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Chapter Fifty-Nine



As Druadaen started up the gangplank of the Dunarran square-rigger, he experienced a strange sensation; it was as if he’d never done so before. In his time as a Courier, he’d traveled on at least a dozen. But in those days, the sight of their distinctive shape, and the colors of the Consentium atop their mainmasts, always filled him with a sense of familiarity and safety. But this time, his reaction was arrestingly different: cautious, uncertain, even wary.

But as he stepped on to the ship’s weather deck, he was struck speechless by a far greater surprise as a familiar voice said, “It’s been a long, long time, lad. I wonder if you even remember me.”

Druadaen turned toward the sterncastle and forgot to take another step, forgot where he was, even forgot why he was there.

Varcaxtan was standing just outside the coaming of the passage that led toward the officers’ cabins at the rear of the ship. Physically, he had not changed greatly—not surprising, among Dunarrans—but there was a bit of gray in his hair and a few more crow’s feet at the corners of his eyes. But those eyes were no longer the merry and interested ones he’d known as a boy; they were heavy, tired, even sad.

“Uncle Varcaxtan! What are you doing here? Where have you been? And what’s wrong?” Without waiting for any answers, he plowed on, the long-suppressed surge of questions surprising even him. “And where did you go? I looked for you and for Indryllis as best I could. Everyone did. Shaananca did. Why didn’t you come back to Tlulanxu? Why didn’t you write? How could you—?”

Varcaxtan’s head dropped, and he held up a hand. “Not now, lad. I’m sorry.” He looked up; his eyes were liquid-bright. “In the end, the answer to all your questions is the same: orders and duty. And no, I can’t explain right now. Not for a while, probably.” He walked toward Druadaen with the gait of a reluctant executioner.

Druadaen resisted the sudden, irrational impulse to back away and flee down the gangplank. “What’s wrong, Uncle Varcaxtan? Why are you on this ship?”

Another voice answered, from back near the coaming. It was less familiar, but Druadaen was sure he’d heard it before and peered around Varcaxtan.

Alcuin IV, wearing the small pin of a Pretor of Dunarra, was emerging from the dark of the sterncastle.

Standing before the two men, it was as if Druadaen’s present was suddenly outnumbered by his past. Memories rising like floodwaters, he felt his worldly, more cynical self invert, become the anxious, callow youth whose hopes were outstripped only by his innocent idealism. To push that down, he snapped to attention as Alcuin approached.

But he hadn’t even completed that rapid change of posture before the older man was waving it way. “Be at your ease. You must have passed our runner in the streets.”

Druadaen made sure his voice was level, collected, calm. “Pretor, I was not aboard the Uershaeli ship when I received word of your arrival. One of my companions found and informed me. I came immediately.”

Alcuin nodded, his eyes measuring. “You were with Aji Kayo, weren’t you?”

Druadaen swallowed. Does he read minds or farsee? “I was, sir.”

“Logical,” the other man muttered to himself. “Then you have heard that the mission for which we—and you—were dispatched is already concluded.”

“Yes, sir.”

“And did Tharêdæath tell you the nature of the mission?”

“Well…he didn’t mean to, sir.”

Alcuin’s eyes became harder, urgent. “Explain that, Outrider.”

“We were becoming acquainted, just before sailing from Tavnolithar. I had reason to speak about my work at the Archive Recondite, during which I made a reference to the Reserved Collection. He inferred that I had full knowledge of it.”

“And so he mentioned the Hidden Archivist.” Alcuin shook his head. “Damn. That makes matters more complicated.”

“Sir?”

Alcuin stared at Druadaen for a long moment then glanced at Varcaxtan.

The big man shrugged. “He’s his father’s son, Alcuin. He’ll figure it out soon enough.”

Alcuin frowned at that answer, as if he had expected it but still didn’t like it. His eyes returned to Druadaen’s. “The Hidden Archivist was recovered a week ago from a stronghold off the coast of S’Dyxos. He has been conveyed safely to Dunarra—”

Druadaen was dismayed. “Sir?”

Alcuin closed his eyes, clearly frustrated at himself. “Yes, yes: that’s at least five weeks by fast ship. So I am going to rephrase. And as far as you are concerned, this is the only thing I ever said on the matter: ‘The Hidden Archivist is once again in Dunarran hands.’” He glanced at Varcaxtan who was smiling at him. “That’s the first time you’ve smiled since The Nidus.”

“Just listening to the lad…er, Outrider Druadaen…brings back memories.” He smiled. “It was always a bit too easy to forget what should and shouldn’t be said around him.”

Alcuin suppressed his own smile. “I wouldn’t know anything about that. I am ever the soul of discretion.”

Druadaen cleared his throat. “Sir, while a Courier, I heard The Nidus mentioned, and I know it’s on an island, but I don’t know which island or where.”

“Be glad you never had reason to learn those things, Outrider. The Nidus is on Zhedas Okkur and it is a very ancient citadel. It’s always been, well, especially troublesome.”

Druadaen had seen Varcaxtan’s face crumple at the mention of the island. “What happened there, uncle?” He saw the man’s eyes get bright again, and suddenly he knew. “Aunt Indryllis. Is she—?”

“We are uncertain of her condition,” Alcuin interrupted sharply. “The end of our action in The Nidus was unexpectedly chaotic.” He straightened. “But at this point, Outrider, it is no longer time to ask questions, but answer them.”

Druadaen frowned at the forced transition to a sterner tone. “Yes, sir. What questions?”

“I’m not exactly sure, because I am not the one who wants to ask them. But there is one question I must have you answer before I am authorized to travel with you aboard this ship: Why did you attempt to contact the Hidden Archivist?”

What? “But…but, sir, I didn’t.”

“That is odd. And insufficient. Your name has been mentioned in the course of both locating and then recovering him.”

“But by whom? And about what?”

“I will repeat myself once: now, you are answering the questions. Who have you spoken to about trying to contact the Hidden Archivist?”

“Sir, I never spoke about it because I never tried to contact him. I didn’t know he existed! The only time such a subject arose was when Tharêdæath indicated that if the Hidden Archivist consented to it, he would arrange a meeting between us, pursuant to assisting my research.”

“What research? Be specific and quick. And be assured: I have no intent on sharing your answer.”

“Specific and quick? That will be difficult, sir, but I will attempt it.”

Alcuin was not merely unsurprised at Druadaen’s synopsis, but already seemed to be familiar with many of his investigations. However, his eyes narrowed and his questions came more rapidly when the linked topics of Saqqaru’s mysterious origins and the ages of fossils and Arrdanc itself arose. Frowning, he nodded after hearing about the trip to The Vengeance of the Gods just hours earlier.

“Very well,” he muttered. “That’s enough. Well, for me, anyway. Your answers are promising, and presenting them in an official forum is the best way to clear the vague accusations being made against you.”

Druadaen started. “Accusations against me? For doing what?”

Alcuin’s jaw shifted disagreeably. “I cannot say.”

Druadaen reflexively glanced at his uncle.

“You know better, lad. If the Pretor can’t share more on the subject, then I certainly can’t.”

He nodded. “Can you at least tell me why you and Aunt Indryllis were on the rescue mission to The Nidus?” He glanced at Alcuin. “Did the Pretor ask for you especially?”

Varcaxtan shook his head. “Lad, I have been traveling with Alcuin for years. Same with your Aunt Indryllis. We’ve done so almost since your parents…well, from about the time you started your studies in Tlulanxu.”

“As his advisors?”

“Well, that, too.”

“As my protection,” Alcuin said bluntly. “Against threats both mundane and mantic. I have no further questions to ask you. However, I have been enjoined to inform you that neither your uncle nor I shall have contact with you until we make port in Tlulanxu. This is to ensure that you have not had any further exposure to the concerns or questions that you will be asked to address upon our return.

“Now, return to the Uershaeli ship and fetch your gear. And your companions too if they wish to come along. We are sailing for home in the morning.”

“Is it necessary that we change ships, sir? I have been told that Tharêdæath will be sailing in convoy with you to Tlulanxu.

Alcuin frowned and looked at the toes of his boots. “Don’t make me insist, Druadaen.”

It took Druadaen a moment to understand the Pretor’s implication. “I…I am to be taken into custody, then?”

“Not unless it becomes necessary. And as long as you are willing to travel on a Dunarran ship, we don’t have to take that step.”

Druadaen stood as straight as he could. “I will return with my belongings.” But it wasn’t until he’d reached the dock that he thought to shout up, “I will also bring those companions that elect to travel with me.”

Although they’d be fools to do so, he thought as he made his way back to them.


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