To complicate matters, the Amentzutl identified the threat as the rising of a demon-god, Mozoloa, in the west. Iesol Pelmir, the Stormwolf’s ship’s clerk, had noticed a curious linkage between one of Mozoloa’s secondary names and that of an old Imperial prince, Nelesquin. Iesol said there were stories that Nelesquin, like Empress Cyrsa, would rise again from his grave and return to the Nine-but only to wreak havoc.
A howling shriek broke his concentration. He turned his head and saw a small, stout creature spinning and sliding down the inside of the wet bowl. For a moment, he reminded Jorim of a small bear he’d once seen playing in Prince Cyron’s sanctuary, especially when he abruptly sat down with a splash and glided right into the puddle at the room’s base. The creature looked up, his tufted ears rising. He leaped up, fur dripping, and tackled Jorim.
“Jrima, Jrima, glad, heart-glad.”
“Me, too, Shimik.” Jorim grabbed the Fennych and held him up much as a father might a child. “How much have you changed since I last saw you?”
The Fenn wriggled free of his grasp, then stepped away and slowly twirled. The fur that covered his sturdy body had once been all shades of brown, but had changed significantly during his time with the Amentzutl. The fur on his head had become mostly gold, but striped with jade. Likewise, gold and jade twisted into a pattern reminiscent of the dragon crest decorating Jorim’s robe. Finally, two tufts of hair rose from his forehead; tiny twins of the sorts of feathers the Amentzutl used to decorate their masks of gold.
“A bit more gold. Not unexpected.”
“Actually, Jorim, it’s surprising he remains that much the same.” A tall, slender woman with dark hair and hazel eyes walked along the bowl’s edge. She wore the robes allowed her as the captain of the Stormwolf, this one of deep blue with white wolf’s heads embroidered on them. “He was fairly frantic when they took you away and went hunting in the jungles to find you.”
The Fenn nodded slowly, his dark eyes growing wide. “Lost, Jrima lost.”
“Not lost, just away.”
“Jrima found!”
The Fenn’s elated shout made Captain Gryst smile, and the small man who trailed in her wake laughed. Iesol Pelmir looked every inch a clerk, from his bald head to his ink-stained fingers. Though he wore a ship’s robe-this one of white with black wolf’s heads much smaller than those on Anaeda Gryst’s-no one could have mistaken him for a sailor.
Jorim looked up at his visitors. “You wouldn’t be here if the maicana had not allowed it.”
“No, they agreed. They’re an interesting lot.” Anaeda sat on the bowl’s lip and let her feet dangle. “While they all profess agreement with our plans to leave inside a week, they are doing little to see my ships provisioned. Day after day they agree that things will be finished in a week, but that week shows no sign of ending.”
“Really?” Jorim frowned. “We were very clear on our intention to leave. I wouldn’t think they would deceive us this way.”
The clerk raised a hand. “I don’t believe, Master Anturasi, they are being deceptive. As the Master says, ‘A tree is tall save when the eagle passes over it.’ ”
“You’re quoting from Urmyr, not the Amentzutl Book of Wisdom?”
“No, but there are parallel sayings.”
Anaeda raised an eyebrow. “And, Minister Pelmir, your thoughts about deception are?”
The clerk stiffened. “Forgive me, Captain. It is just that a week for us and a week for them may be different.”
Anaeda shook her head. “I’ve seen their calendar. Their weeks are nine days long, just like ours.”
“But, Captain, we are in centenco. We are outside their calendar.”
Anaeda frowned. “In what way?”
Jorim sighed as Shimik wandered around the platform, head back, tongue out, trying to catch droplets. “The Amentzutl figure time on a cycle running seven hundred thirty-seven years. After that they enter a time called centenco. It’s like our festivals.”
“But our festivals last a week, then we are back to another trimester.”
“Right. For the Amentzutl, centenco lasts only a week, but may have many more days than nine. It lasts however long it takes for the new cycle to begin. I gather there have been times when it has lasted years.”
Anaeda scowled darkly. “So when they agreed they would train you and give you back your divine powers ‘in a week,’ they meant by the end of centenco.”
“Right.”
“That is not acceptable.” She shook her head. “We are on an expedition for Nalenyr. Just having discovered the Amentzutl and their continent is of very great importance. I cannot allow my fleet to be bound up here for an undetermined length of time. The considerations of our mission are paramount, over and above concerns about the threat they report from the west. If the threat exists, Nalenyr may have no idea it is being threatened, and we have a duty to inform the Prince of his peril.”
Jorim stood slowly. “I don’t disagree, but we have two other considerations to keep in mind.”
“Such as?”
“The original reason we agreed I would not inform my grandfather about what we had found is because knowledge of it could create chaos back in Nalenyr. Countless ships could be launched toward Caxyan without reliable charts, and those who made it might well cause harm to the Amentzutl.” Jorim hooked his hands behind his neck. “Other nations might see this as something that will make Nalenyr so rich it cannot be opposed, so they will strike. To bring back knowledge of the Amentzutl before learning as much as we can about them would be foolish.”
“But, Captain, if I may, we have a greater difficulty.”
Anaeda and Jorim both looked at Iesol, so he continued. “If this threat is real, then the Amentzutl believe that Tetcomchoa-reborn is the only way it can be dealt with. Jorim must be trained to accept his powers, else all the warning in the world will be to no avail.”
“But they could be wrong.”
“True, Captain, but you are picking and choosing which parts of their beliefs you will validate with no information to help you make that decision.” Iesol shrugged. “The understanding I have of their history, meager as it is, suggests they are not wrong.”
She snorted. “I know.”
Jorim smiled. “Anaeda, you just don’t want to be stuck here doing nothing. I can feel the restlessness in you.”
“It’s not just me, it’s the whole expedition. While we were exploring, we had a purpose. Without purpose, the crew will fragment. It has already begun.”
“Really?” Jorim frowned. “What’s been going on while I’ve been going through these rituals?”
She raised her chin, her face an impassive mask. “Ships’ crews are superstitious. Rumors have flown that you are to be made maicana. You’ll be learning to use magic, and many tales are being told of the vanyesh.”
Vanyesh. The word sent a trickle of fear down Jorim’s spine. The Cataclysm that brought the Time of Black Ice had been the fault of Nelesquin and his vanyesh. While anyone who trained hard enough in any endeavor could hope to become a Mystic, the vanyesh worked to harness magic by working with magic. Tales of the vanyesh were vile and used mostly to frighten children-but men can easily rekindle that fear in themselves.
“So, they think I’ll become a new Nelesquin?”
“Not all of them. Some know of the last vanyesh trapped in Moriande. They know Kaerinus heals people during the Festival, and they say the Amentzutl maicana don’t seem to hurt anyone. Still, they’ve seen strange things on this journey. They’re a long way from home, and unusual things make them uneasy.”
“I know.” Jorim looked down and watched water drip from his braided side locks. “They’re not the only ones afraid of my training. But it really doesn’t matter if they are afraid that I’ll become like Nelesquin or not. That’s what I’m afraid of.”