On a clear and cloudless night, I stood on a long white quay below the Harbor-Master's Tower. Silver moonlight shimmered on the waters of Abamâtu as I looked to the bay; a sea of stars twinkled in the heavens above. Hundreds of ships floated peacefully on the water; the proud dromonds anchored toward the sea-gate looked as small as the toy ships that sometimes drifted on the Baths of Ilmai Iforikh. The usual cacophony of the docks, a riot of voices in what seemed as many languages, was blissfully absent. As the night breeze combed its fingers through my hair, I closed my eyes to listen to the music of the Sea—the whisper of foam, the unhurried rhythm of the tide—beneath the wharves.
I opened my eyes to see a white-capped swell rising beyond the wharf-beacon. Its crest rose past the horizon before it crashed into the sea-gate, flooding into the harbor. The ships anchored in the Sail-Haven bobbed and swayed in the tide. A gray wisp of a cloud passed over the moon as another great wave surged into the harbor. Two-violet sailed dromonds were plunged into dark, lusterless waters by the deluge that followed. I stood helplessly as the next terrible wave drowned three more ships, the one after it half a dozen. A chorus of creaking hulls and crashing waves filled the air as the relentless rhythm of the tide battered hulls and swallowed ships whole.
Dark clouds, swollen like bruises, smothered the moon, shrouding the Sail-Haven in darkness. A fat raindrop landed on my forehead as I backed away from the wharf, but the waters of the harbor—black as tar beneath a lightless sky—soon rose to lap at my feet. A sprinkle of rain turned to a downpour as I turned and dashed away, racing for higher ground. Stones that had been dry mere minutes ago grew damp, then slick; I nearly slipped on the stairs in my haste. The lights of the Upper Ward, pale and hazy in the rain, seemed all too far away.
Conscious of the rising tide, I stepped into the shadow of an awning. The crates there had been spared from the rain. Whispering an apology to their owner, I clambered onto the barrel. It wobbled uneasily beneath me as I yanked myself onto the nearby rooftop. My muscles ached in protest from the effort; the tiles had scratched through my sleeves, littering my arms with nicks and scrapes .
From my new vantage point, I watched the flood swell with rain before the wharves of the Sail-haven vanished beneath the waves with the last of the dromonds. To the north, one of the shipyards had flooded, promising the same fate for those ships which had never known the Sea.
Turning away from the harbor, I scrambled to climb from one house to the other. As I scampered over a slippery roof, one of my slippers slid off, tumbling down into the waiting deluge. Not wanting to walk around half-shod, I kicked off the other without looking back. Stumbling toward the lights of the Upper Ward, I felt my waterlogged skirts cling to my legs in sodden folds. Their weight dragged me down toward the surging flood below. Niluzîr had once called the Sea jealous; only now did I understand what he meant.
Sodden and ragged from running, breath rattling in my chest, I staggered to the end of a rooftop only to look down to the alley below. The next house ahead of me was a one-story shack that had almost been submerged already. On my left and on my right, no houses stood tall enough to forestall a watery doom. Heavy rivulets of rain rolled down my cheeks and forehead. The Sea was all around me, terrible and impassive, roaring in my ears.
Turning west one last time, I watched a black wave, implacable and sublime, rising beneath the starless sky. I closed my eyes and let it wash over me.
I opened my eyes not to the abyss but my bedchamber. Cold sweat beaded on my brow; blankets were tangled around my legs. Dappled light shone through the lattice of the screen that stood by my bed. Untangling myself, I peered out the window. The only water in sight bubbled from a fountain in the garden below. Birdsong, sweet and careless, filled the morning air.
Rummaging through my cedar chests, I dressed hastily, pausing only to swipe on kohl in front of a mirror. The slippers I had lost in the flood sat primly at the foot of my bed. A second glimpse outside revealed that the sun shone high in the sky. I had missed the morning meal. As it was too late to ask the servants to bring food to my chambers, I stole into the pantry for a chunk of bread.
"Lady Ûrikali?”
I turned, plunder in hand, to see my father's chamberlain, his kind face seamed from decades of loyal service. "Good morning, Anâsh!"
He greeted me with a brisk nod before his gaze drifted to the bread. "My lady appears to be in quite the hurry," he said. "Should I prepare the palanquin?"
"That will not be necessary." The thought of traveling to the Sail-Haven in such conspicuous opulence embarrassed me. "But perhaps you might help me? I am looking for my brother. Did he abscond without leaving a note for me?"
"Lord Niluzîr informed me of his intention to leave for the Sail-haven," he said. "He mentioned a ship…"
Of course his talk of ships was more than mere bluster. “I should search for him, then. He might find himself in trouble at the harbor.”
When Anâsh stepped aside, I rushed out the door and into the Upper Ward. My path led past the Grand Market, awash with color despite the ubiquitous black banners of Ordâkh. Artists and goldsmiths consorted with would-be patrons and wealthy Ordakhîm traded their ivory for Umbari pearls as the servants and intermediaries of nobles, wealthy merchants, and the upper echelons of the Church of the All-Seeing hurried to finish their masters’ work before the cruelest hours of the day. Yet even those who had little interest in commerce were beginning to take shelter beneath the market’s arcades. In the shadow of a fruit stall, I spotted a neighbor—a young boy, the scion of a merchant clan, with a half-eaten plum in hand and juice dribbling down his chin—and looked the other way.
As I descended into the Sail-haven, the spices and cloying perfumes so enjoyed by Umbar’s elite quickly yielded to the briny wind that swept off the harbor. Far from the deserted ruin it had been in my dream, Mâr Bahir thronged with sailors and traders. Vendors hawking crabs and clams stood on every corner, each a keen reminder that I had eaten little more than a heel of bread that morning. Gulls circled overhead, joining their mews to the clamor of voices below. So crowded were the streets that I had to push my way through, apologizing all the while, to reach the ship-yard.
At the southern edge of the ship-yard, I spotted two shipbuilders admiring their handiwork: a beautiful dromond, her scarlet sails billowing in the breeze. Standing beneath the curve of her hull was Niluzîr, resplendent in a collar of silver scales, his hand resting on the hilt of his eket. Peering up at her mast, he took no notice of me.
Of the two shipwrights, Aphir’s father Kâhir was the first to speak. “I take it that you are most satisfied, Master Niluzîr.”
“Indeed I am! Never have I seen a lovelier ship.” His voice was low, even reverent. “She shall serve me well.”
"When you muster the courage to take her to the Sea. she shall," I said.
Catching sight of me at last, Niluzîr grinned. He patted the ship’s side, heedless of the possibility of finding a stray nail, in spite of Kâhir’s protestations. “Ûrikali! You arrived just in time to help me name her.”
“You honor me, brother." I was abruptly aware of how many eyes now settled upon me. Kâhir and his assistant, a wiry young man not much older than Niluzîr, regarded me with curiosity; Aphir regarded me with the naked trepidation of a young man who earnestly believed that his dreams of adventure on the Sea could be spoiled by a poor choice of name. Behind him stood Khelêx and Isan, silent in anticipation; my brother, the one who had foisted this predicament upon me, mercifully offered me a smile.
“A sea-lord’s ship should bear a grand name. Her moniker should glorify her and her captain both. In that vein, I would name her Azrugimil Sea-Star, for what else but a bright star could match Niluzîr Moon-friend in glory?” That earned soft laughter from those assembled. “Like her namesake, she will guide him even in those moments when the future is uncertain. She shall honor the Sea also, to placate its wrath and to pay homage to the voyages of her captain’s ancestors.”
“Azrugimil,” Niluzîr echoed. “A fitting name for such a splendid ship. You outdid yourself, Kâhir!”
The shipwright waved off his praise. “You flatter me, Master Niluzîr, but I did not build the ship before you alone. She represents the effort of many craftspeople and Lord Minalthor’s generous patronage both.” He bowed his head. “I must return to other projects. I wish you and Azrugimil fair winds; I have no doubt that she shall see her first voyage soon.”
When his father had vanished into the ship-yard, hurrying off to his labors, Aphir cleared his throat. “It seems the crew of the Sea-Star has assembled.”
Khelêx’s brow creased with the ghost of a frown. “What are you suggesting?”
“I am suggesting that you shall be the helmsman, Khêlex, and sharp-eyed Isân the navigator of Captain Niluzîr’s ship!” Aphir turned toward me with a grin. “It is no secret that the life of a mariner is a dangerous one. Therefore we shall need someone to patch us up and tend to our wounds. Ûrikali?”
“Do you take me for a nurse—or worse, a nursemaid? I cannot entertain such a proposition. Besides, it would not do for both children of Minalthor to wander abroad. If Niluzîr sails abroad, I must remain to manage the affairs of our house.”
“You have no sense of adventure!” cried Khelêx. “How womanish of you.”
Isân arched an eyebrow. “Is that so, Khelêx? What would you know of women?"
And so we argued until the shipwrights grew sick of us, sending their apprentices to direct us away politely. We took our debate to the courtyard of the Drowned Prince, talking over coffee until our voices grew hoarse and the sun began to sink beneath the bay, painting the sky with all the colors of flame.
When Niluzîr and I returned home that evening, we found old Anâsh awaiting our return. My brother passed him without trouble, ambling off to his chambers after exchanging brief greetings with the chamberlain. For me Anâsh had reserved a doleful gaze. "Lady Kharatinzil wishes to speak with you." It was not a request.
Each maid I passed in the hall averted her gaze as I hastened to my mother's chambers. The heavy doors creaked open; I stepped into a room so quiet that I could hear the susurrant rustling of my own silks with each step. My mother had earned a reputation as the patron of many musicians, but she never invited them to play in her apartments, where she tolerated no sound to sully her own chants and indications. Plush carpets, ornately patterned in all the hues of dawn and dusk, muffled any footfalls. Without sound to precede her arrival, she could appear at any moment, emerging from behind curtains with finesse a stagehand would envy.
Today, however, she made no secret of her presence. Draped in black robes, my mother lounged on a divan piled with pillows. Cascading veils like spun smoke—an affectation which shielded her from what meager sunlight permeated her chambers—framed the high bones of a face whose incipient furrows, like stone buffeted by the sea, were polished into smoothness. She entertained no other company save two black cats—one purring in her lap, the other curled up comfortably on a cushion. A bowl of dates sat on the low table in front of her.
When she spoke, she eschewed Umbari in favor of Adûnayân, which was both her cradle-tongue and mine. "Take a seat, Ûrimith."
My body obeyed before I could even stop to consider her command. As I settled into the chair across from her, I caught a glimpse of my own visage in the burnished surface of a brass ewer. Stray tresses had sprung free around my face; my kohl was smudged and crumbling. Inclining my head in deference, I answered her in Adûnayan. "I must apologize for my appearance. You have been most patient with me, Mother; I was loath to make you wait any longer than you already have."
“How well-mannered you are, child.” The ring on her finger, set with a yellow jewel which shone like a cat’s eye, gleamed as she caressed the cat in her lap. “Who raised you so well?” Her smile was easy, almost languid, but her eyes were gray and pitiless as the Sea in a winter storm.
Before I could answer, she asked, “Are you not curious as to why I summoned you?” She set a paper-wrapped parcel on the table, drawing a lazy circle around the wax seal with her nail. Pressed into the wax was the imprint of a watchful eye. "I received a missive from the Church last night.”
Shaking my head mutely, I struggled not to avert my gaze. Tearing free of the fetters of logic and composure, my thoughts raced like horses over the plains of Aradâr, but I could give them no voice.
“Know you what the Church sent me?”
Guilt unfurled in the pit of my stomach. “No.” I imagined a crimson-robed inquisitor on our doorstep, waiting with a detail of armed guards behind him.
Sliding the edge of her nail beneath the seal, my mother pried the wax off. Opening it would have been trivial, but she held it out to me instead. “Will you do me a favor and reveal what lies within?”
I could not refuse her. Although its shape was obscured by layers of paper, the delicate weight of the wrapped object was familiar in my hand. Yet I found herself reaching to unwrap it, spurred on by the fragile and fanciful hope that it might be a surprise. Cool metal touched my palm as I uncovered a trinket—a gilded hairpin whose jeweled head glinted in the lamplight.
“The Church’s courier informed me of the provenance of this lovely ornament. It had been found in Umbar-môkh, forgotten in the dust of the Vaults.” Reaching over the table, my mother tucked a stray curl behind my ear. “A lost pin is no grievous injury to me; I can buy another. But I would not be pleased to see a more precious jewel lost where no sunlight can reach.”
“I had no intention to worry you, Mother.”
Her aspect loured like a clear sky suddenly blanketed with gray. “You did not intend to worry me, but my concerns are hardly unfounded. The Neaths are no home for any law-abiding subject of Umbar, but the perils common men would endure beneath are city is mild compared the dangers a young maiden of your station would face. Know you who resides in the Neaths?”
I folded my hands tightly in my lap, digging my fingernails into the flesh of my palm. “Thieves?”
“No petty thieves, but miscreants of the lowest sort: tomb-robbers, murderers, and fugitives who flee the hand of Ordakh. If they knew a gentle maiden, richly attired and defenseless, walked the tunnels alone, they would descend upon her like vultures. So low are those men that, like jackals, they know neither law nor honor. They would pluck each gilded spangle from your vestments with their bare hands. And as they are Men of lesser blood, they resent the Adûnâi. After they robbed you of all you hold dear, they would not suffer you to live and call down the justice of their betters upon them. What is one more body in the coffins of Khabarkhâd?"
My hand trembled, suddenly cold. “I understand.”
“Did you venture to the Vaults alone?” My mother peered at me intently, as if watching the tortured vacillations I sought to hide behind a polite smile.
I recalled Niluzîr’s elation when he revealed the eket before his closest friends; the excitement with which he spoke of destiny and birthright; his appetite for adventure. I remembered his eyes, refulgent with pride and delight, as he stood beneath Azrugimil’s hull. To speak plainly would implicate him in my transgression, at which point Kharatinzil could crush his aspirations like a moth.
“Yes. I went alone.”
