The Gathering Dark (The Kingkiller Duology #1)

Chapter Four

771 B.V.

Silence was an ocean. Sand black as pitch and waters that muffled your screams. Silence was an expanse of salty gray and whispering wind that spoke in tongues no man knew.

Her eldmordor spoke not much at all on the journey. It was fine, Sensaar had grown rather fond of the ocean— silence, that is.

The course from Veritas to Kjirde by way of horse wasn't a long one. It would've mayhap taken a month to travel the twenty-something leagues to a nearby inn along the River Forth, but before then they'd have to stay on the roadless coast to reach Rivermouth. And before even then, they'd have to afford to purchase and maintain a horse. And even if they'd have accomplished this, they would be faced with the dilemma of being two women— a child and a crone— alone on a road, vulnerable to brigands and all sorts of wild and depraved things.

Sea it was, her eldmordor decided, who seemed to fare better with this arrangement. Kjirden born and bred, she was.

Before booking passage, their home was the pothouse. Her eldmordor talked with strangers, asking around until someone had any information worth merit.

"Aye, the Seafaring Wolf at the Drowned Man's Wharf," the burly man with a tangled beard banged his empty tankard on the table twice, a barmaid hastening to refill it. "Seven bells, no later. I know the captain, I'll put in a good word." He winked at the wench when he said this, grabbing at empty air as she scurried away. Turning back, his expression sobered, and leaning in he whispered, "She's a freeship, not sailing under the Kingkiller's colors." And no sooner was he shining his yellow teeth at them, sipping ale out of the side of his tankard.

A liar, he was. Though he told truth about the ship— a brigantine by the name of Žorskaro Vulk waited at the wharf— it appeared he never got around to talking them up to the captain.

"Can't afford it," the man at the docks looked them over and glanced away, turning back to resume his conversation with his crewmate.

"Where's the captain? I'll speak with him." Her eldmordor retorted.

"You're looking at him," at last he met her gaze, sparing a glance down at Sensaar. His eyes were gray, she saw. Gray eyes meant bad things. Gray eyes were storms.

Her eldmordor thrust forward a pouch and watched the captain's attention snap back to her when he heard the jingle of coins.

Sensaar ascertained that men rather liked that song. She ascertained that she rather liked it too.

But when the captain snatched it, peering inside, he frowned. "Can't afford it." He tossed it back.

The pouch fell onto the cobbles, a few coins rolling away. Stomp went Sensaar's boot, catching them underneath. Foolish enough she was to glare at the captain and lucky enough that he didn't see it.

"Twelve nalutäis," her eldmordor argued, "is three gelutäis."

Sensaar gave the captain a simpering smile, holding the pouch back out to him. After staring at her for a good long moment, he took the pouch and waved a dismissive hand at them. "Hammock in the steerage. One." He held up a finger in emphasis. "Don't bother anyone, and you'd best pray there'll be no storm or they'll throw you overboard."

The captain's words rang true. Standing on the docks, close enough to the ships they were, they received sideways glares from boarding passengers and passersby. Women brought ill fate aboard the waves, this Sensaar already knew.