Findel's Embrace

Faro could feel the water sliding down the sides of the ship even in his sleep. The wind made a steady hum in the rigging, the Vien ropes cutting the air like knives, the sails taut. In his dreams, a steady pressure and a confusion rose like a storm. He awoke and thought someone was in the screened partition with him. He jerked his arms up in fear.

No one stood above him. It was the Current. They had entered its border, cutting across sea at the edge of the Nethec. The weight bore down on him, pressing into his mind. He struggled for a deep breath. For months he had been free; he had grown used to the absence of the all-encompassing flow of the Current and the relentless weight of the presence that pressed down on him. As he lay there, the pressure grew heavier than ever before.

He knew it was the Wellspring of the Nethec. The two Wellsprings were like wines of different vintage only; indistinguishable to all but one who knew them well. For Faro, it was more than that; the Current of Isecan did not assail him so. How had they come to be so far into the Nethec Current? The shipmaster had hoped to reach the coast above the Mingling and to reach Meln by morning.

The pressure grew, and Faro gripped his head, squeezing his eyes shut. He still saw, images flashing in his mind of forests he had never visited, twisted trees and the movements of countless souls. He had to fight for breath. There was no need to use his hands to focus on the Current; it pressed in on him.

He grasped it with his will alone.

Hundreds of wills turned to look at him, as if he had sundered the silence with thunderclap. He saw the Nethec in one sweeping bewildering glimpse, and there they were: the Synod, scattered in their heartwoods but joined together. One of them writhed and vanished from Faro's awareness. The others recoiled but held fast, their shock and surprise flowing outward. One recovered sooner than the others, reaching toward him, seeking his mind and thoughts. In fear, Faro pressed against her. The will shuddered as if struck a blow. Panicked thoughts swirled together, a confused cacophony.

Be quiet!

His will flashed down on them, and they fell into shocked stillness. Apprehension leaked outward with every shiver of their wills.

The weight pressed in against him still, but now he could bear it, pressing back with the power of the Current. He breathed, though whether it was with his body or soul he knew not. His body was inconsequential, the boat of no account. The weight rushed against him, receded, and rushed again like waves against rocks, but Faro held fast. The Current flowed through him without effort, reacting to even the mildest effort of his will.

You should not be. You are an abomination.

Now it was Faro's turn to recoil. The thought came not from the Synod, but from the weight itself. Now that it had spoken, he knew it was no weight. It was a soul, an immensity unlike anything Faro had encountered before. And there were more, not wills like the Synod, but changed things. Something brushed against him, not in anger or contention, but gently, like the back of a hand brushing against his skin. He could not make sense of it, but it felt familiar.

The great weight surged again.

Who are you? Faro asked.

You are not meant to be.

The weight gathered itself like the sea threatening to overcome the land. Down it came, submerging him, but Faro emerged like a rock, shedding the wave from his shoulders, gasping.

Who are you?

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I am our people.

Again the weight surged toward him, and again Faro weathered, shaken but not destroyed. It had felt weaker that time by a gradation.

You cannot run.

Who are you? This time, Faro pressed toward it, seeking answers in its mind. Images raced through him.

Again the weight gathered, but it was distant, weaker than before. The great will was fading, as was all the rest. Something else was growing. It was the Current of Isecan. The Currents met like two rivers flowing in opposite directions, churning and eddying. He reached and grasped both together, and with both he sought that mind again.

He saw the presence in a glimpse only, and pushed away the Currents like assailants. Gasping, he came to himself, lying behind the partition in the ship pavilion. Without needing to see, he knew the ship had tacked northeast and now skimmed along the shore of the Mingling. The Current of the Nethec was fading, and Isecan's growing stronger. With each wave that beat against the prow, the weight receded.

It was not the Current that weighed down on him all those years. Faro had barely entered the reaches of the Nethec, and yet that will was mighty. His body trembled; he was cold with sweat. The fabric of the pavilion snapped and gusted in the night wind, and the salt smell of the sea filled his nostrils.

The ship surged eastward now. Faro drifted in a pool of exhaustion until the first hints of morning grey peered into the pavilion. Daev cast aside the entrance flap and strode in as if the deck did not heave. Faro heard rummaging sounds, but they held no interest for him.

"Do you sleep?" Daev asked at last.

Faro sat up, feeling dizzy.

"No."

"Then come break fast with me. You are yet a guest on my ship."

Faro rose unsteadily. He stood for a moment, trying to gauge the motion of the ship and the extremities of his own body. With tentative steps, he left his screened enclosure. Daev sat at the low table in the center of the pavilion, full cups of wine and a platter of dried fruits piled high in front of him.

"Feeling seasick?" Daev asked.

"Maybe."

"Believe it or not, but eating will help."

Faro nodded, carefully sitting cross-legged across from Daev. The shipmaster lifted his cup to Faro and drank. Faro took a few slices of dried apple. He popped one into his watering mouth. He looked forward to eating fresh fruits and vegetables again. He had eaten dried fare for months. The dhar used the dried Vien produce to supplement their own flesh-laden diet, and for sweets. He had eaten much of their winter stock.

"It was a rough night," Daev said. He'd set down his drink and was rubbing the bridge of his nose, eyes closed. "I'm not surprised you took it ill. The wind nearly blew a gale and took us westward, but we've caught the longshore breeze now. We cut the waves nicely enough."

The shipmaster's eyes were bleary. Faro wasn't sure he fully understood the meaning of Daev's speech, but it didn't matter, so long as they reached shore well on the Isecan side of the Mingling. He chewed on. The dread of the menacing weight lingered, even though he knew he was out of its reach.

They ate in silence for a time. Faro was so tired that at one point he stopped chewing with food still in his mouth. He came to himself and saw Daev staring at him, suddenly alert, eyes narrowed.

"What?"

"Your hands."

Faro looked at his hands. Streaks of hardened, vibrant yellow pigments ran up his fingers and across his palms. They had not been there the night before.

"What have you been doing?" Daev asked.

"I. . ." Faro shook his head. "I have been gone from the Current so long. . . when we came near in the night, I grasped it in my sleep."

Daev weighed his words for a moment.

"I have heard of some grasping the Current in dreams," he said. "But I have not heard of anyone living beyond it for as long as you." He shrugged. "You must have grasped it fiercely."

"I think I did." Daev appeared satisfied, or at least pacified, with the explanation. Perhaps he didn't know that such yellow pigmentation was more common from the Nethec Current, though it could occur in Isecan as well. Vireel had explained all that to Faro. The shipmaster's hands showed barely any sign of the Change. Surely he couldn't be ignorant, though if he suspected Faro of grasping the Nethec Current, he didn't let on.

Despite Daev's urging, Faro did not eat much and took only a few sips of his wine. Daev left the pavilion again without much more conversation. Faro wasn't sure if the shipmaster slept during voyages or if he simply attended to the ship both night and day. He didn't have enough energy to ponder the shipmaster's doings at length, though. Returning to the alcove, he lay down in exhaustion and slept deeply, confident he had escaped his foe's grasp.