1 Chapter 1

1

People filled the common room. Markle felt like a sardine crammed into a canning jar. He nudged his table companion to lift the mug of pale ale to his mouth. The smell of the place was worse, of men and sweat adding to the salt and fish on the ocean breeze. A rather nauseating combination. To top it all off, the noise of so many people made Markle’s ears ring. He was used to the quiet lapping of the water’s waves, or the gentle hum of his mother’s voice.

For the fifth time since entering the room, he thought of retiring for the night. A grumble from his stomach stayed his exit; he still needed to eat dinner. With another day of walking tomorrow keeping his strength was most important.

“Here you are, dear,” said the barmaid, setting a plate of food on the table in front of him. “Enjoy.”

He forced a smile and passed along two copper coins for the meal. She accepted and vanished into the crowd.

Markle looked down at the plate, strips of red snapper and peppers seasoned with spices. Its smell reached his nose over the odor of the masses. It was pleasant. He lifted a bite to his mouth and was surprised. Since leaving home three days ago, he hadn’t come across good food. This, at least, was passable. Nowhere near as delicious as Mother’s cooking, or his own for that matter, but edible.

“So, where you from, lad?”

Markle looked to the old sailor who sat beside him. The man’s weathered face became more wrinkled as he smiled.

“North Venna,” Markle answered, then took another bite of his meal.

“North Venna?” asked a woman opposite. She was just as aged as the sailor, probably a laundress who washed clothes in the streams. “I’ve got cousins up that way. Do you know the Pickarts?”

“I do,” Markle answered. Half the town had married into the Pickart name, and the other half had married out of it. In fact, the reason he was here instead of home with his family was because of one Pickart. He didn’t want to think about it now.

“And where are you off to?” the old man inquired.

“I’m heading to Grincewood. Another week to the south.”

“Grincewood,” the woman said. “Whatever for?”

“I’m going to a cousin’s farm.”

The old man scoffed. “Farming.” He said it like a curse. “No, lad. You’re born on the water and it’s in your veins. Farming’s not for you.”

The woman nodded along.

Markle didn’t expect them to understand, and he didn’t feel like explaining. So, he went back to eating his food.

Over the loud din of voices, Markle heard the inn’s front door open on squeaky hinges. Eager for a distraction, he craned his neck to look at the newcomer. It was a man, his dark skin barely visible under a thick, crimson cloak. The stranger made his way to the innkeeper, a stately woman who used her wooden spoon to command her workers like an admiral taking charge of an armada. When the man approached, she had to bend slightly to hear him. He was nearly a head shorter than her. Though Markle couldn’t hear what was said, he could see the man ask a question and gesture to the crowded room. The innkeeper responded with a laugh, but nodded.

“What was the name of your boat?”

Markle jumped at the old man’s voice. He’d almost forgotten about his nosey dinner companions.

“My father’s boat was named Windvale,” Markle answered, skirting the whole truth.

“A fine name,” said the sailor. “Sure to earn Farlain’s blessing.”

Markle suppressed a wince. He was far from blessed by the god of water.

Suddenly, the dark-skinned stranger was in Markle’s line of sight again. The man walked to the center of the room and clapped his hands, calling for silence. The room quieted, but the noise didn’t cut off completely.

“My friends,” the man called, his voice carrying over the room easily. His tone was melodious, as if he would sing when his mouth opened again. “I wish the gods’ blessings on you this evening.”

Markle groaned. If this fellow was here to preach about the gods, Markle would get up and leave no matter how rude it looked. He had no more patience for that nonsense.

The stranger continued. “I come from the mountains where the cold of winter brings blizzards that make your ocean’s chill seem a summer day. And in those harsh and dreadful storms, we pray to the goddess Magana and perform dances in her name.”

The room was completely silent now, every person staring at the stranger in shock or open disgust. He didn’t seem to notice the frosty glares.