Page 16 of I Summon the Sea

The king fears them even more than he fears the finnfolk.

They say that nobody has ever called one down.

They also say that the fae king has a Great Dara skull in his throne room in the capital, Siris. They also say that he has a host of darakins in cages and has them fight one another in the ring. That he has a tower as narrow as a spindle and high as a mountain to watch the skies, from which to study the wandering Eosphors and the dragons.

They say a lot of things. I wonder how much of it is true, if any.

The Jay drak lands, skidding in the muddy soil, leaving deep grooves as it flaps its wings and comes to a halt right before the docks. Its long blue tail and its wings are patterned with delicate stripes of yellow and black, and the frilled black crest on its head lifts and flares.

Its rider pats the creature’s scaly neck a few times, calming it down before swinging a leg over the saddle and sliding down its side to the ground.

He has barely landed, hunched over with his knees still bent to absorb the impact, when Athdara swoops down on him, pointing an accusing finger. “Where in the hells were you?” he demands, his voice a low rumble. “And where are the others? You are supposed to protect this convoy.”

“My lord.” The rider straightens. “Suspicious activity was spotted in the higher sky. The Great Dara were gathering, a couple of them flying quite low, and we thought?—”

“At least one drak has to remain with the convoy,” Athdara says, his tone implacable. “Those were your fucking orders.”

The man bows stiffly from the shoulders. “Lord Athdara. I believe dara activity trumps escorting, Commander, and since the dara respond to great surges of power?—”

“I’m aware of how Great Dara operate,” Athdara snaps, his voice carrying over to me. It’s slightly rough, I notice. Smokey. “Dara activity trumps escorting when our convoy is not attacked by merfolk. You will remain with the convoy until we reach theanaktor, is that understood?”

The drak rider bows stiffly. “Yes, Commander.”

Athdara says nothing more for long moments, seeming to be staring both man and drak down. The name doesn’t fit him, I think, though why would one expect a name given by others to fit a man? No clue. It’s not a name. It’s a title. I wonder what his real name is.

Then he turns my way, his gaze finding me immediately, as if he knew all along that I was sitting here, watching. Thinking about him.

A jolt goes through me, right through my chest, seizing my heart, stopping it, then starting it again. My breath catches.

He seems to radiate power, his focus on me burning. The dark swirls under his eyes and over his sharp cheekbones turn his gaze more intense. He’s marking me as a target, singling me out like a black lion of the plains, and I’m a prey in his sights, frozen with instinctive reaction.

I don’t move, don’t breathe, until he’s marched off and into the barracks of the outpost in a billow of darkening shadows.

Only then do I sag, bending forward, my heart racing.

Is this what fear feels like?

Still shaken from that look he cast me, I watch the restocking of the barges, the food and water arranged inside deep crates and barrels, then carried down into the holds. The humans yell from their cages, and the wind snatches at the words, shredding them, though I make out something about death and retribution.

If they think the sleeping gods will strike the fae king down dead for his crimes, they haven’t studied history very closely. Bad people tend to win. Oppressors, dictators, conquerors, kings… they rarely lose the war. It’s the innocents who pay the price.

Wishing for retribution won’t get the job done. Wishing generally doesn’t.

One needs to act.

Easier said than done, I know. After all, who would have come along willingly and become sacrificial fodder for the fae king’s twisted pleasure? And yet here they are, all these men and women, in filthy cages, carried to their deaths. They had no choice. That’s what bad people do: they take away your choices.

So, I’m keeping my choices close to my chest. If you don’t tell others your thoughts and plans, they remain safe.

The draks keep circling overhead as we slowly move through the river delta that opens to the sea. The Pillar is now towering over everything, the gigantic trunk of the world tree, the striations where it meets the sky resembling branches, though we all know by now that they are nothing of the sort.

They are cracks in the firmament through which the eldritch creatures pass.

The fae came through, as did the Eosphors, the Great Daras, probably the darakins, and also some of the great wyrms living under the earth. Our world is self-healing, like every world, so the cracks have mostly closed, leaving only enormous scars behind.

But are the gates really sealed? Are they closed until the next Reversal?

“He will open the gates for us!”

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