In the Darkness Visible Read online

  In the Darkness Visible

  Elk Riders Volume 1

  Ted Neill

  To Martin T.E. Northfield

  Table of Contents

  Chapter 1 The Ship of Red Sails

  Chapter 2 The Servior

  Chapter 3 Illicaine

  Chapter 4 The Tower

  Chapter 5 Uncle Micael

  Chapter 6 Omanuju

  Chapter 7 Ghede

  Chapter 8 Linusport

  Chapter 9 The Elawn

  Chapter 10 Kejel

  Chapter 11 Mornaport

  Chapter 12 Dancer

  Chapter 13 The Guild

  Chapter 14 Of Bluefish and Bird Watching

  Chapter 15 Nicomedes’ Workshop

  Chapter 16 The Father and the Fighter

  Chapter 17 Castle Foyle

  Chapter 18 Greatport

  Chapter 19 The Jester and the Lady

  Chapter 20 A Fallen House

  Chapter 1

  The Ship of Red Sails

  It all began with sand; it all ended with sand. Gabriella’s brother, Dameon, sifted through handfuls of the stuff, one fist over the other like an endless hourglass. He made a soft, almost inaudible groan as he did so. Anyone else might think him in distress, but Gabriella, long used to his ways, knew it was a sound of contentment. His blank, glassy-eyed stare was not one of idiocy but of deep concentration.

  “He doesn’t tire of it?” Eloise asked, striking at a cluster of mussels with a wedge-shaped rock. She grabbed the loosened shells and dropped them in the basket next to her.

  “No,” Gabriella said, moving her own basket closer to the bed of mussels she was harvesting. “It soothes him. Repetition usually does.” Eloise stared at Dameon, his legs spread before him, his back hunched to bring his face as close to the stream of sand as possible. His was a round face, with hazel eyes, wide-set cheekbones, and thin lips moving, as usual, as he mumbled incessantly to himself. His hair had been cut by their father with care, but no matter—it was still an unruly mess, flattened on one side, sticking up on the other, and presently dusted with sand. Dameon’s sleeves were rolled up past the elbows. It was cold, the time of autumn to wear a cloak or at least to stay warm with harvesting work. But cold rarely affected him.

  It was just that everything else did.

  Eloise turned back to her mussels, chipping away at their bases and the fibers that fastened them to rocks. There was no sign of judgment in her face. She had never judged Dameon or ridiculed him. With her right arm stunted since birth, she too was an outcast among other children.

  And Gabriella, as well, for the simple fact that she was Dameon’s older sister and Eloise’s friend.

  The other children were not far. They had been sent to gather from the mussel and clam beds on the shore of the island, but they kept a stone’s throw away from the three of them. They always did.

  Clouds rolled down from the highlands, brassy patches of sunlight cutting through the white heaps to shine on the conifer trees on the slopes, the flattened fields of harvested grain, and finally the rocky shore of the island.

  Gabriella noticed a warm shaft of sunlight open up on the rocks where the other children from the village laughed and called to each other as they worked. The light lingered on them for some time—like the favor of the heavens—before shifting out onto the sea, over the kelp beds where the otters played, and then into the open sea.

  It was then that Gabriella noticed the ship. It was still too far out to see more than its sails, but even at a distance she could see they were reddish brown, the color of oxblood. She had never seen sails of such color. The other children were too busy among themselves to take notice. Gabriella said nothing and continued to gather mussels, certain that someone would spot it soon enough and, once that happened, their work would end.

  Gabriella filled her basket and made her way over the rocks to Eloise’s side. Eloise’s arm slowed her down as she could not move her basket and collect shells at the same time. Normally she would accept help from no one, but Gabriella was the exception. Together they loosened the mussels in a comfortable silence until Eloise looked up, caught sight of the ship, and sucked in her breath.

  “Look, a trading vessel!” she cried.

  She said it loudly enough that the other children heard. A current of elation swept through them, their shrill cries spreading the word. New vessels always meant excitement at the docks, foreigners, unfamiliar foods and spices, and sometimes even toys and trinkets that the children of Harkness had never seen before. Already they were gathering their baskets, full or not, and making their way back along the shore toward the village.

  With the unexpected arrival, all the usual routines would be broken as the people of the island rushed to prepare goods to trade. The day now had the air of a holiday, and the children knew they could skip off the rest of their chores. No one would notice if they returned from harvesting with half-empty baskets.

  Gabriella did not share in the excitement. The ship did not have the white sails of a trading vessel, and its prow was high and pointed. It was more like a ship of war than trade, she thought. Even the sweep of its hull was sharp and steep, not low and open like most of the vessels they were accustomed to seeing in the archipelago. With its high gunwales and castles fore and aft, the ship had a more sinister look than anything else. Gabriella and Eloise placed their baskets on their heads and started back for the village while calling to Dameon to follow. At first he didn’t, so engrossed he was in his game, but Gabriella came back to him, placed a hand between his fists to stop the flow of sand, and said, “Dameon, it’s time to walk. Why don’t you count out steps back to the house?”

  “By threes?” he asked.

  “How about by sixes?”

  He nodded. Gabriella attempted to brush the sand from his trousers, but he moved out of reach too quickly. She sighed, embarrassed, and followed after him. His brisk pace soon overtook Eloise as he counted under his breath, “Six, twelve, eighteen, twenty-four, thirty, thirty-six, forty–two . . .” He would reach some unfathomable number by the time they reached home, but Gabriella knew his counting would be accurate, so long as the other children did not interfere with him.

  The children were preoccupied with the approaching ship, which was already nearing the mouth of the harbor. Gabriella hoped it would hold their interest long enough that no insults or jibes would come their way this day. A small number of them, mostly older ones in their early teens like Gabriella, had stayed behind to finish loading their baskets. Gabriella knew many of them: Annalyn Berger, Christine Donnaldowd, Edme Angeline, all of whom Gabriella had been friends with before Dameon had been born, before it was realized that he was different, cursed. They had plaited each other’s hair, played skip-rope, and climbed trees when younger. But now they offered no greetings as Gabriella and Eloise passed by. Instead Edme made the sign with her hands to avert evil, and Annalyn mumbled something to Christine that made her look at Eloise and laugh.

  Ignore them, Gabriella thought to herself, remembering how her father had told her that it was her duty, her obligation, to be a better—bigger—lass than the rest of them. It was not always easy, for even she missed those days when she could join the games, the circles of giggles, and parties without hesitation, when she had more friends than just Eloise, when her mother had more lines in her face from smiles than frowns. So much had changed since Dameon had been born. Her father’s farming and fishing business had shrunk as fewer men were willing to work for him in fields or in ships; even fewer would buy from him. They had been able to keep their home, but the days when neighbors would visit and gather around the hearth’s fire were long past.

  A splash, followed by the sound of her name, broke Gabriella out o
f her self-pity. She stopped, balancing the load of mussels on her head. The path ahead of them crossed the stream from Gray’s Mill, and a number of children were gathered on the edge of the bridge looking into the rushing water.

  Dameon.

  She and Eloise set down their baskets and ran to the bridge. Spring storms had damaged the stonework and loosened a number of bricks along the footpath. Gabriella could see the gap where the bricks had tumbled into the rushing water below. She reached the break just in time to see Dameon spun around by the current and slip out of sight beneath the bridge.

  No one else had moved to help him, and she knew it was not beyond the other children to have pushed him towards the weakened part of the bridge as a thoughtless joke. By the shameful looks on some of their faces, she suspected that was the case.

  But she had no time to scold them now. She ran to the far end of the bridge, leapt the wall, and scrambled down the bank of the stream. She slipped and tumbled, falling face down in the mud. Eloise called after her, to see if she was all right, but she did not answer. She was focused on Dameon, who had found a handhold on an uprooted tree sunk in the middle of the stream.

  Gabriella splashed into the water to reach him but soon regretted her haste. The current was too strong, and she was swept downstream immediately. It took all her strength just to swim back to the bank. When she did, she found Eloise waiting for her. Eloise offered Gabriella her good hand and pulled her up into a clustering of cattails. Breathless, they both ran upstream again. This time while Eloise held one end of a stick, and Gabriella the other, they waded in together, Eloise standing close to the bank while water rushed up to Gabriella’s armpits.

  He was still out of her reach, and her clothes and shoes felt heavy in the water. She was a child of Harkness Island, growing on boats, playing in the ocean, swimming in the sea during summer. She, like all her fellow Harkenites, was a strong swimmer. But right then her limbs felt numb and lifeless and her breath short.

  The stream was tea-colored from the peat in the surrounding hills, but it was clear as glass as it slid over Dameon’s face, and his clothes ballooned to his shoulders. Underwater, his fingers looked shorter and fat, like an infant’s reaching for a breast. His face was contorted as he alternated between gasping and holding his breath, reminding Gabriella of a harbor eel—horrible creatures that would eat their own mothers if fed to them as chum.

  As the current swept Dameon under, Gabriella realized that she was seeing her brother for what he was: grotesque and freakish. She was dimly aware of the dozens of children peering down at them, so many, but none helping except Eloise. Gabriella hesitated, frozen while the water swirled around her, and in the space of a few heartbeats, became aware of how much she wanted her brother to die.

  A shape moved under the bridge, and a figure dove into the water that Gabriella first took for a beaver or an otter by the matted hair bobbing in the current. But as he surfaced for air, she recognized Mortimer Creedly. He was bare-chested, revealing skin that was weathered and scarred. Although he looked starved, he was a strong swimmer and he rode the current right to Dameon’s side, took her brother in one arm, and stroked for the bank with the other.

  Dameon was stunned and dazed, but alive. Gabriella took him from Mortimer, wrapped him in a tight embrace, and tried to soothe him by making a long, drawn-out shhhh. He coughed up some river water, and she knew he was fine when he started to twist and struggle against her grasp. She released him and he began rocking. She looked up to Mortimer standing next to them, wringing out his long, matted hair.

  “Thank you, Mr. Creedly,” Gabriella said.

  Mortimer Creedly said nothing as water dripped from his hair. It was hard to read his expression with his face lost under his beard, which was as unkempt as the hair on his head. He resembled a shaggy dog more than any human she knew, and like a dog, he suddenly shook his head and body, sending a spray of water over them. Gabriella would have thought it rude had she not already been soaking. She swallowed an awkward lump in her throat and tried to think of something else to say when Mortimer spoke.

  “He’s not right is he, like, in the head?”

  It was an ironic question, Gabriella thought, since the entire village knew of Dameon’s idiosyncrasies, but the fact that Mortimer did not was no surprise to her. He lived a solitary existence. He had no real home but could be glimpsed sleeping under bridges or the docks when he was not off in the woods hunting and trapping. It was not lost on Gabriella that her brother, an outcast, had just been rescued by another outcast.

  “No,” she said, choosing her words carefully. “Dameon is . . . different.”

  Mortimer Creedly looked at her. His eyes were the sharpest blue she had ever seen, and a great contrast to the rest of his dirty, bedraggled appearance.

  “You’re his sister,” he said. A statement, not a question. Was there a note of accusation in his voice, or was it just Gabriella imagining things, her conscience playing tricks on her? He said nothing more except for a loud, “Humph,” as if disappointed in something about her, before he turned to jump back into the water and swim over to the patch of grassy bank just below the bridge. Gabriella now noticed his crossbow and a pile of pelts he had been washing in the stream. On land again and lacking all modesty, he began to remove his wet trousers and wring the water from them. With Mortimer gone, Eloise came to her side, helping her up, tsking in the trapper’s direction.

  “Mortimer Weirdly.” She called him the name most of the children used for him. “So uncouth.”

  “Yes,” Gabriella said, shivering, as if Mortimer’s eyes had sized her up and found her wanting. She pulled off Dameon’s shirt, wrung it out, then fought with him to put it back on again. He would be cranky and irritable if she did not get him moving and counting again.

  “Come on,” Gabriella said. “Let’s get to the village and see what is going on with that ship.”

  Chapter 2

  The Servior

  The ship was already at dock when they arrived, its red sails looming over the wattle and daub houses of the village. The square beside the docks was packed with people, so many that it was impossible to squeeze past them. Gabriella could tell that something was terribly wrong though, for no one was bartering over goods or bickering good-naturedly over prices. Instead the crowds of Harkenites were silent while they strained to listen to what sounded like an argument between two men standing where the cobblestone of the square met the planking of the docks.

  Gabriella and Eloise tried standing on tiptoe but even then they were not quite tall enough. Other children occupied all the barrels and crates on the periphery already and all the choice perches in the nearest trees. Eloise had an idea. She motioned for Gabriella to follow her down under the docks. Gabriella pulled Dameon along after her. The three of them walked on the exposed shingle amid smells of rotting fish and waterlogged timbers. Gabriella could tell Eloise knew this path well. Eloise had a way of blending in and hiding in the wide open, a trick of survival Gabriella knew well herself. That her friend could find a secret pathway into the heart of the village did not surprise her in the least.

  What did surprise her was the sight of the foreigners, men of wealth and power, attended to by men of war with weapons of steel, not a simple wood club or bone spear among them. They were harsh-looking men, not dressed as sailors but rather as mages with black tunics and trousers beneath velvet, midnight-blue cloaks. Their belt buckles were a dull unpolished metal that did not reflect the light. In contrast to the sobriety of their dress, each wore a necklace with a broken ring upon it, hanging like a golden “C” against their breasts. These sparkled and shone in the intermittent sunlight.

  Their attendants wore boiled leather armor and ring mail shirts. Some wore helmets. Those who were bareheaded had closely shorn hair that revealed tattoos coiled liked snakes around their scalps. Some had bones stuck through their noses and earrings that ran in shiny rows up the sides of their ears. Two of the visitors stood on pointe, in front of the oth
ers, just where the docks met the courtyard, halted as if by a sense that they were welcome no further.

  Eloise led Gabriella and Dameon up a muddy embankment so they could get a better look. The two men at the lead were a great contrast to one another. One stood tall in a carmine cloak lined in black with what looked like silver lettering, runes, sewn into the border that Gabriella could not read. His skin was smooth and unblemished. He carried no weapon save a short sword with a jeweled hilt.

  His companion was shorter, stockier, and wore sleeveless mail. His weapons, a throwing ax across his back and a scimitar on his belt, were nicked and scratched—the marks of many battles. The short man’s face was scarred and pitted, his nose flattened as if broken many times.

  Yet, despite their differences, each man’s face—with high cheekbones and wide-set eyes—had a serpentine quality. Even their mouths were wide and thin lipped. Gabriella concluded that they must be brothers or cousins at least.

  Chief Salinger stood, along with the elders of Harkness, to greet the visitors. Gabriella felt the heat rise to her face when she realized how close they were to the chief. His stance was wide, his shoulders squared and his chin pointed upwards, the expression on his face one of quiet confidence. He was young for a chief, but in that moment Gabriella saw why he had been elected out of all the Harkness elders: everything about him bespoke leadership.

  “He is so handsome,” Gabriella said, clutching Eloise close to her, still shaking—whether it was from cold or pure excitement she didn’t know—but she did know that whenever she was close to the chief, her head felt as if it were full of wind, her stomach full of feathers, and her heart pounded like a smithy’s hammer.

  The man in the carmine cloak introduced himself as “Sade, of the Servior.” Whether the Servior were a tribe or a state, Gabriella was not sure.“Perhaps they are an order of magi,” Eloise said.

  “Shush,” Gabriella said, trying to listen. She wrapped her arms around herself, her wet clothes making her cold.