Baldruus, “But cavorting with witches… is unacceptable.”

“FUCK yä, ard-vitchoor son-of-a-bitch!” she screams.  “Who cares what yä thinks is unacceptable!”

“Well then, now yä knows why she didn’t tell yä, uh?” Adalgis chuckles

“So it would seem…”  Guiromélans rises and steps closer to the witch.  “So you don’t worship Brackish gods, huh?”

“No!  None!” he exclaims.

“But you truck with Söderkarl and seem well versed in their ways.  Are you a godi?  Häxa?”

“NO!” Baldruus insists.

“Then show me your tongue.”

“What?” Baldruus and Adalgis ask simultaneously.

Guiromélans looks over at his Master Carpenter.  Behind him now, the rest of the crew has gathered, watching this encounter with quiet interest.  “Söderkarl godar have their tongues tattooed.  As a sign of their station.”

Adalgis grunts.  “Bracks do somethin’ similar, but not on the tongue!”

“Yes, I know.”  Guiromélans smiles at Baldruus.  “So show your tongue.”

Glancing nervously around him, slowly the Mynyddi slides his tongue out from between his lips.  It is pink and bare.

Guiromélans nods and sits back down.  “Very well.  It is time for honesty, Baldruus.  If you know anything about me, you know I have little patience for witches.  How you answer my questions, and how I receive them, will determine how you leave this ship afterwards.  Understand?”

“Friend, Guiromélans,” Baldruus exclaims, extending his hands plaintively, “I mean no harm to you or yours.  Ask your questions, and I shall answer honestly.”

Guiromélans drinks again from his stein.  “So you healed me during yesterday’s duel?”

“Yes!” Baldruus sighs.  “Despite what you think of me or the Söderkarl, we knew the duel was unfair.  You made an honorable challenge and claimed suitable reasons for it.  For him to have his five men join in on you was wrong.  It only seemed right for us to break it up… and for me to heal whatever injuries you had incurred up to that point.”

Guiromélans nods, “And you have been working here at the auberge?”

Baldruus shrugs, “Doing minor chores, performing small magics.  I heal the animals that fight in the pit… so long as there’s enough left to heal.  It earns me enough to keep my belly filled, a dry roof over my head, and the occasional visit to Fitta.”

Baldruus glances towards Caidryn with that last remark, and the silent exchange is not lost on Guiromélans.  The Brackish girl hardly seems to be listening, pacing instead back and forth with her arms folded tightly against the weather.

“You seem to have won the heart of our Caidryn,” Guiromélans says quietly.

“Perhaps not the heart, my lord,” the witch says carefully, licking his lips nervously.  “But perhaps one day soon.”

“And your intentions?” Guiromélans asks, even quieter, lower.  He might have as well shouted it.  All ears, including Caidryn’s, are turned to the answer.

“What do you mean, my lord?”

“She is a member of our crew.  We leave today.  Are you thinking of stealing her away from us?  Are you looking to make her a wife here in this place?”

Baldruus suddenly smiles.  His teeth are clean and straight, free of the rot and infections most people his age endure.  “No.  Not at all.  Quite the opposite, in fact!”

Guiromélans leans back in his seat.  “The opposite?” he wonders.

“He wants tä join us!” Caidryn shouts with impatience.  Turning to the rest of the crew, she says, “He’s a stone-summoner!  And a morwr!  He can helps us!”  She looks back at Guiromélans, “What kind of fool sets sail without a stone-summoner onboard?”

Guiromélans presses his lips together in frustration.  Sagging slightly in his seat, he stares down into his nearly empty stein.

* * *

As the Knight’s Torment moves carefully through the fog-thickened waters, Guiromélans broods from his usual place on poop deck.  He is much different than when he first boarded this vessel, but black is still his color.  His Raven’s garments are long gone—the delicate, unbelievably expensive fabrics quickly rotted away in this environment—only his silver brooch remains, hung around his neck as an amulet.  Around his shoulders is draped a heavy Brackish oilskin cucullus.  His hair has grown long, braided—though not as a Brack’s—but in a single knot, pinched double and soaked in pitch.  His hands—toughened and callused by battle—are now burned by rope, bloodied by splinters, and bruised by the wheel.  No longer does he stagger across the decks, drunk with the motion of the sea.  No longer does he defer to the officers, to the indecipherable jargon spat by Bellatumarus, Gofannon, or Abandinus.  Guiromélans may be a piss-poor sailor, but he is an excellent leader of men, and he learns very quickly.

The crew has sensed that, and he has felt the change around him.  With the passing of Mogens, resistance towards him as softened… almost.  Even Abandinus and Gofannon treat him differently.

But now there is a new pebble, a new thorn, a new rub.

The sorcerer Baldruus.

Command of Caidryn does not seem to be enough for him.  The unanimous election as ship’s stone-summoner does not seem to be enough.  And now he seems to take pleasure in vexing Guiromélans at every turn.

In the days since their departure from the paqa, Guiromélans has demanded greater and greater speed, despite Radla’s complaints for care.  These are treacherous waters—fog and storm have never been worse—and the Navigator’s charts are imprecise.  In turn, Baldruus has proven to be a hindrance.  Unable to thin or raise the fog, he has always sided with Radla and countermanded Guiromélans’s commands.  An uneasy truce is struck between Captain and Moritex, and Baldruus basks in-between.

Now the ship winds its way through the Weaning Shores, too fast for Radla, too slow for Guiromélans.

Too slow, too slow!  Guiromélans pounds the rails in frustration as he peers into the fog-shrouded waters.  The Raven vessel was in open waters, at full steam.  Where could it have gone by now?  The loading of the sloop was too slow, the ceremonies performed by Baldruus were too slow.  That damned Mynyddi trickster insisted on performing sacrifice after sacrifice to every ocean creature, spirit, and entity he could name!  Aelle, Skafhog the Shipbuilder, Es'a, the zukas, the sea-teras, the merlaos, the nicors, the moerforwyn, the stromkarls, the yajuu, the drayal zandbed.  Endless sacrifices and endless rituals, only to be followed by an unendurably long k’Lida ceremony.

Sacrifices to the waves?  The k’Lida are renowned seafarers.  Guiromélans knows of the tales of how the seas favor their ships, smoothing away all obstacles from their course, speeding them to their destinations—it is under such beliefs that they brave even the most impossible weather—but Guiromélans was shocked when Baldruus proposed a k’Lida ceremony for the Knight’s Torment as well.  Why would the sorcerer do such if only to make Guiromélans look like a fool?  Damn him!

Worthless.  Guiromélans can only shake his head at the memory, but who is he to question the ways of his ship’s sorcerer?  It was not his decision to admit the man into the crew.  Such decisions are made by the company as a whole.  If Guiromélans had his druthers, he would serve with a proper Medianist wizard, and not a single Brack would be among the crew.

Guiromélans smiles ironically.  If he had his druthers, very much of his life would be changed right now.

He looks forward.  Men are scattered across the forward rails of the ship and throughout the rigging, all in an effort to discern any kind of detail from this fog.  Even if Radla’s charts and memory were accurate, care is still required.  Reefs and shallows tend to appear and disappear in these Weaning Shores without warning.  Reefs and shallows and worse…

Guiromélans paces back and forth, shouldering past the working crewmen.  There is more that needs to be done.  He has been watching how the crew works together, how the new men integrate with the others.  He watches for natural leaders, singular efforts, and specialists.  He knows, before they face the Seven Kingdoms warship, they must elect a new quartermaster.  Who will it be?  It will not be his decision, but no other decision could affect his plans so completely.  Whoever the crew chooses, Guiromélans knows he will be the last obstacle to his destiny, for it will be the Quartermaster’s judgment to accept or refuse that final battle.

It must be anybody but Baldruus!

“Cathubodua Guiromélans!”

Guiromélans’s eyes snap up from their revelry.  Master Carpenter Adalgis stands at the portal to below decks.  “Captain!” he gestures for him, “We would speaks with yä!”

Guiromélans steps into Radla’s cabin to find most of his officers waiting for him.  He smiles, unsurprised that Baldruus is at their center, “What is this?”

Adalgis steps aside to reveal one of Radla’s charts spread across the table.  “Where’re we goin’?” he asks bluntly, “We needs tä know.”

“What are you talking about?” Guiromélans asks mildly.  He can sense the tension in the air.  It hasn’t been this thick since he challenged Mogens to the duel.

“The brythwch tä end the world rages around us, and yä has us racin’ through these trougo islands, uh?” Abandinus states, “Sailin’ tä this island and then that.”  He presses his face closer to Guiromélans’s, “It’s obvious yä don’t knows where this ship of yers is.  It’s obvious it’s lost tä yä.  Sä, where are we goin’, uh?”

Guiromélans smiles calmly, and perhaps that intimidates the others more than any degree of rage.  Inwardly, however, Guiromélans is cursing.  He feared this moment was coming.  Four days from the paqa outpost they are.  He hoped God would have led him to his destiny by now—he hoped their paths would have crossed by now—there is no reason for Him to hide the vessel from him!

Slowly, Guiromélans approaches the table, his fingers caressing the worn velum of the map.  “Yes,” he agrees, “The ship is gone…”

His eyes skim across the jagged drawings of the Weaning Shores, scribed, marked, and marred by personal notes of Radla and countless other navigators before him.  There, he sees Fijands and Kalds Wató and the other weihs they’ve attacked.  He follows their uncertain path south—their storm-driven detour to the häxa’s island—and then their more or less direct journey straight to the paqa outpost…

Instinctively, he wonders where the Ravens might be right now.  His eyes roam up the Muttese coast to Rostig Thron, 3 days south from Ehre.  The huge port would have been their first stop before venturing into the Weaning Shores.  Further south is Niujis Baúrgs.  If they really were following him—somehow tracking him—they would stop there before continuing on to Kalds Wató.  How ever they are doing it, they would have no hope of following his path through the Weaning Shores, around the häxa’s island, and down to the paqa outpost.  The path was too complex, too random.  No, they would have had to guess his destination, to catch him on his way out of the islands.  Where would that be?  His eyes draw a straight line from Kalds Wató, past the paqa’s island to… where?  His eyes land on Gimsarheim, the northernmost port of the Southern Territories.

Slowly, he points to the mark on the map.  Around him, his officers meet the decision with mixed emotions.

“Ledus?” Bellatumarus gasps, lost and baffled.

“I’ve never been that far zouth,” Radla says quietly.

Guiromélans nods.  “The Southern Territories are still wild.  Tolerant of folks like us, they are also rife with heresy.  They are the understandable choice for us.”  He looks around him, challenging the men to contradict him.

After an awkward silence, Gofannon says, “Yä proposin’ we start raidin’ the Söderkarl?”

“Is that too much for our crew to handle?” Guiromélans asks with false concern.  “Too difficult?  Perhaps I can find some EroBernac orphanages for you to attack?  A nunnery or two?”

Adalgis laughs out loud, “Nage!  We fear only that the sky might fall upon us!”  As a quieter aside, he adds, “But they do grows them big in those icy lands.”

“Cattle are large,” Bo’s’n Abandinus interjects, “Yet we slays them easily enough!”

Guiromélans waits for the nervous laughter to subside before asking Radla, “You can take us there?”

The Moritex glances around at the others before shrugging, “Ve have the maps…”

“And what does that mean?” Guiromélans asks, pressing the matter.

At last the Navigator nods, “I can guide us there.”  He looks up at Guiromélans earnestly, “but ve vill be blind.  My maps will do us ne good there.”

“Then we will buy you new ones!”

Radla frowns, “Vhere?  Vith vhat?”

“With the gold we take from soft giants!” Abandinus shouts.

“Yes!” Guiromélans agrees.  He is encouraged by the Bo’s’n’s enthusiasm.  “Then you say the men will fight for such a goal?”

“Easily said,” Abandinus assures, “Easily done.”

“Then it is settled?” Guiromélans asks as he looks around the table.  When he receives no objection, he nods, “Then I trust your concerns are allayed.”

“For the most part, Captain,” Baldruus says, who had remained silent up to that point.

Guiromélans’s struggles to keep his face and demeanor casual, but something about the sorcerer always raises his hackles.  “For the most part?” he repeats.

Baldruus smiles disarmingly and gestures to the others, “My lord, we were merely concerned that we needed to come to you to get this resolved.  Tell us, how long would you have waited before making this course change on your own?”

Guiromélans nods, despite the anger he feels.  So already this man has been speaking about him to his officers?  “Not long, good Baldruus,” he assures, “Even I can recognize a hopeless quest when I see one.  In turn, just as Radla looks to guide us safely to Gimsarheim, I would suggest you use your talents to look to clearing this foul weather.”

Grinning broadly, Baldruus bows deeply, “Yes, my lord!”

“Anything else?” Guiromélans demands.  When no one else speaks, Guiromélans nods, “Then there is something I want to discuss.”

When he has everyone’s attention, he says, “We’ve been 5 days without a quartermaster.  I think it’s about time we chose a new one.”

“Quartermaster?” Gofannon asks with surprise, “I thought yä’d rather do without one!”

“Yäh!” echoes Adalgis.  “A quartermaster would only stir things up, uh?  Question yer orders and the like, like Mogens did.  Why ask fer trouble?”

“Precisely because he might stir up trouble!”  Guiromélans looks at each of them.  “Listen, you all signed the Articles, you should understand what they mean!  No man is to have total control over this ship and crew!  I may issues orders, but only a quartermaster can see to it that they are fair.”

“And who are yä proposin’?” Gofannon snaps, “Yer coept-inigena, Adalgis?”

“FUCKS yer matir!” Adalgis explodes, shoving the Chief Mechanic backwards.

“Yä denies it, yäh?” Gofannon shouts back, going for his gully.  The others rush to restrain both sides.  “Yä’ve been in the Cathubodua’s braca since the day he arrived!”

“SILENCE!” Guiromélans shouts, slamming his fist against the table.  When relative calm has returned, he continues, “It is true that I have enjoyed Adalgis’s favor, but I think it more likely he disagreed with Mogens’s practices than he agreed with any of mine.  Nevertheless, I need him to continue serving in his current capacity.”  He looks into the Master Carpenter’s surprised face, “I would not prevent your election, should it be the crew’s choice, but I would prefer you stay at the station that you have thus far excelled.”

“Well, then, who?” Bellatumarus asks.

Guiromélans looks around him.  “You all serve vital, important roles.  Roles that would be diminished should you be burdened with the distractions of the quartermaster…  All of you, that is, with the exception of one.”  He looks as Abandinus.

“What?” the Bo’s’n snarls.  “Yä sayin’ I can’t do me job!”

The rage is righteous and nearly unquenchable.  Guiromélans smiles.  “Very much on the contrary.  The position of quartermaster is one of knowledge, fidelity, and leadership.  No one knows the workings of this ship as a whole as well as you.  No one would serve the crew and their goals as faithfully as you.  And no one has garnered everyone’s respect as well as you.”  He smiles at the others, “Abandinus also has the virtue of being one of Mogens’s most faithful men.  No one could claim that he was my… coept-inigena.”

“Sä, yer choosin’ Abandinus?” Baldruus asks.

“No.  I choose nothing.  I leave it up to the crew to decide, and I will follow their will.  You asked my opinion, and I merely gave it.”

“Now,” he says patting the table with his hands, “We have much to do.  Courses to change, fogs to lift, quartermasters to elect.”  He looks at Radla and Baldruus, “You two, get to work.”  He looks at the others, “and you, spread the word among the crew.  I want a new quartermaster sworn-in before midday.”

Slowly, the stunned officers filter out of the cabin.  Guiromélans follows, reading each of their faces, reading the faces of the crew as they are told the news.

Who will become quartermaster?  Abandinus?  It is a safe bet, Guiromélans thinks to himself, because he is confident in his ability to manipulate these men.  Quartermaster or no, he knows he has an appointment with the Ravens, and nothing can interfere with it.  He, and in all likelihood the majority of this crew, will die by Medianist hands within the week.

As he departs with the others, he catches Baldruus’s eye.  The sorcerer grins as though he sees straight through the Raven’s plans.

* * *

The gleaming orb shines in the boy’s awestruck eyes.  Guiromélans imagines it to be a simple spell, but it seems to have impressed Balen nevertheless.  Officers and crew not immediately involved with their tasks gather around as well in the cramped cabin and watch the sorcerer with rapt interest.  It is a small performance at the center of a furious storm.

As the orb in his palm solidifies and strengthens, so does the shimmering veil surrounding the ship.  For the first time in months, no rain falls upon her decks.  For the first time in days, no fog clings to her rigging.  The weather is not dispelled—and the storm still rages—but as the globe hovers over Baldruus’s palm, the globe surrounds the ship, shielding it from rain and driving the fog before it.

An impressive trick, yes, Guiromélans is forced to admit, but hardly useful.  The crew may be more comfortable for the time being, but the seas before them are still hidden and the waves and winds are just as savage.

Balen peers out from between the legs of the officers, his eyes only on that arcane fire.  “Are yä a god?” he whispers, his voice somehow carrying over the wind and groaning vessel.

The nearby sailors chuckle at his naiveté, but Baldruus hardly bats an eye.  Glancing down, he minutely shakes his head.  “No,” he says, “I am hardly a god.”

Guiromélans notes how the shield around them wavers with the distraction.  A flashy, yet fragile incantation.  He watches the sorcerer carefully.  A subtle twitch forms above one eye.  His skin is pale, and his breathing shallow with concentration.

Lovely.  At the end of the day, his sorcerer will be exhausted.  But at least his crew will be dry.

“Then what are yä?” Balen demands, “Sacardd?  Witch?  What god does yä worship, uh?”

Keeping his eyes on the orb in his hands, Baldruus again shakes his head.  “I worship no god, other than, perhaps myself.  I am open to many things…  Perhaps you can call me a henotheist.”

“Henothiest?” Guiromélans coughs in surprise.

Balen frowns, “But yä just said yä wasn’t na god—”

“He means,” Guiromélans cuts in, as he distractedly peers out the porthole, “That he is selfish.  The power of his ember he hoards for himself only.”  He shakes his head at the sorcerer, “It was a good effort, Baldruus, but not good enough.”

A pained expression crosses the sorcerer’s face, but he eventually nods in surrender.  “The storm resists all my efforts to calm it.  This is the best I can do for now.”

As the globe fades, rain begins to fall upon the ship again.  As if in victory over the sorcerer, the storm shakes the Knight’s Torment to its timbers.

“Then you should look to other avenues,” Guiromélans advises, “This one was unacceptable.”

“What?” Caidryn suddenly snaps, the girl no longer able to keep silent.  “Why?”

Guiromélans smiles as he turns away from the window.  “It is… a clever trick,” he says, “but not necessarily good magic, I’m afraid.”

“What?” Caidryn shouts with outrage.

“Circle magic,” Guiromélans says.  “He used circle magic, and even if this effort was successful, I’ll not have it on board this ship.”

“Dusios?” Quartermaster Abandinus barks in outrage.  “Yäh!  What’s this talk of dusios?”

“Circle?” Caidryn asks.

Baldruus sighs and nods, “Circle.”

“What is it?” Balen asks.  He has to repeat himself twice before anyone hears him.  Again, the sailors chuckle at his innocence, but few stay to hear the answer.  The storm outside does not permit dalliance.

“Some magic is good,” Guiromélans says as he examines the disappointed sorcerer, “Some is evil.  Medianists and Bracks agree on few things, but both agree that circle magic is to be shunned.”

“Everyone hates it?”

“All who are sane do,” Guiromélans answers, eyeing Baldruus carefully.  “The Söderkarl aren’t necessarily opposed to it, but then they are not sane.”

“And that was dusios about that spell?” Caidryn challenges.

Guiromélans grabs Baldruus’s wrist and opens the fingers.  In his palm is a chip of wood.  “He holds the wood in his hand.  Through his spells, he somehow tricks Zå into believing it is the Knight’s Torment.  What happens to the wood, happens to the ship, and vice-versa.  The magic surrounds the wood, shielding it.  As the wood is shielded, so is the ship.  He influences the world through false representation, trickery.  Simple circle magic.”

“Simple is fer sure,” Abandinus mutters, “A little too simple.  That’s hardly makin’ truck with dusios.”

Guiromélans looks at his Quartermaster defiantly.  “Circle magic is circle magic, no matter how minor or innocuous.  I’ll not have it.”

Scratching at his braided beard, the Quartermaster walks back on deck muttering, followed by the rest of the spectators.

Shaking his head, Baldruus opens the porthole and throws the chip of wood out.  “You are a purist for sure, Guiromélans,” he chuckles.  “I was just looking to give these men some relief, even if it was for a few hours.”

“Yäh!” Balen squeaks, “and yä calls him selfish fer that?”

Guiromélans looks down at the boy.  “You can do well by men, but great harm to God.  Good Baldruus here has chosen his path, and I’ll not preach to him, but I want you to take note and remember it.”

The ship pitches into a deep trough, only to be shocked by the next crushing swell.  The crewmen outside desperately cling to ropes and rails as the wave rushes across the deck.  Baldruus grimaces as everyone in his cabin is suddenly ankle deep in seawater.

“What he’s saying, Balen,” he explains, as he watches the water slowly drain away, “is what I do, I do for myself and those within my care.  I don’t do it in the name of a higher power.  I’ll not waste my breath or my powers in worship of some vague concept or ideal.”

“God is neither a concept nor an ideal,” Guiromélans corrects.

Baldruus shakes his head.  “Tell that to the Bracks or the Söderkarl!  They have gods you can touch and talk to and drink with.”

“What the Bracks worship, I would consider demons,” Guiromélans says, gesturing to the crew outside, “And the men of this ship know that.  I make no apologies to them on the matter, and they made none to me.  The Söderkarl, however, are proper Medianists.  They have been for nearly 100 years!”

Baldruus smiles.  “Perhaps, then, you should meet some real Söderkarl, instead the watered-down breeds you find in Valven’s court.”

“Ah, yes.  So I have heard.  And I look forward to it.”  The tone of Guiromélans’s voice gives the witch pause.

“Are yä two goin’ tä bicker like married odocos all the time?” Caidryn complains irritably.

“No.”  Guiromélans smiles and sighs, shaking his head.  “It is just a shame.”

“What is?” Baldruus laughs, obviously enjoying the verbal fencing.

“The waste,” Guiromélans states.  “To be given so much, only to deny the source.  God gave you a great gift, Baldruus, and with your passing that gift will be lost.”

“Gift?” Baldruus frowns.  “Ah!” he sighs with sudden realization, “I understand your animosity now!”

“Do you?” Guiromélans asks, more than a little surprised.

Baldruus leans casually against the bunk he and Caidryn now share.  “You see, Balen,” he begins conspiratorially, “Our good Captain is from the Seven Kingdoms and is of the Medianist faith—”

“Yäh!” Balen chirps happily, “He’s a boduus!”

“Balen…” Guiromélans warns.

“It is their belief,” Baldruus continues quickly, “that the stones—the embers—of their wizards—and of all sorcerers for that matter—are gifts from their God, granted personally when the child is conceived.  The more powerful the stone, the holier the person.”

“The closer the conception is to Wedding Day, the more blessed the child,” Guiromélans corrects.  “Such children are frequently born with embers.  And you disagree?”

“There are many stories about the stone-summoners, Balen,” Baldruus begins, now pretending to ignore the Raven.  “There is the Medianist tale.  There is the Brackish tale.  There are others.  All try to explain certain mysteries.”

Balen looks from one man to another, trying to absorb what is being said.

“And which do you follow, Mynyddi?” Guiromélans asks.

“The Medianist tale,” Baldruus shrugs, “is too simple.  ‘God gives us the stones, êtqra.’  Too easy.  Too pat.  Me thinks the world is a much more complicated place.”  He leans closer to the boy, “But there is one that I especially like.”

“Really?” Balen asks.  “What is it?”

“Long ago, on the south coast of Faírguni, east of the Cythth of Mynydd, there lived a people ancient and wise, known as the Dëstör’erde—”

“Those lands are the Desecrated Territories now,” Guiromélans interjects.  “It is a poisoned place.  Almost no one lives there anymore.”

“Yes…” Baldruus sighs.  He looks at Balen with sad eyes, “But long ago… before the Maggot Sea came… the lands of Dëstör were a rich and fruitful place.  The Dëstör’erde were wise and peaceful.”

“And they possessed the wisdom you so much long for?” Guiromélans asks incredulously.

“In part,” Baldruus agrees.  “Did you know, Balen, that no Fée could ever eat a human?”

“A traellern would,” Guiromélans corrects, “and often does.”

“Poor, dim creatures, yes, they often try,” Baldruus nods at Balen, “And did you know, that should a traellern actually eat a human, it would go mad—it’s mind would quickly shatter—and it would go on a killing spree, slaughtering all it comes in contact with?  Hence, in part, their ferocious reputation”

“Why?” Balen asks eagerly.

“Iron.  Bane of the Fée, it runs strong in the blood of man.”

“What?” Balen grimaces, “Lyin’ bagaudas!  I’m na cuall!  Yä sayin’ we gots metal in us?”

“Yes!  Very, very tiny pieces of it.  Iron dust if you will.  Invisible other than the rust that colors our blood red, but it is there.”

Balen looks doubtfully at Guiromélans, but the Raven nods.  “God created man as the slayer of the unclean races,” he says, “Our iron blood is a mark of our divine role.”

“Yes,” Baldruus drawls, “Something like that…”

“And what does iron blood have to do with sorcerer’s embers?” Guiromélans asks.

Baldruus shakes his head, “You have not heard this before?”

“No.  I have heard of the Dëstör’erde before, but I know nothing of them.”

He gestures down at the boy, “And you don’t mind me telling him?”

Guiromélans crosses his arms and shakes his head.  “No.  Tell him what you want, and I shall teach him the truth.  Fée tales and anîlibus fâbellîs are harmless.”

Baldruus laughs and settles down with Balen.