Chapter Two – Part 6 – In Preparation For Landing
Rhayd hadn’t slept well at all. After the shock of having to catch that idiot girl, his weak left arm had refused to let him find a comfortable position for more than five breaths before it began to ache again. After spending half the remaining darkness oscillating between a half dozen positions, he finally abandoned the hard bunk he had been assigned and made for the deck again, opting to relieve the on duty marine, much to the relief of the sailor. Not only had he been scheduled for an over night watch, but he would be forced to unload the cargo once the ship docked at Yeun as well, so even a few hours of rest was welcome. Rhayd may have been pressed to aid in the unloading as well, but with his arm as sore as it was, he was glad to have the excuse of watch to keep him from participating.
At least the ocean was calm. The last time he had been on a boat, there were storms. Waves, at least as tall over the rails as he had been then, took three of the crew manning his father’s ship as it fled Keen Rimmor during the exile of the nobility from that accursed city. Rhayd had paid attention to the distress of the crew then only to keep his mind from the pain of his shattered arm. Now, he found that a thought of the child he had been then, a spoilt fool unconcerned with his surroundings, left a bad taste in his mouth.
So he watched the serene ocean, seemingly for hours. To the south-east, the great rings of Jag Har’Oah began to break through the horizon, sending streamers of green light across the water toward the boat. It had been years since Rhayd had seen the luminary rise without the baffle of the sun to ruin the experience.
“Grandfather’s quite spectacular out there all on his own, isn’t he?” a voice rasped from behind him.
“Why do you call Jag Har’Oah grandfather, Curia Thryche?”
Rhayd turned, leaning himself back against the gunwale with his arms crossed. It was a pose he adopted to appear unconcerned, but in this case it had the added benefit of cradling his injured arm against him, affording him some relief from its constant stinging pains. The Curia had settled, quite silent until he spoke, on one of the upturned rain barrels near the ship’s central mast, leaning his chin on the pommel of his exquisite cane.
“Because that is what he is, Rhayd. The father of Kahlus, lord of the sun, from whom Maredran was born.”
“If Jag is the father, who was our mother?” Rhayd mused, cocking his head to the side.
“Ah yes. Her. Well, you know Jag Har’Oah of course – though to simply call him Jag would be a misnomer. Jag, in the ancient tongue simply means great. It is his title. Great Father of the Light. Kahlus means simply That which Lights the Day.”
A nonsense answer. Of course the translations of the names of the divine were little more than place holders to explain their essence. Rhayd had grown accustomed to the Curia’s circular logic long ago, and was used to asking very pointed questions – inwardly he cursed himself for letting the Curia redirect him so easily.
“And Rahrin is the bringer of order, the outsider who imposed structure upon the world,” the young noble countered, giving the rote answer to the quotation from his own notes.
“But you didn’t ask about Rahrin, did you young lord Khalenn?”
“No,” Rhayd agreed with a small, wry smile. “I asked about the consort, whom is so rarely spoken of. I don’t even know her name.”
“She has no proper name, Rhayd. None of them do. Names give a power the gods are unwilling to part with. That is why many of their messengers adopt names suiting their purpose. Soon, no doubt, you will come to hear news of the war in the south, and the name Melyr’Oah will cross the lips of those reporting in hushed tones. That one is a mercenary, a warrior who sold his focus to the Dornan army, much to our surprise, because he is a weaver. The name he has chosen, also, is a surprise.”
“What is its meaning?”
“Melyr’Oah has come to be understood as a derivation of ‘yash mel iyr oah.’ He who is bane to the light.”
Rhayd grimaced. Even for a heretic who took on the sort of name reserved for divine messengers, this one was filled with poor omen.
“What of this mercenary’s real name? What do the king’s spies say of him?”
“Very little. They know he is called the white knight, among the Dornans, and is known as a heretic weaver. He also brought with him a cadre of fifty other like warriors, led by a man known as Uru Oazing, of whom nothing is known, as he remains hidden at all times under a burnoose. A plague of poor names, however. Uru Oazing was the name of the last known prince of the Harbour Nation before its dissolution and occupation by Dornan armies five years ago. Oazing himself was hung on a pike outside the harbour proper. ”
“A plague of imposters with bad senses of humour, more like.”
Thryche laughed, shaking a finger at Rhayd, his aged eyes dancing with youth for a moment.
“Ah, you know not of what you speak, young man. And you’ve let yourself become sidetracked once more. Ask the question you wished an answer for. But this time, ask it properly.”
Cursing his own lack of cunning, Rhayd stared out to the north-west, away from the rising rings of the great grandfather. There, dimly glistening red like a cast out lion hunting scraps, sat Rahrin himself. Small, compared to Jag Har’Oah, the god Rahrin was none the less a constant companion of the night, seeking solace from the sun, Kahlus, with whom he held an eternal enmity.
The proper question came, as they often do, without thought.
“We have the grandfather who was begotten. The father from whom Maredran sprang. And the bringer of order, the outsider. The missing piece of this puzzle is the mother, who must be counterpoint to the father. Nowhere in any of our study has there been record of a divinity in the domain of darkness, of night. It is so rare, to have a real and lasting darkness. So. What is the nature, if not the name, of the mother goddess?”
“That, Rhayd Khalenn, is a very enlightened question.”
Thryche stood from his barrel and strode – without the aid of his cane, Rhayd noticed – to the gunwale against which the young man leaned, coming to mirror his stance, crossing his arms over his chest. They might have made an odd pair, diminutive young noble and tall, aged weaver, had there been anyone else to see them aside from the crew, who couldn’t be bothered to care about passengers.
“The name we have come to know her by is Nieri. Derivation of ‘Ne iyr aih.’ She who destroys order.”