Cadrel nodded. He drew a wand from his belt. Drix stared into the ocean, clinging to the boat. “I don’t feel it,” he said. “The water’s empty.”
“Would you bet your life on that?” Thorn yelled, shouting over the ocean spray.
“Yes,” Drix said. He picked up the oar that had fallen to the bottom of the boat, smiling slightly. “We’re safe now.”
I’m not sensing anything either, Steel said. The power of the elemental is fading. I’m not sensing any other significant magical signatures.
“Wouldn’t it be shielded from divination?” Thorn said.
“Possibly,” Cadrel said. He was watching the ocean, tracking any ripples with his wand. The boiling water was settling down. “Maybe it was destroyed in the blast.”
Unlikely, Steel said. Breachers were designed to bring down elemental vessels. They were built to survive it.
“I suppose.” The waters were calm, and there was no sign of metal in the depths. “If it really was an old weapon, I suppose it makes sense… crippling shipping but allowing civilians to escape.”
“What else could it be?” Cadrel said. “Seaside was one of our important ports. Naturally it was defended. With the Mourning… well, you’ll have to forgive us if disabling old weapons hasn’t been at the top of our list of priorities.”
“I suppose,” Thorn said. “It’s just… Shargon’s Tooth was designed to evade just that sort of defense. It’s shielded against basic divinations. For that breacher to find us, we must have bumped right into it. And the breacher itself has just been out here, unsupported, for five years; it can’t be in top condition.”
“I don’t see a better explanation,” Cadrel said. “It’s damned inconvenient for us, to be certain. We’d best hope these elves can help us home.”
“Eladrin,” Drix pointed out.
“Yes, eladrin,” Cadrel said. “But this has to be chance, Thorn. No one is building breachers anymore. No one could have known our route. This isn’t some sinister conspiracy, just a trick of the Traveler. So take heart. We all survived it, didn’t we?”
“You seem to have forgotten Captain Shaeli.”
Cadrel was crestfallen. For once he seemed to be at a loss for words.
Thorn looked away. Cadrel was right and it certainly wasn’t his fault. And the Tooth had been protected from divination, which meant that as unlikely as it was, the logical conclusion was that they had come across it themselves, that it was just bad luck.
Drix was leaning over the edge of the boat. Debris from Shargon’s Tooth was scattered around them, thrown far from the ship by the force of the elemental shock wave. Stretching as far as he could, he reached into the water and hauled a dripping piece of wood from the ocean. It was the little crossbow he’d been working on.
“It seems all of the laws of probability have fallen asunder,” Cadrel said. “Now I suggest we start rowing. I know I’ll be happier when we reach dry land.”
“You won’t,” Drix said. He was examining his crossbow, removing the sodden string and checking the gears. He didn’t look at Cadrel as he spoke, but his voice was calm and clear. “there’s no happiness ahead. Only mourning.”
“Lovely,” Thorn said. She slipped Steel back in his sheath and picked up her oar.
CHAPTER SIX
The Mournland B arrakas 22, 999 YK
The dead-gray mists,” Cadrel said. “The tears of Cyre.” The barrier stretched out before them, a dense wall of fog that reached the limits of sight and rose up to touch the sky. Thorn had heard of the mists that defined the borders of the Mournland, but she’d never actually seen them. As their boat slowly drifted toward them, she felt a chill run across her skin. The fog was slightly luminescent and constantly churning, as if stirred by a strong wind, but there was no wind whatsoever and no sound at all. And there was the stench of death. The scent changed any time her attention slipped. Rot and corruption… fresh blood… burning hair and flesh. Staring into the silent mist, it was all too easy to let the scents paint a vivid picture of what lay beyond.
“How far until we reach the shoreline?” she said.
“I don’t know,” Cadrel replied. “The mists cling close to Cyre. Less than a mile, to be certain. We’ll find out when we run aground.”
“I know where we need to go,” Drix said. He set down his oar and moved to the back of the boat. “The mists don’t bother me. You row. I’ll take the rudder.”
Cadrel glanced at Thorn and raised an eyebrow. “And how is it the mists don’t touch you, boy?”
“Call me ‘boy’ again, and I’m going to start calling you ‘old man,’ ” Drix said with a grin. He certainly didn’t seem to be put out by their eerie surroundings. “They touch me. You just get used to it after a while, and it took me a long time to find my way out of this place. The mists reach into your heart, feeding your hopes and spilling out sorrows. Just keep rowing. Don’t let go of your oar. And don’t dwell on anything bad.”
“I’ve faced sorrow before,” Thorn said.
“Then you’ll face it again and worse,” Drix said. “Find someone to talk to. A friend who’s always there. Your dagger, perhaps. He seems like a kind soul.”
Thorn found herself smiling, in spite of the grim wall ahead. She tapped Steel’s hilt. “Did you hear that, little dagger friend? You’ve got a kind soul.”
“You shouldn’t mock him,” Drix said. “You’ll need every friend you can find.”
“Right.” She patted Steel’s hilt again. “I’m sorry, little dagger.”
Very amusing, the both of you, Steel said. I just hope he actually knows where you’re going. I’ve heard many unpleasant stories about traversing the mists, and even sheathed I can sense the negative energy ahead of us. Be careful.
“Are you prepared, Lady Thorn?” Essyn Cadrel had set his oar in position, raised and ready for another stroke.
“Not yet,” Thorn said. “Drix, you can get us to the coastline, but there’s no telling how far this extends from there. How’s your sense of direction once we reach land?”
Drix looked into the mists. “Good enough. It’s not just a matter of direction. If you spend enough time in the mists, you can recognize the voices. It’s sort of like wind, but it’s emotional. You learn to follow your feelings. I could do it with my eyes closed. And closing your eyes isn’t a bad idea, actually. You might want to do that.”
“I’ll take your word for it,” Thorn said. “But you can do it? How long do you think it’s going to take?”
“There’s no way to know, really,” Drix said. “An hour. A day. Two at the most.”
“We could be walking in that soup for two days?”
“Perhaps,” Drix said. “You won’t really notice if we do. You’re going to have other things on your mind.”
“Which is why we need to be prepared.” Reaching into the supply pack, Thorn pulled out an assortment of gear. She tossed a harness at Cadrel, an array of straps and hooks. “Put this on. I’m going to link us together. We don’t want to get separated in this muck.” She ran a length of rope through connecting loops and produced other pieces of equipment. “You’ve got the troll rod if you get hungry. The cold-fire flare will help in the dark-”
Drix shook his head. “No lantern will help in there. You’ve only got one source of light that matters-hope.”
Thorn stared at him, but he seemed to be completely serious. “I’m going to ignore that,” she said. “But even if it’s true, we may need the light on the other side. Careful with the Irian tears; only take a sip if you’re feeling completely overwhelmed or exhausted.”
“Irian tears,” Cadrel said, running a finger along the fluid-bearing pouch at the top of the harness. “Marvelous. The light of the Sovereigns, distilled into wine.”
“Let’s hope Olladra has greater gifts for us than wine,” Thorn said. She took her seat and hefted her oar. “Ready?”
Drix nodded.
Cadrel shrugged. “I suppose I am.”
The prow of the boat disappeared into the mists. Then it was all around them.