“It’s time,” said the servant at Arn’s door. Arn closed it gently after a stern nod, and turned back to Massema. It was early enough in the morning that she had not finished getting ready for the day.
“Already?” she asked.
Arn nodded quietly. “With the tide,” he said. His wording was getting better, and he sometimes tried to mimic the accent of those around him. He reached for his pack, wishing that it included a weapon. Drowen had assured him he would carry one when it was time, but he was not permitted anything more than a meat knife in his slave’s quarters.
The dark-skinned woman stepped closer, raising one hand in front of her. “Don’t even think about leaving like that, Arn.”
With a smile, Arn paused and lowered his pack. “Like what?” he asked.
“Without a kiss or an embrace!” she exclaimed, mocking a furious expression of reprimand. She stepped into Arn’s muscular embrace, and he felt her curves through her small clothes—she had not yet donned her usual dress.
Arn smiled. “There is your embrace,” he said, and pulled back enough to reach her lips. “And here is your kiss.”
Their mouths met for a moment. Neither wanted to pull back, to separate, for the separation that was coming would span the Deep. Arn felt her tears on the good side of his face—but his scars felt nothing.
“Come back to me,” Massema whispered when Arn took a step back.
Arn had never known a woman like her, but he felt he knew her better than he knew anyone. He picked up his pack and slung it over his shoulder. He gave her a quiet nod, and his words: “I promise,” and then opened the door.
Drowen Deathless was in a foul mood that day—and many of the days preceding it. His closest comrades surrounded him—all on horseback—but he gave Arn a stiff wave as the slave warrior emerged from the fractured ruins of the Keep. The earthquake had delayed Drowen’s plans—Elwar’s fleet, and those that had already joined it, would sail for their destination before Drowen made it to the meeting place.
With Arn trailing behind, Drowen and his elites soon led the troops down the dusty, debris-scattered streets of Starath toward the harbour. If they had had more time, they would have relocated Drowen’s stronghold to a less destroyed estate, but much of Starath was in a similar state. They passed the scar where the metal pipes in the ground had broken out of the cobblestones, protruding as the ribs of some otherworldly beast. Then the medley parade of skeletally-plated champions and men in boiled leather reached the flooded districts where the massive waves from the Deep had claimed many of the few lives that still lived in Starath.
Arn climbed gingerly into the designated rowboat gingerly. He had survived the Deep once before, but it had fractured his mind and branded his back. As he pulled at the oars with the other slaves, he watched the towering estates of the city shrink, pull by pull. What sort of man would he be when he returned to Massema once again?
He knew only that he would see her again. There was nothing in this world or the dreamworld that could keep him from that isle—from the isle of her warmth.
Ahead, nearly a hundred galleys rocked on the sun-shining waves of Copper Cove, ready for the war to come.