Belladonna

Chapter Ten

The closer he got to Kendall’s docks, the more uneasy Michael felt. It was as if he were walking through ankle-deep tar, and every footstep was an effort. But the streets were as clean as they ever were in this part of the seaport, and that feeling had nothing to do with the physical world around him. This was something else, something different, something…evil.

And worse, the music that represented Kendall’s docks sounded wrong.

He shuddered. The rattle of the pans on the outside of his pack sounded too loud, drew too much attention. He stopped walking and looked around, as if he needed to get his bearings.

He’d had this same feeling when he walked through the fog that had smothered Foggy Downs.

Michael tipped his head, even though the music he was listening to wasn’t a physical sound. Yes, he recognized it now—the sly riffs of temptation, the trills of fear, the harsh rumble of despair. Whatever had touched this part of Kendall had been the same thing that had poisoned Foggy Downs. And Dunberry. He’d managed to turn Foggy Downs back to the rhythm and beat of his own tune. Maybe he could do the same here. He couldn’t afford to lose the Kendall docks as a safe place where he could blend in. And, damn it, he couldn’t afford to lose this particular port since he depended on the generosity of the ships’ captains to make the traveling easier.

Hurrying now, he moved through the streets until he reached the Port of Call, a tavern that was cleaner than most, didn’t water the drinks as much, and had a proprietor, Big Davey, who usually was willing to trade an evening of music for a bit of supper and a cot for the night.

But conversations sputtered into silence when he walked through the door. Hard-eyed men, toughened by a life spent at sea, studied him with a wariness and distrust that made him wonder if he would be able to back out the door without getting into a fight. He wasn’t a stranger to fights—and had a few scars from broken bottles and shivs to prove it—so he knew when to hold his ground and when to back away.

He’d taken that first step back when a voice called from one of the tables. “There’s the man! Barkeep, bring my friend a whiskey and ale.”

The sailors, recognizing the voice, relaxed and went back to their conversations. Michael made his way to the table and shrugged out of his pack before sitting across from the man who had hailed him.

“Captain Kenneday,” Michael said. He glanced up at the barkeep—a new man who hadn’t been working at the Port of Call the last time he’d visited Kendall—and began digging in his pockets for the coins needed to pay for his drink.

Kenneday waved a hand. “On me.” Then he raised his glass of ale. “To your good health, Michael.”

“And yours,” Michael replied, raising his own glass to return the salute. He looked around the room. “Doesn’t seem to be a night to drink for the fun of it and get pissed enough to tell a bald-faced lie to your mates and believe it’s the truth.”

“No, no one is drinking for the fun of it.” Kenneday drained half his glass, then wiped his mouth on the back of his hand. “Did you hear about the murders?”

Michael’s hand stuttered, almost spilling the ale. “Murders?”

“Four streetwalkers and a young gentleman who had picked the wrong night to go slumming around the docks.”

“Someone killed four women?” The young gentleman wasn’t that surprising. Anyone who came around the docks at night dressed like he had money was a man begging to be robbed at the very least.

“Three women.” Kenneday shrugged to indicate he didn’t pass judgment on who was earning a living in the alleyways. “All viciously killed. Caused quite a stir.”

“They didn’t find the man who did it?”

“The constables didn’t find anything. It’s like whatever killed those people just melted away.”

“Which is impossible.”

“Is it?” Kenneday whispered. “Is it really, Michael?” He scrubbed his salt-and-pepper hair with the fingers of one hand, then smiled, clearly trying to change the mood. “So where are you off to now? Heading for your southern ports of call?”

How many other people realized his wandering wasn’t as aimless as it seemed? It had started that way, but by the end of his second year he found himself making a circuit, returning to the same villages several times a year.

Just like his father had done. Odd that it had never occurred to him before, but the last year the family had traveled together, he’d been old enough to anticipate revisiting places but too young to appreciate what the pattern of traveling meant.

“Actually, I’m heading north,” Michael replied, suddenly feeling cautious. Kenneday was ten years his senior and an open-minded man who usually wasn’t inquisitive about another man’s personal life, except for a bit of bawdy teasing. The question sounded friendly, but he couldn’t shake the notion there was something behind it. “Going up to Raven’s Hill to spend some time with my aunt and sister.”

“I’m heading that way myself. Got cargo to take up to the White Isle, so we’ll be sailing past Raven’s Hill. I can drop anchor there long enough to see you ashore.”

“That’s kind of you to offer,” Michael said, feeling more wary by the moment.

Kenneday shrugged to indicate it wasn’t worth mentioning. But he kept his eyes fixed on the table as he moved his glass in slow circles. “We’ll be sailing with the morning tide, so I can settle you into a bunk for the night. Have you had dinner yet?”

“No.” Michael glanced around the room, then leaned across the table. “I’m not saying you’re not a generous man, Captain Kenneday, or that you haven’t offered me passage at other times to make the traveling easier, but before I agree to anything this time, I’d like to know what’s behind the offer.”

For a moment, Kenneday looked up, and Michael caught a glimpse of a haunted soul. Then the other man fixed his attention back on the glass and the circles he was making on the table.

“Safety,” Kenneday finally said. “Safety for my ship and my crew. That’s what’s behind the offer.” He hesitated, then leaned forward so his forehead was almost touching Michael’s. “I’ve been a sailor most of my life. Took to the sea as a boy, as soon as I was old enough to be hired on. So I’ve seen my share of the world, and I can tell you there’s something strange about Ephemera and the way it responds to some people.”

Magician. That was the word that now hung between them. First Shaney, now Kenneday. Maybe he’d never been as unremarked as he’d believed.

“There’s stories coming down from the north,” Kenneday said, “and the captains who sailed past the spot are swearing they’ll sink their own ships before they sail that stretch of water again.”

A twitch in the belly, a tightening in his shoulders. “What kind of stories?”

“Something evil has risen from the depths of the sea. A great, tentacled monster. It destroyed five fishing boats, killed everyone on board. Now fog covers that stretch of water—a fog you can’t see until you sail into it. And while you’re trapped there, you can hear men calling for help, calling for mercy, calling…” Kenneday swallowed hard. “Just calling. The voices of doomed men, already dead.”

“There are stories about all kinds of monsters,” Michael murmured. “They give a reason for tragedies that have no reason.”

“Can you look me in the eyes and tell me there are no monsters in the world, Michael? Can you tell me there’s no truth behind those stories?”

He couldn’t. Not when he knew demons walked in the world. After all, Elandar had the waterhorses, who would give a man a fatal ride, and the Merry Makers, who would lure their prey into the bogs with their lights and music.

“I’ve seen the mood in a room change just because you started twiddling on that whistle of yours,” Kenneday continued. “That’s all I’m asking. We have to pass that stretch of water in order to go on to the White Isle, and I’ll be sailing with half my crew if I try to haul anchor without some kind of talisman to protect us when we reach that foggy water. But if there’s a luck-bringer on board, twiddling a bit of music to calm the sea and whatever stirs within it, my men will be easier for it.”

“I don’t know…” Michael jerked back as two meaty hands set two more glasses of ale on the table. “Big Davey.”

Big Davey tipped his head toward Kenneday. “His won’t be the last offer, just so you know. I reckon right now you can get passage on any ship for the price of a few tunes.” He pulled a folded and wax-sealed paper from the pocket of the stained apron tied around his waist. “This came for you. The sailor who left it said a Lady of Light had asked him to leave it here for you since it was known that you stop here when you come to Kendall.”

Michael’s heart jumped into his throat, but his hand was steady when he took the paper.

“I’m thinking another whiskey might be in order,” Kenneday said quietly, looking at Big Davey.

Big Davey nodded and went away. Kenneday picked up his glass of ale, then leaned back and half turned in his chair to look at the other men in the tavern, giving Michael the illusion of privacy.

Michael,

Come home as soon as you can. Things are happening. Dreams, portents. It is possible that the Destroyer has risen from whatever shadow place it has used as its lair.

I had a dream, Michael, and in the dream a voice said “heart’s hope lies within belladonna.” I do not know the answer to this riddle, but I feel certain the answer is the key to protecting Elandar from a great evil.

I hope you receive this message, and I hope you can come home. But if your heart calls you elsewhere, you must follow. Find the answer to the riddle. For all our sakes, find the answer to the riddle.

Your aunt,

Brighid

P.S. Do you remember the story about the Warrior of Light?

Cold hands closed over his heart…and squeezed.

The Destroyer? The Warrior of Light? What did two plants have to do with stories and dreams and a riddle? Did Aunt Brighid really expect him to protect their country by finding the answer to a riddle?

And what if finding the answer was the only way to protect Elandar?

Lady of Light, have mercy on me.

Michael folded the paper and tucked it into his pocket. Then he closed his eyes in order to close out the room and the other men.

Heart’s hope lies within belladonna.

A warmth, a tug that suddenly turned into a longing so fierce it was almost painful. He could feel her, smell her, hear the music in her heart. The dark-haired woman who had been filling his dreams lately.

Dreams, Aunt Brighid had said. Portents.

Could his dream lover be the key to the riddle? Could she lead him to the Warrior of Light?

“Michael?”

He opened his eyes and noticed the glass of whiskey. He drank it down, wanting the heat of it to warm a cold that suddenly filled his bones.

“Trouble at home?” Kenneday asked.

“I’m not sure,” Michael replied. “But I’ll take your offer.”

Kenneday started to push back his chair. “Then let’s get you settled. We sail with the morning tide.”

Michael shook his head, then leaned over and rummaged in his pack. When he straightened up, he held his whistle. “Give me an hour here.”

Heart’s hope lies within belladonna.

He let the rhythm of the words fill his heart, his body, and then let the words shape the music that flowed from him as he played no particular tune. He could sense something quivering in response to the music, had the strange sensation of the ground turning under the building to align itself with…What?

He had no answer, so he concentrated on the music—and hoped he would dream of his dark-haired lover. He wanted that last memory of her as a talisman when he sailed through water where Evil dwelled.