The Dim Continent: Series Finale (The Legend of the Gamesmen Book 3) Page 4

  Drail felt a familiar peace in preparation. All the labor had been done, the practices played, the muscles prepared. There was no more work to do, no more strategy to think upon. All that remained was the game.

  He caught a glimpse of red hair darting between posts, a flicker of her skirt behind Manten. Pausing for the blink of the sun, Marra looked over the arena before hurrying to his side.

  He smiled. “Does this mean you’re done with that Palace task?”

  She nodded.

  With the glass sparkling as it caught the sun, he took her offered vial and drank his share of Birr Elixir, before rising from his stretch and handing the potion to Manten. She watched solemnly, so serious as always. Impulsively he reached out to tuck a strand of burnished hair behind her ear.

  She gazed up at him, expression unchanging. And he realized he rarely knew what went on in that head of hers.

  Manten held the vial aloft and she took it, moving on to administer to the others.

  When Fallon had swallowed his portion, he approached Drail. “Manten says you plan to travel soon.”

  “The sooner the better. Old Merle and Wolfbur plot our route.”

  Drail intended to travel the Great Continent, playing comet across its length. In doing so he hoped to earn some fame as well as success - a lever to pry his way into games against Skullan teams, as his grandsire had done long ago. It was all he could think of lately.

  He was running out of ideas to achieve his Skullan match, and in truth growing tired of Missea. Lately he’d thought of leaving, but returning to the desert held no appeal. To go back felt like a step back. He wanted to go forward.

  The young man sighed, squaring his shoulders. “For how long?”

  “A full march of seasons. Possibly less.”

  “I’m not going with you.”

  Drail slowly digested this. “You have to go.”

  Fallon shook his head. “Leah and I are to marry. I cannot leave her for a year to wander the continent.”

  If Fallon bowed out, they’d need to find a replacement. That would take time. And while comet teams on the Great Continent did not value it, Drail had come to realize how crucial it was to have four teammates experienced in playing together. There was a point where a gamesman could anticipate the moves of his friends, know precisely when the ball would come his way, or who best to throw it to.

  Fallon’s leaving could delay them several moons. It would be after summer, certainly, before they could begin.

  “Bring the girl with you.”

  Fallon looked at him oddly. “She is Agben…at the Agben School.”

  “So? Marra is as well.”

  Fallon actually smiled. “And Marra is going with you?”

  Drail nodded, surprised at the question.

  Fallon stared across the arena, where Marra stood in earnest conversation. “You’ve asked her? She’s willing to give up Agben, to stop her study, just to stand on the sideline while you play?”

  “She’s not a spectator. Marra is part of the team…has been so since San Cris. She is our Brista.”

  Fallon’s mouth opened again - and then snapped shut as Marra joined them. With a single nod to her, he moved off to stretch.

  Marra turned her eyes to Drail. Blue, he realized. A deep blue that could look cold and gray in the wrong light. Now what made him think of that?

  “Marra,” he said, watching her carefully. “Soon the Hand of Victory leaves the city to wander the Great Continent. To be traveling gamesmen again, as we were in the desert.”

  Her brows drew down in surprise. Surprise, and something more.

  “Will you come with us, Brista?”

  After the briefest hesitation, she nodded.

  It would have been faster to use the fourth tier.

  Marra traveled the third. Because despite Tryst’s return, despite the King himself saying the Trumen race was innocent, hostility still threaded through the Skullan people. Even the third tier now seemed treacherous - or perhaps some of those hostile stares she saw were in her mind.

  When she entered the Agben School, Leah greeted her with a summons from Kirth.

  The Skullan elder was out in the courtyard gardens, scraping algae that grew on the bottom of lily pads into glass vials. When Marra knelt beside her, Kirth handed her a vial and a slim knife. Carefully watching how the woman handled the water plant, she then imitated her movements.

  Smells of peaty earth mixed with a mild tang, like a cabbage just a little too long cut from its bed.

  “I believe you have sailed by ship before?”

  Marra nodded.

  “You shall do so again. We go on a long journey, you and I, to collect herbs. You will tell others only that we shall be gone a lengthy time.”

  “But Mistress…”

  “They will assume we travel by land. Let them keep their assumption.”

  “Kirth, I cannot! Drail wishes me to travel with him.”

  At that the elder looked up. “Playing Brista to his band of gamesmen?”

  Marra slowly nodded.

  Kirth set the lily pad on the pond, careful to keep the top surface clear of water. Then she pushed herself up, with Marra leaping to assist.

  When the elder was on her feet, she eyed Marra for several blinks of the sun before carrying three full vials to the drying shed.

  Marra followed.

  In the cool shade, the vials were set in the rack for today. All gathered plants would be placed there, and the wooden holder would be replaced with a new one that night.

  “You missed studies because one man asked for your help. Now you abandon school altogether because another beckons?”

  “It’s Drail!” Marra burst out. “He needs me.”

  “To make the same potion over and over for men who simply want the status of a Brista?”

  Hot words leapt to Marra’s lips - but she did not give them voice.

  “Child, when will you follow your own heart?”

  A sudden tear sprang to her eye. Heart tears, she heard her mother’s voice. When something touched your soul, the moisture welled from deep within.

  But she could not - must not - examine her feelings now. “I owe him a great deal,” she told herself as much as Kirth.

  “Seems to me,” the elder replied, “that debt’s been paid.”

  Drail thrust his mug high in the air. “To the Hand of Victory!”

  All around the tavern table, the others did the same. Manten, his thick blond hair in a braid that Drail swore was never undone. Olver, who’d just cut his hair again, refusing for whatever reason to wear it long. And Fallon, whose answering smile was delayed.

  Drail had intended to discuss the journey plans one more time. To see if Fallon could be prodded to join, or if anyone had a replacement idea. But the mood was far from serious, as victory tonight had been swift and dramatic.

  And even as he pondered that, a Skullan entered the tavern.

  Skullan were not unknown there. Indeed a group lounged in a corner, actually singing an old ballad with great enthusiasm though little skill. But this Skullan paused to scan the room before, with the barest nod at Drail, striding to the bar.

  After a moment, Drail stood up to join him.

  “That’s good - another pitcher!” Olver pounded the table.

  Drail signaled the barkeep as he stepped beside Jason, Tryst’s Defense Master.

  “You are summoned to the Palace,” Jason spoke into his mug.

  Drail bristled at the tone as much as the order. He said nothing, but Jason seemed to read his feeling.

  “Please,” he added, with a direct look and a tiny smile. “Tryst needs your insight.”

  After a moment, Drail nodded. “When?”

  “Tomorrow after breakfast.”

  Jason downed his ale in a single tilt of his elbow, and left.

  “Drail, of the Hand of Victory.”

  Tryst rose to stride across the council room, ignoring the wrath of his sire and grandsire, ignoring Minister Charis�
�� surprise.

  “Thank you for coming,” he smiled.

  He had his reward when Drail relaxed and grinned back.

  Tryst placed him in the empty chair beside his own. The council table had never been this full, he realized. And for the first time it felt right, useful. A council of men with experiences and wisdom in the thing to be discussed.

  “Drail has played comet on two continents, against two races,” he told them all. “The strategy differed greatly in the desert than here in Missea. This gamesman was able to recognize and adapt.”

  Drail eyed him warily.

  “We have need to adapt again. To prepare a team to play on the Dim Continent.”

  His father and King Ganny had warned him to say no more. They didn’t trust any Trumen, and this was a matter of security for the realm.

  More, Drail owed no allegiance to the crown or the man.

  But for some reason the journey intrigued the Trumen. His eyes sparkled with interest. “No one has ever played Terrin before.”

  Tryst caught Jason’s surprised expression, and had to suppress a smile.

  “You have reason to go there? An important one?”

  “We do.” Tryst felt the tension, the other men’s concern that he’d say too much. But he knew there was no need.

  “I’ll go,” Drail told them in that open, honest way of his. “I believe Old Merle, Manten, even Olver will do the same. Fallon…Fallon will not.”

  “I will be the fourth man,” Tryst said.

  “You’d do well to have a spare.”

  “I’m your spare,” Jason rose to his feet.

  Drail looked at him askance - Jason stood head and shoulders above the tall Trumen. “I’ll slouch,” the Defense Master shrugged.

  The sparkle livened in the gamesman’s eye. He nodded. “But we tell the Hand of Victory. So they can make a proper choice.”

  “They do not need to know,” King Ganny barked.

  Tryst’s grandsire’s bark had quailed weathered soldiers, but Drail stood firm. “They are men. Trumen, but men all the same. They have a right to decide whether to risk more than losing a game.”

  Tryst saw the dawn of respect in his grandsire’s eye, before the argument began in earnest. Ganny was strong-willed; as was King Bactor. In the end, however, it was Tryst’s will that prevailed. He would again assume the disguise of a Trumen gamesmen. And Jason, despite his size and his Skullan physique, would do the same.

  Talking to Mauric in the garden later, Tryst nearly asked his friend as well. The boy had guessed something was in the wind and cajoled to be included. The temptation was hard to resist - Mauric’s quick smile and lighthearted views had a way of warming the coldest of obligations. But this was no state visit.

  Reading his decision, Mauric sighed. “How long will you be gone?”

  “Unknown,” Tryst told him. “Perhaps a full cycle of seasons. Maybe more.”

  “I could…”

  Mauric frowned at something behind him. Turning, Tryst saw Marra silently hurrying down a distant path. No doubt heading back to her school.

  “Kendrick of Malle has been a stout champion,” Mauric said. “Perhaps he’s earned a fine palace chamber.”

  Tryst didn’t see his point.

  “If Marra doesn’t want her garden room -”

  “It’s hers to do with as she will. Kendrick can sleep with his woman.”

  When Mauric gave him a speculative look, Tryst rose and strode off to seek Drail.

  In the coming weeks Tryst grew determined in the plan.

  He had the right men, he knew. In some ways Drail had trusted him with his team, his honor, even his life. It was a sobering burden, but he saw no better way.

  His only real qualm came when Marra realized she was to be excluded. The Agben Women had indeed swept through the Palace, although he noticed Marra had not been among their number. When asked, Kirth informed him that Marra was not of a level to do such work.

  Tryst wondered if the girl might be avoiding the place after King Ganny’s accusations.

  So he went to a Trumen comet game. Their departure date was set, their passage booked, and he wished to take his leave of her before other priorities took over.

  Entering the arena with Jason at his side, Tryst saw her standing by Drail. The gamesman frowned, but Marra welcomed him with a smile.

  “I’ve come to say goodbye,” he clasped her hand. “We leave soon, and will be gone for some time.”

  “Drail is also leaving,” she told him. “We’re traveling the continent to play comet.”

  Drail appeared as startled as he was.

  “Oh, Marra…I never told you…” The Trumen seemed to ponder, before forcing a grin. “It’s going to be a long journey. You should stay and finish your schooling.”

  “But you need me to go,” she said slowly. Her voice was calm, but something in her face worried Tryst.

  The gamesman hesitated, perhaps ready to concede. Tryst shook his head.

  “Not this time, little one,” Drail produced a smile. “We could be gone a long while.”

  The fleeting hurt on her face disturbed him, even after she smoothed her expression and nodded. She probably felt they were all abandoning her.

  Tryst felt a pang of regret. For a blink of the sun he even considered bringing her, but this was far too dangerous. And, unfortunately, far too secret to tell her the truth.

  The set of her mouth before she turned away would bother him later as they voyaged across the sea.

  Marra watched the Hand of Victory win their game, though she barely saw the play. She smiled and nodded, wished Tryst good journey, and took the first opportunity to slip away.

  Why had Drail changed his mind?

  Something felt off in that. Tryst, she was sure, had known Drail would leave her behind. Odd that he, too, was traveling.

  Entering the Agben grounds, she found herself racing up the spiral stairs to Kirth’s room. So no one needed her anymore; the elder would say that was a good thing.

  And Marra could go on her own journey - if Kirth would still have her.

  Marra sat up in her berth, clutching the rim of the porthole to steady herself.

  Something had woken her from a sound sleep. Peering through the glass, she could see a lightening sky outside, promising dawn to follow. The Rosey Lady’s movement had smoothed, the rough pitching finally abated. It took a moment for her to realize what she saw.

  As night cracked open with the dawn, Marra caught the vague outline of something high and wide and jagged.

  Land, she realized. After four months at sea, they had found the Dim Continent.

  She glanced back across the tiny room, where Kirth lay in her matching bed. The elder slept like always, both deep and peaceful. Marra marveled at her ability to do so. Of course, there was little else to do on the voyage; by comparison, traveling to Missea had been festive. Possibly because the Trafalcon had been twice as large. Or the gamesmen twice as lively.

  If Kirth had been awake, she’d likely advise her to sleep now. But Marra had no intention of missing her first glimpse of a land she’d always thought myth.

  So she rose and dressed.

  Their cabin was two steps higher than the deck, with a single rope handrail strung down the center. And unlike handrails on land, Marra learned early on this one was necessary. The ship’s rolling gait made it so.

  Men - all Trumen - clambered high into the rigging, yanking lines and pulling sails. Already two of the canvas sheets had come down.

  The First Mate appeared beside her, offering escort to the side rail. And she took it, for the same reason she held so tightly to the handrail.

  On the Trafalcon, the lowering of sails meant arrival in port. They started long before docking, but usually with the city in sight. Now, however, Marra saw nothing but a solid wall of vegetation.

  “We’ll drop anchor just before breakfast,” the First Mate told the air before him and strode away. The Trumen sailors on the ship did not like to talk t
o Kirth. They were never openly rude, but they had a way of not seeing her - which in truth was not easy as the elder stood taller than any of them.

  Already the sun was bright, with a warmth in the breeze found more often in the desert than Missea. This warmth was different though, with a heavy feel to the air. On the Flats where Marra grew up, moisture never accumulated on the body. The greedy sun would leech it too quickly off the skin. Indeed, if one grew clammy from perspiration it was a sure sign of illness.

  In the past days as they neared land however, moisture had drenched everyone by mid-afternoon, the air here too full of water to hold any more. Marra couldn’t wait to bathe on shore - there was only so much she could do with a small basin and a pitcher of salt water.

  The breeze shifted, and she caught her first smells of the Dim Continent. Peaty, dense earth, and a sort of spice-grass, only more pungent. The odor of Kwitt - a horrible smell she’d experienced from the Terrin - was absent.

  Breathing deeply, Marra released a tension deep in her shoulders she hadn’t known was there.

  And turned. It was time to wake Kirth.

  Though Marra kept watch out the porthole, she never saw a hint of civilization. Not as Kirth dressed, not as the ship slowed to a crawl.

  They dropped anchor with no dock in sight. The Crew set a gangplank down to the water and for a fleeting moment, Marra wondered if they meant to murder them.

  Then the first mate assisted Kirth to the plank, hoisted both their satchels, and followed her down. Belatedly Marra hurried after them.

  Kirth seemed to stand on the water.

  It was only when Marra reached the end of the gangplank that she saw the three logs, lying side by side just beneath the timid waves. The elder was already trudging toward the wall of green leaves when the first mate offered Marra her belongings.

  Wordlessly she took them and darted after Kirth.

  She counted forty steps before an angry looking eel drove the number from her head. With a wide-eyed stare he shot off toward deeper water. The gentle sea lapping as high as mid-calf urged her on.

  Marra felt dizzy watching the waters swirling past. The sandy bottom, with its seaweed and occasional fish appeared just below the surface, but she’d learned on Mid Isle that such transparency was misleading. The water could be over her head.