“Where is everyone?” Hamilcar asked the crew, the island itself, or the gods, giving voice to the unspoken question we had in common.
No one answered.
A high tide had carried our ship to the harbor, but the six thatched-roof houses and solitary central structure stood well clear of the water, raised up on wooden beams against the possibility of a flood. Their doors were shut tight, and their windows covered. A wind from the sea moved across the sand, but the village was otherwise still.
I led Bran by his halter to the deck and down the plank to the dock, keeping my hand below his chin so he could not turn his head and see the terrifying expanse of ocean surrounding him on three sides. Once his hooves touched solid ground, his body relaxed, and so did my grip. I, on the other hand, felt a nervous energy like crackling lightning in my bones. There was a threat here in this silent place.
“I don’t like this,” Halvor muttered.
A thick forest of emerald green separated the beach and its villages from the slope of the island. The city crowning the hill shone bright and serene. We could not see from this distance whether it was also empty.
I gave Bran’s halter a gentle tug, and we walked inside the half-circle of houses. If there had been footprints in the sand, or any record of where the inhabitants had walked, they had all been lost to wind and time. The ground was white and smooth, the houses undamaged.
“Do you think there was a fight?” asked another sailor. His name was Rohan, and he was taller than I, with a face chiseled from shining brown stone. A scar on one cheekbone twitched toward his eye as he surveyed the village.
“No blood,” Halvor replied, “no weapons. Nothing’s damaged.”
If I had passed through this village, I would have thought that the inhabitants were merely taking a midday rest, and they would emerge when the sun was lower. The longer I lingered here, the more oppressive the silence grew.
Now that I stood in the center, Bran tugging at his halter as he spied fresh young leaves at the edge of the forest, something was strange about the houses themselves. I approached the one at the south end, closest to the shore. With the horizon providing a flat line I could compare it to, I saw that the house sloped to the west. The beams on which it stood had cracked. A jagged mouth, wide enough for me to put my fingers inside, had opened in each stilt.
Hamilcar came up beside me, the feathers in his hat bobbing with frenetic rhythm. “This is Kannura’s house,” he said.
I let Bran have his way and climbed up to the door. The wooden latch came free easily, and the door swung open with the creak of swollen timber. Within, the house was dark, its central fireplace cold and clear of ash. A bed of rope and timber stood against the far wall, and two small hammocks hung nearby; all three had been stripped of their bedding. An imprint of dust on the floor marked where something large and rectangular had been removed from the foot of the bed. I had hoped to find foodstuffs, so I could determine how long the occupants had been gone by their decay, but it was all gone. Not even the cookware remained.
I climbed back down. Halvor and Rohan reported similar findings: the villagers had packed up their belongings and left—by sea, judging by the empty harbor—and nothing and no one remained behind.
All of the houses stood on cracked legs.
None of the sailors had an explanation as to how this, the only evidence that something had driven the inhabitants away, had occurred. I was at a loss. I could not think over the insistent feeling that the threat had not yet passed.
Over by the trees, Bran snorted and shook his head. The metal fastenings of his harness rang like tiny bells. Without another sound, he planted his feet wide and ducked his head.
The earth shook underneath me, rustling the trees like a summer storm and kicking up a cloud of fine dust. On either side, the houses groaned as if in pain. Waves crashed over the dock.
For a single, terrifying second, I thought myself upon the mountain outside Phyreios again. The great worm was chewing its way from beneath the earth, and the god was coming to take Khalim from me. Then the vision was gone, and I ran across the heaving ground to Bran.
The earthquake passed as quickly as it had come. The village still stood, though the houses leaned a little farther, and the cracks in their legs opened wider. It would not last much longer.
Hamilcar brushed dust from his hat and surveyed the scene, his lips moving as he counted his men. When we were all accounted for, he said, “Well! That was strange.”
“There’s never been an earthquake this far west,” Rohan said, his voice low and grim. “Not as long as I’ve lived.”
Silence fell over the beach. I glanced up to the city on the hill; but for the birds circling above the trees, it, too, was still.
This village was not meant to withstand a quake. A flood, yes, or a storm, but it relied upon the earth to give it strength. Its people had fled before it fell on their heads.
“Stay close to the ship,” Hamilcar instructed. “Be prepared to leave at a moment’s notice.”
He chose Halvor, Rohan, two women by the names of Mirala and Kelebek, and myself to go with him into the forest and search for the hidden treasure of Abraxas of Lore. We carried shovels and picks, and blades to cut through the underbrush. The others pulled up the anchor and returned our cargo to its hold. There would be no exchange of goods with the people of Salmacha, not here. Perhaps, we hoped, we would find them on another island.
A footpath led through the trees behind the village, sloping upward as we walked away from the beach. It was much like the isle of the grandmothers—one more accustomed to the movement of the earth. While that path had given me no cause to fear, this one felt as though some threat observed our every step. No birds sang among the boughs, and scurrying creatures had all hidden themselves away. I kept a tight hold on Bran, and he followed at my heels, his head lowered and his ears flicking at every errant sound.
“If I know Abraxas, which I do,” Hamilcar said, forcing cheerfulness, “he will have hidden his riches somewhere auspicious.”
The path forked, and he chose the left-hand side, curving away from the route to the city, because the flowers growing along it were huge and scarlet. I suspected he actually had no idea where Abraxas of Lore had hidden his treasure.
Kelebek held up a hand bedecked in silver rings, her bright silk sleeve catching the wind like the bough of a tree. “There’s someone ahead,” she said through her teeth.
The party stilled. At last, after the quake, a few birds had returned, and the forest was once again alive with sound. I followed Kelebek’s gesture and saw a hunched figure standing beside the path.
We approached with silent steps. The figure appeared no sharper as we came nearer. A few more paces, and we could see it for what it was: a carving of stone, worn by the weather, with a pair of wings sheltering an indistinct face and clawed hands clasped before it as if in prayer.
At its feet lay three baskets. The two largest were filled with fruit, rotting and swarming with flies. The last, much smaller, held beads of silver and stone, strung into bracelets. An offering had been left for this forgotten, neglected god, only to be forgotten again.
“This was left a week ago, at least,” said Rohan.
Hamilcar nodded. “That tells us how long the villagers have been gone.”
“I don’t think so,” Kelebek argued. “This is a hunting path, not a road. People don’t come this way often.”
“Who else could have left it?” Rohan asked.
“Abraxas’ pirates?” Hamilcar offered. “Though I’ve never known him to be the faithful sort. Come along, friends, the day grows old. I’d rather not spend a night in the woods.”
We left the offering and the idol where they lay. Even Kelebek, with her penchant for jewelry, did not touch the beads. I knew not whether this faceless god would have minded if she did, but I had no wish to find out. I had learned that even forgotten, nameless gods had power at their disposal, and they guarded that which they saw as theirs with jealousy.
Following our captain’s intuition, or perhaps his imagination, we walked deeper into the forest; in single file up the narrowing path, with Hamilcar at the head of our column. The trees grew sparser, and coarse gray stones emerged from between them. The crest of the hill, with the stone wall of the city encircling like a crown, shone through the canopy to the north. I thought that I could see movement in the battlements, but I could not be certain.
I could see footprints, also—sunken deep into the mud of the forest floor, following the same path we were. They had been carrying something heavy.
The trail ended at the sheer stone face of a cliff, far too steep to climb. Sunlight warmed the stone, and a few small lizards watched us from their perches with wary eyes, too comfortable to bother running and hiding.
“Now,” Hamilcar said, “which way would Abraxas have taken his treasure? To the north, closer to the city, or southward?”
“What about that structure, there?” Mirala asked.
A stone’s throw to the south, against the wall of stone, stood a temple much like the one on the isle of the priestesses. This one was rough gray stone, instead of the shining black obsidian of the volcano, but the pillars flanking its open door stood just as proudly, and the arch that stretched between them had a familiar curve.
“Oh, yes, of course,” Hamilcar said. “He would hide it in the ruins.”
And this temple was in ruins. Crumbled stone and rotting vegetation held its doors in place, and the smell of stagnant water wafted from beneath the arch. I tied Bran by a long lead to a nearby tree. Kelebek found a dry branch and struck a torch, and we walked into the wet, decaying darkness.
A layer of mud on the stairs showed the passage of humans and animals. When we reached the bottom, the corridor opened into a vast, domed room. Scorch marks on the walls indicated where the previous crew of pirates had hung their lights, and two empty barrels that stank of liquor further proved that they had once entered here.
At the center of the room lay a black pit, as wide in diameter as the height of a man. Try as I might, I could not see the bottom. Faintly, the smell of salt water cut through the humid miasma of the temple, and I wondered if it reached all the way down to the sea.
Standing beside it made my stomach lurch and my head spin. With a start, I realized I was leaning out over the edge. I gave it a wide berth as I followed the sailors deeper into the temple.
Abraxas had chosen this place for its impressiveness, not for its abundance of hiding places. At the back of the vast chamber, two of the flagstones had been disturbed, forming a peak like a tent.
Between Halvor, Rohan, Mirala, and I, we lifted each stone and set them aside. I took up a shovel and set about digging through the mud.
Soon, I stood deep in the hole, the edge of the floor level with my eyes. The first treasure to appear was a small chest, wrapped in oilcloth to keep away the damp. I handed it up, and Halvor cut through the seal of wax and opened it. Coins in many sizes, each stamped with the face of a different ruler, glittered in the torchlight.
I dug out another chest, this one packed with jewels, and another, containing only a knife with a gilt handle and a blade spotted with rust.
As the others tallied up our newfound riches, I found one last object hidden in the muck, a soft, oblong package of waxed canvas. Borrowing Halvor’s knife, I cut through the heavy stitching, and the cloth fell away. Beneath lay a harpoon, its head carved of horn and sharp as the day it was crafted. The barbs were curved like the claws of a great beast. This was the enchanted weapon that had been promised by tale and rumor, and it was beautiful.
I took it in my hand and lifted it to my shoulder, mindful of the walls of the pit. Its weight was perfect—I could send it flying with a gesture. An electric shiver passed through my body, and I felt the weapon’s will.
It was an ancient cunning, one instinctively familiar with the movement of the earth and the change in the seasons. I recognized the fiery temper of a dragon, balanced against its patience, that of a creature who had seen cities rise and fall and rise again. The horn and claws had not been taken by conquest, but given willingly, to one whom the dragon had found worthy. And I felt a sense of foreboding, and of anticipation: something was coming, and the dragon’s wisdom asked if I would be willing to act.
With my steady hand, I told it that I would.
Back to Chapter XII: The Lady of Osona
Forward to Chapter XIV: The City on the Hill
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