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Authors: Drake David
Tags: Speculative Fiction
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up; the remaining clouds scudded across expanses of clear sky. Cashel had already looked at the amulet by the light of the stars and the waxing moon: a lens of rock crystal whose silver mounting mimicked a spider lying on the disk and encircling it with her legs.
It wasn't something Cashel would have wanted to wear; but then, nobody was asking him to.
The girl sat up sharply. "Are we safe?" she said, peering at Cashel. She knuckled her eyes, trying to rub away the salt that blurred her vision. "Are you one of the sailors?"
"I think we're safe enough," Cashel said. He sounded hoarse and his stomach felt queasy; he must have swallowed seawater while he was fighting the surf, though he didn't remember it now. "I'm not a sailor, but there's other fellows here with us. I guess some of them may be sailors."
The light wasn't good enough to tell much, and Cashel didn't have the energy to go about meeting strangers in a place so new to him. Debris from the ship, human as well as cordage and timber, littered the beach. Not all the bodies were alive, of course, but some of them were starting to move.
"Ah," Cashel said. "My name's Cashel or-Kenset."
The girl was quickly regaining her composure. She touched the ground lightly, apparently judging whether her muscles had recovered enough from her struggle to shore that she could stand up again.
They hadn't; she didn't try. "I'm Lady Tilphosa bos-Pholial," she said with dignity. "Are we on Laut, Master Cashel?"
Cashel frowned. "Laut?" he said. "I don't think so, ah, Lady Tilphosa. But I'm not from around here either."
Up the beach had grounded a great wooden lump, either the ship's dinghy or a portion of the hull; one end rose and sank in the pull of the surf. A ball of blue light flickered beside the wreckage, then rolled a ghostly course down the sand toward Cashel and the girl.
Cashel hadn't been planning to move for a while yet. He decided he would after all, rising to his feet in a smooth motion. He gave his quarterstaff a trial spin. Funny how something like that brought his strength back better than a day's rest.
"Master Cashel!" the girl called. "What's the matter?"
"The light coming this way," Cashel said. "That's wizard's work."
He stepped forward to keep Tilphosa clear of the staff if he had to move quickly. Cashel and his seven feet of iron-shod hickory took up a lot of room.
The ball of light was the size of a man's head. It half-floated, half-bounced; never quite touching the ground, but never rising a hand's breadth above it. It was a blue haze just bright enough to show the texture of the pebble-strewn sand it crossed.
"It's all right, Cashel," the girl said. She grunted softly as she stood. "That's just Metra trying to find me."
"Lady Tilphosa!" called another female voice from the shelter of the wreck. "Are you all right?"
"I'm all right, Metra!" the girl said. She started up the beach, wobbling for the first few steps but then getting full control of her legs. The glowing ball dissolved like a shadow in sunlight.
Cashel followed, grimacing because he'd been worried about something that wasn't a threat after all. Still... he slanted his quarterstaff across his chest instead of leaning it on his shoulder as he walked. Metra might not be a danger, but there was danger enough in this place: the great serpent writhing out beyond the breakers for one.
Coming toward them was a youngish woman, in her early twenties perhaps. She was plump, dark-haired, and wore a black robe slashed white across the front. The garment was much the worse for the usage it got during the wreck.
Cashel's eyes narrowed. The light wasn't good, but the woman looked a lot like the fellow who'd set the workmen on him this morning.
"Lady Tilphosa!" the woman said. "Thank the Mistress you're safe!"
Tilphosa embraced her and said, "Yes, She saved me through the agency of Master Cashel here. Cashel, this is Metra, Daughter of the Mistress. She's an acolyte at the Temple of the Lady, Mistress
It wasn't something Cashel would have wanted to wear; but then, nobody was asking him to.
The girl sat up sharply. "Are we safe?" she said, peering at Cashel. She knuckled her eyes, trying to rub away the salt that blurred her vision. "Are you one of the sailors?"
"I think we're safe enough," Cashel said. He sounded hoarse and his stomach felt queasy; he must have swallowed seawater while he was fighting the surf, though he didn't remember it now. "I'm not a sailor, but there's other fellows here with us. I guess some of them may be sailors."
The light wasn't good enough to tell much, and Cashel didn't have the energy to go about meeting strangers in a place so new to him. Debris from the ship, human as well as cordage and timber, littered the beach. Not all the bodies were alive, of course, but some of them were starting to move.
"Ah," Cashel said. "My name's Cashel or-Kenset."
The girl was quickly regaining her composure. She touched the ground lightly, apparently judging whether her muscles had recovered enough from her struggle to shore that she could stand up again.
They hadn't; she didn't try. "I'm Lady Tilphosa bos-Pholial," she said with dignity. "Are we on Laut, Master Cashel?"
Cashel frowned. "Laut?" he said. "I don't think so, ah, Lady Tilphosa. But I'm not from around here either."
Up the beach had grounded a great wooden lump, either the ship's dinghy or a portion of the hull; one end rose and sank in the pull of the surf. A ball of blue light flickered beside the wreckage, then rolled a ghostly course down the sand toward Cashel and the girl.
Cashel hadn't been planning to move for a while yet. He decided he would after all, rising to his feet in a smooth motion. He gave his quarterstaff a trial spin. Funny how something like that brought his strength back better than a day's rest.
"Master Cashel!" the girl called. "What's the matter?"
"The light coming this way," Cashel said. "That's wizard's work."
He stepped forward to keep Tilphosa clear of the staff if he had to move quickly. Cashel and his seven feet of iron-shod hickory took up a lot of room.
The ball of light was the size of a man's head. It half-floated, half-bounced; never quite touching the ground, but never rising a hand's breadth above it. It was a blue haze just bright enough to show the texture of the pebble-strewn sand it crossed.
"It's all right, Cashel," the girl said. She grunted softly as she stood. "That's just Metra trying to find me."
"Lady Tilphosa!" called another female voice from the shelter of the wreck. "Are you all right?"
"I'm all right, Metra!" the girl said. She started up the beach, wobbling for the first few steps but then getting full control of her legs. The glowing ball dissolved like a shadow in sunlight.
Cashel followed, grimacing because he'd been worried about something that wasn't a threat after all. Still... he slanted his quarterstaff across his chest instead of leaning it on his shoulder as he walked. Metra might not be a danger, but there was danger enough in this place: the great serpent writhing out beyond the breakers for one.
Coming toward them was a youngish woman, in her early twenties perhaps. She was plump, dark-haired, and wore a black robe slashed white across the front. The garment was much the worse for the usage it got during the wreck.
Cashel's eyes narrowed. The light wasn't good, but the woman looked a lot like the fellow who'd set the workmen on him this morning.
"Lady Tilphosa!" the woman said. "Thank the Mistress you're safe!"
Tilphosa embraced her and said, "Yes, She saved me through the agency of Master Cashel here. Cashel, this is Metra, Daughter of the Mistress. She's an acolyte at the Temple of the Lady, Mistress
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