Page 98 of The Cradle of Ice
NINE
DREAMERS OF THE DEEP
We mark oure dedd with inke of the squid
—To let the Deep know oure loss
—To share a histourie that is end’d
We giveth oure bodys to the sea
—To nourishe the Deep with blode & bone
—To rise agayn in fin & shell
We free oure spirits into the salt’d depths
—To reach the Dremers, who weighe a lif
—To judge if another will be grant’d.
—A Panthean dirge
41
THREE DAYS FOLLOWING the raash’ke attack, Nyx maintained her vigil on the beach. She stared up into the glowing fog as eventide brightened to morning. The fungi, lichens, and mosses bloomed in crimsons, yellows, and emerald greens that matched the sea. She came down to the edge of the village many times each day, pulled by her heart.
“Where are you?” she whispered to the steaming mists.
She prayed for Bashaliia to break the bridling hold that had dragged him from her side. She feared the malevolent horde-mind was already bending and warping him to its will, drawing him fully into their colony until he was lost forever.
Each day, that dread grew.
I must find a way to reach him.
In contrast to her mood, a bright humming drew her eye to where Henna dug in the sand, forming sinuous walls and small homes made of cupped sand and roofed in shells. The girl had recovered from the horrors of that night. Fortunately, she had no memory of being whisked aloft by that bat.
Just as well …
Behind Henna, Vikas stood guard over them with her longsword strapped across her back. After the attack, Graylin was taking no chances with Nyx. Henna had tried to engage the mountainous woman in her sandy construction efforts but was rebuffed with raised palms and some dismissive gesturing.
Nyx had to act as mediator, recognizing Henna’s confusion and the quartermaster’s frustration.
Vikas had been born mute—due to Gynish blood in her lineage, which accounted for her sheer size. The craggy giants of the northern steppes—the Gyns—had lost the ability to speak in the distant past, possibly due to the perpetual howl of winds across their cold lands, which deafened all. Due to this loss, many considered them dim-witted or dull-minded, but Nyx knew from her studies that couldn’t be further from the truth. Their culture was rich, complex, and deeply spiritual. Their language of gestures and expressions was as expressive as any other.
Over the half year in the quartermaster’s company, Nyx had learned some rudimentary Gynish. Nyx had tried to let Henna know that Vikas could not speak, but it was difficult to communicate as Nyx didn’t know Panthean. Still, after much pantomiming among them all, Henna seemed to understand, but it failed to engender any sympathy. The girl’s demands to engage Vikas now involved more arm tugging than pleading.
Vikas eventually relented, dropping to a knee and trying to make improvements in Henna’s village. Unfortunately, the quartermaster’s suggestions were all very practical. Henna preferred a more whimsical approach to construction. The two could never come to any compromise, and Vikas returned to standing sullenly over the pursuit.
Sadly, Henna’s village was not the only one struggling to find its footing.
Nyx glanced far to her left.
Iskar was slowly returning to life following the assault. The plaza had been scrubbed, its sands combed anew. Flooded wreckage had been hauled from the streets. Broken boats salvaged or repaired. Even the stone pier had been restacked.
But there was no joy in such accomplishments.
Over thirty bodies lined the water’s edge, wrapped in a preserving kelp, waiting for a burial at sea that was to commence midday. Tradition dictated a respectful mourning period. Over the past three days, friends and family had knelt beside those bodies before wrapping them, slowly using squid ink and oil to tattoo their loved one’s lives onto the canvas of their cold skin.
