Chapter Two: Port Gringold
Meradonna returned from slumber with a sudden jolt, leaping to her feet and nearly toppling the dinghy in the process. Disoriented, she shook off the remnants of a horrible nightmare which still clung to the edges of her mind, vague and elusive but vivid in the pervading feeling of terror that still held her in its grip.
The sun had vanished below the horizon, replaced by the crisp white glow of the full moon and endless pinpricks of starlight which dotted the indigo sky. The waves had smoothed themselves and only a few small ripples disturbed the glassy stillness of the sea, catching silvery tendrils of moonlight in their grasp and scattering them across the surface of the water.
Weak with hunger, her skin parched from the onslaught of the day's sun and the salty winds, she leaned over the side of the craft and filled her hands with soothing, cooling sea water which she splashed upon herself. An involuntary sigh of relief escaped her lips. Feeling a bit more alert, she looked around and took stock of her situation.
Nothing but ocean and darkness, as far as she could see.
She had no concept of what time of night it might be, no idea where she was in relation to anywhere else, and no clue as to the whereabouts of the Royal Arkonn and its captain. It seemed as though she had escaped one predicament, only to find herself in another. Granted, she had her freedom, but for how long? And what good was freedom, given her current circumstances?
Still exhausted, she didn't see much point in picking up the oars and rowing in any particular direction as she had no way of knowing which way might be the wisest or even which direction was which. She sat on the damp wooden bench, completely alone, staring off into the distance, when quite by accident her gaze happened upon what may or may not have been a distant land mass. Surely her eyes, influenced by the ordeal she had been through, were playing cruel tricks on her; besides, the land was so vague that it barely differed from the horizon and night sky beyond. It was a wonder she had spotted it at all.
She squinted and rubbed her eyes with her blistered palms, willing them to refocus, but the light of night was woefully inadequate and her vision of land seemed to shimmer and fade from view like a mirage. Reasoning that it was better to head in that direction regardless, just in case it was not a figment of her imagination, she reached for the oars, setting them back into their iron holders. Her stiff and aching muscles complained bitterly as she turned the boat to face the west, and began to row once more.
The night was deathly quiet, with only the small splashes of the sea breaking the stillness, just as it had been the night she’d been walking along the seaside road leading from Port Shavelt towards the City of Tryl, searching for a suitably private spot to make camp. The only other sound, she remembered now, had been that of her own treads on the wide, empty path. She hadn’t even heard them coming.
The memory flooded her mind in a sudden wave, as her arms continued their rhythmic rowing of their own accord: dip, push, lift, pause, dip, push, lift, pause.
Faceless masked men, perhaps four of them, but she hadn’t been able to get a good look, cloaked in dark robes cinched tightly at the waist by purple sashes. Her wrists and ankles had been viciously bound with scratchy hemp rope, her pack had been torn from her back so violently that the straps had snapped in two. She was hoisted over the shoulder of a man who reeked of stale sweat, as though she weighed no more than a canvas sack. And then everything went black.
The mage had been there that night on the road, of that she was completely certain. From somewhere deep in her consciousness she recognized the cold, emotionless cadence of his voice now, though she could not recall what had been said.
Before long daybreak approached, and as the indigo sky brightened to a pale lavender, she was at last able to clearly discern the land mass which had remained elusively beyond her vision throughout the darkness of the night. From what she could perceive at this distance, it appeared to be the tip of a peninsula, with one point of land stretching far out into the sea while a vast expanse spread out behind it.
Weak and sore, Meradonna increased her pace regardless, angling her little craft towards the closest point of land. Hours passed, and the heat of day grew steadily, reflecting off the waves and scarring her already parched skin. Finally, shortly after midday she rowed up alongside a series of weather-beaten docks, occupied by a collection of equally abused looking ships of all sizes. Exhausted and relieved at the same time, she stowed the oars beneath the bench, fishing a piece of rope from the floorboards to secure the dinghy to the iron tie-down on the dock as she pulled up to it.
“Ahoy there, miss!” a booming, yet friendly voice rang out from somewhere above her. “Might I be of service to you?”
She raised her head, shielding her eyes against the early afternoon sun, and found herself face to feet with a pair of meticulously clean, perfectly polished black boots. The owner of said boots leaned down and took the rope from her red, sore hands, expertly fashioning a loose slipknot to hold the craft before extending a rough, calloused hand of his own to assist her onto the dock. Gratefully, she took his hand and climbed out, safe at last!
“Welcome to Port Gringold! I’m Thallius, keeper of this here dock,” he informed her cordially. “What’s your pleasure? We’ve taverns, inns, lodgings, shops – is there someplace I can guide you to, young miss? A girl like yourself shouldn't be wandering about these parts all on her own.”
Coughing her dry vocal cords back to life, Meradonna replied in a gravelly voice, “It sounds wonderful, but I fear I have no coins to offer you for any such service as they were stolen from me some days ago by bandits near Port Shavelt. Indeed, they took everything I had upon me.”
Raising her arms, she showed him that she was carrying absolutely nothing on her person. No bags, no packs, no belt pouches – nothing at all. He stroked his gruff, grey beard thoughtfully as he took in the state of her.
“Well now, I sure am sorry to hear that! From Port Shavelt, you say? You sure are a long ways from home,” Thallius commented, a speculative gleam lighting his bright blue eyes. “What are you planning to do with this boat of yours?”
Meradonna paused, looking the dinghy over for the first time. She had not thought of it as hers since, after all, she had stolen it, but she surmised that the least the Captain of the Royal Arkonn could do for her after everything he had done to her so far would be to grant her this small, yet apparently valuable, asset. All of her possessions had already been taken from her – it was only fair. It made perfect sense.
“Can I not leave it here for a time?” she inquired.
“Well sure you can, but you’d have to pay the fee just like everybody else,” he answered. “Unless…”
Meradonna considered Thallius carefully, then said, “Might I be correct in assuming that you, sir, have an interest in purchasing my boat?”
“Indeed I might. What’ll you take for her? She seems to be in fine shape from the looks of her,” he said, walking around to the back to examine the condition of the dinghy. “It says here she’s called the Royal Arkonn, right on the back of her. Now how can that be, I wonder? The Royal Arkonn is moored right over there at the other end of the dock, with the larger vessels.”
Meradonna’s heart leapt into her throat. What if her captors spotted her, idly standing around chatting with the docks-keeper? What if they reclaimed her after everything she had gone through to escape? She would not, could not allow that to happen.
She desperately searched her brain, which was now clouded with panic, searching for a convincing reply to his question. “I, er, did not realize she even had a name when I bought her from an old sailor back in Port Shavelt. What do you make of that? Here I have just been calling her “Old Girl” all this time, when she had such a regal name already.”
Thallius gazed thoughtfully across the planks at the large ship, looming imposingly between Meradonna and freedom.
“Sir, what would you give me for her?” she pressed the issue, hoping to come to a quick agreement and be on her way.
He considered her for a moment. “What would you say to twenty-five gold?’
“Done,” she answered. “She’s all yours!”
Thallius removed a worn brown leather pouch from his belt loop, and counted out each piece of gold with painfully slow precision, placing each one carefully into her palm. By the time he finally reached twenty-five she was chomping at the bit like an antsy horse anxious to set off on an important journey.
“Here you are then, it’s been a pleasure doing business with you!” he said cheerfully. Their transaction concluded, he moved away from her, his keen eyes assessing his new acquisition with relish.
“Likewise!” she called over her shoulder, departing without further formality up the rotting wooden ramps which led to the shore.
She dropped the coins into her boot so they wouldn’t jingle and betray their presence like they would in her pocket, and hurried away as quickly as she dared without drawing attention to herself. The silhouette of the Royal Arkonn cast a cold, dark shadow across the ramp as she ascended it, praying to the god of the sea that she might pass unnoticed. Once again, fate seemed to be on her side.
The heavy, rusted iron gates of Port Gringold stood open, revealing buildings of one or two stories in close proximity to one another lining both sides of the cobblestone street beyond. A well-traveled path led off to the right of the city gates and up the steep, rocky hillside, ending at a temple enclosure which presided over the town below with implied authority. Although hunger was nearly overwhelming her, and the smell of roasting meat wafting down the street in tantalizing waves beckoned her inside, Meradonna recalled her father’s advice: As fortune smiles upon you, always remember to pay homage to the powers that be, for if you neglect to, fortune will smile upon you no longer.
She turned away from the gates, and headed up the path towards the low wall of smooth stones that surrounded the temple buildings, marking its holy boundary. Short, blackened iron gates were thrown open in welcome at the entrance, flanked on either side by small torches that sprang alight as she passed them and set her heart pounding from the surprise of it. A path of round, flat stones embedded into the ground led the way to the front door of the main building, before splitting in two and trailing off in either direction among carefully groomed hedges.
Meradonna approached the stone archway framing the heavy door, surprised yet again when it swung inward of its own volition. Curiously, she peered inside, afraid to enter without being bidden. A young man clad in a simple robe of shimmery blue-green, stood about twenty feet away with his back to her, his shaved head bowed. He lifted one arm and beckoned her inside, and it seemed to her as though her arrival was expected. She had not taken more than three steps toward him when the door slid itself silently closed, cutting off the light from behind her abruptly.
She followed him down a dimly lit hall, inexplicably cool in spite of the heat of the day, which opened onto the temple courtyard that seemed familiar to her though she was at a loss to explain why. The middle of the area was occupied by an astounding fountain of carved stone, featuring sprays of water bursting forth from its centre into the air, only to be captured by five huge crystal goblets, each one held aloft by a mermaid in tribute to the god of the sea. Luminous silvery blue-green mother of pearl adorned the carved scales of their tails, catching the afternoon sunlight that dared to venture in through the open ceiling above, and reflecting it throughout the entire courtyard in rippling splashes of light and colour.
The young cleric turned to face her, smiled gently, and with a sight nod he left her alone beside the fountain. A woven straw mat sat on the uneven sandy floor and she knelt upon it, bowing her head in prayer. When she had finished, she rose and fished one of her twenty-five gold coins out of her boot, placing it in the polished bronze contributory bowl that rested on the edge fountain’s circular ledge.
From somewhere off to her left came the sound of a creaky door opening and closing, sending echoes reverberating off the stone walls of the courtyard and down among a labyrinth of halls that branched off in every direction. Footsteps approached, and before long one of the priests of the temple stepped out of the dimness of the left hallway, his simple robes the pale green shade of the foam left behind by the sea with the changing of the tides. His hood was thrown casually back over his shoulders revealing his cleanly shaven head, and in his hands he carried a well-worn book. As he drew closer, Meradonna noticed that the book’s cracked brown leather cover was inlaid with the same silvery green mother-of-pearl as the tails of five stone mermaids inhabiting the fountain.
“Welcome to the Temple of Troan, child,” he said in a deep but gentle tone, studying her without curiosity, as though he knew precisely why she had come even if she herself didn’t.
Concern was evident in the warmth of his brown eyes as he took her by one sun-chapped, blistered hand and led her over to a low wooden bench near the fountain. Sitting her down upon it, he produced a beautifully crafted bronze cup from somewhere unseen, and reached out to catch some of the water overflowing from one of the mermaid’s goblets. With great care, he poured it over her head until it was empty, chanting rhythmically as the refreshingly cool, tingly liquid cascaded through the dark, matted tangle of her hair, over her parched face and down her body in glistening rivulets.
Meradonna closed her eyes, allowing herself the pleasure of this cleansing ritual with abandon, welcoming it as she had never done before in her life. Her hair, which hung limply down her back in dirty, wind-damaged knots, awakened with each drop of the holy water that caressed it, first straightening and then curling itself into shining auburn waves. She opened her eyes in surprise as her clothing, which drooped from her slender frame in rumpled layers of dirt-encrusted canvas, transformed itself into clean, soft robes of cobalt blue as she watched in awe. Her sun-burned skin cooled, rejuvenating and rehydrating itself, until finally the last healing droplets fell from the tips of her eyelashes and vanished before hitting the floor.
He set the goblet upon the ledge, where it disappeared from view, then held out his book to her as if in offering. Uncertain what was expected of her, Meradonna raised her questioning eyes to meet his.
“I would like to thank you, sir,” she said with quiet reverence. “I have never experienced anything so miraculous as that.”
“Offer your gratitude to Troan, child, not to me. I am but a vessel for his healing powers,” he suggested.
He lowered himself to his knees, and she mirrored him in silent obedience. After he finished his prayer, and she hers, he sat back on his heels and considered her thoughtfully. “Your appearance is that of one who has not eaten in many days. May we offer you a meal?” he asked.
Meradonna’s hopeful smile took over her face before she had a chance to stop it, and she did not want to seem like she was taking advantage of the priest’s generosity. “I do not wish to be any trouble to you, sir, you’ve already done more than I would have imagined possible.”
He nodded his understanding, then rose and beckoned her to follow him. Leading her deep into the temple, he showed her the massive stone carvings lining the halls on both sides, representing the legends of Troan and his followers over time. As she walked beside him, listening to the soothing timbre of his voice, she found herself feeling as comfortable talking with him as she would her father, which both surprised her and didn’t at the same time. At his inquiry, she willingly explained to him everything she understood of the situation which had led her to his doorstep.
When she had finished the tale, he posed the very question which she had been asking herself: “Where shall you go now, child?”
“I honestly do not know, sir. I don't even really know where I am, at least not in relation to where I came from,” she answered, the rumbling in her empty stomach growing almost overwhelming as he escorted her through an archway into a large, square room, broken up by several solid beams that supported the vaulted roof overhead.
The room was empty and quiet at this late afternoon hour, but before long the table would be set for dinner and the chairs filled by novices, clerics, and priests of Troan as they met for their evening meal. He settled her into one of the hard oak chairs positioned along the side of a long, u-shaped table. In the middle of the table sat a wooden bowl overflowing with summer fruit, and he gave a wave of his hand to indicate that she ought to help herself to whatever she wished. Eagerly, she reached for a voluptuous cluster of ripe, burgundy grapes, pulling them off their stems and devouring them three at a time as she considered the question further.
“Everything I had in the world is gone,” she said matter-of-factly, without any trace of self-pity. “Granted, I made the choice to leave a lot of it behind, and the rest has since been taken from me. I’m not sure what I was searching for when I embarked upon this journey, but whatever it was, I am fairly certain that I did not find it.”
“Perhaps you have found it, only you have not yet realized what you hold in your grasp,” the priest murmured cryptically. “You were heading to Tryl, I believe you said?”
“Originally, yes. It’s where my father grew up and I’ve always dreamed of seeing it,” she told him, setting aside the stem which was now devoid of fruit. “I have never heard of this Port Gringold place before. I imagine I must be terribly far from my destination and my hometown.”
He selected a perfect yellow pear from the bowl and polished it thoughtfully among the folds of his robe. “Did you have any particular plans upon arriving in Tryl?”
Chasing down with the grapes with a lusty gulp of water, she reached for the bowl again and chose a crisp green apple. “Honestly, I had hoped that I might find someone there who would be willing to teach me some kind of skill or profession, perhaps take me on as an apprentice. Port Shavelt is so small, and unless I wanted to stud fishing, farming, or tailoring, there wasn’t much else to choose from. I suppose this whole situation is my own fault, caused by my own arrogance,” she said, sighing as she bit into the apple’s sour skin. “It is no more than I deserve for not being grateful at what the gods granted me. Now here I sit, lost, with only enough coin to last a short time, knowing not a soul except for you, without a possession to my name. And on top of that, I am hunted for reasons I cannot fathom.”
The elder cleric thought for a moment before speaking, looking into her Meradonna’s clear green eyes so deeply that she was sure he could see inside her soul. “Are you certain that you are lost, child?” he asked. “Perhaps you might wish to consider remaining here for a while. We can offer you sanctuary and shelter from your pursuers for as long as you feel it necessary. No coin is required of you, all we ask is that you contribute in whatever ways you are able. It may be that the answers you are seeking reside within these sacred walls.”
Church life was not exactly what she had anticipated when she set out from Port Shavelt, but she had to admit that the idea held some appeal for her. I haven’t another place in mind to go to, and there is sure to be something useful I could learn here, she thought to herself. But what of the Royal Arkonn and its Captain? How could she, in all good conscience, allow herself to put these good people in possible danger simply because they sought to help her?
“Thank you, sir. I appreciate your offer, but I know so little of clerical life and the last thing I want is to bring trouble down upon you, given the circumstances,” she answered reluctantly, setting the core of her apple on the table next to the grape stem.
He smiled. “Life is what you make of it, clerical and otherwise. For example, we have clerics whose calling is to worship in the temple and teach our followers here, and that life is available for you to learn and participate in. If you prefer the life of a traveling cleric, journeying throughout the realms to spread the word of Troan and offer your services wherever they might be needed, that is available to you also. I think that might suit you better, given your adventuring spirit,” he said with a knowing glint in his eye.
She watched him as he paused to bite into his pear with relish, peeling an orange and considering his words. She had to admit that something inside her wanted to stay. It wasn’t simply that she felt indebted to him and to the temple for the hospitality, and to Troan for essentially saving her life, it was more than that. Somehow this place felt right, it was as though fate had stepped in and guided her here where she belonged.
Who knows, she thought, I might even like it.
I'm hit with a question
Edited
To answer your question - Meradonna is not without resources, however navigation is not one of them. She's no Macgyver *smile*
Note that while she was raised in the seaside town of Port Shavelt, her father was not a fisherman - he was a paladin in his younger days, and a craftsman for the townsfolk in his middle years while she was growing up. Think of Port Shavelt as something of a "witness protection program" for him...
Fyn