Shadow Road: Book 1 of the Shadows Rising Trilogy

36. Of Mittens and Fog

5th of Thyris

The five days of the "little brother" month, Thyris, rolled by without much more than a nod at the end of winter. The weather even made a mockery of it, snapping into a cold spell that had everyone bundling up in extra clothing.

In Edon, Thyris-week was always a bit of an unofficial holiday. Every shop, establishment, and eatery served free hot mulled cider or spiced Praedani tea, and one of the favorite evening activities in most places was a Drinking Tour. People would gather at one end of town and go from shop to shop sampling teas and ciders. The point wasn't so much the enjoyment of dashing about with friends, and ducking in and out of warm, cozy storefronts – although that was usually great fun. The point was the brightly painted donation boxes from the Sisters of Claddage.

For every cup of cider or tea you took, you dropped a coin in the donation box. It didn't matter if it was a brass arum or a full silver mark, you got to drink. At the end of the week, there was a competition among the shops to see whose beverage had brought in the largest donation. In Garding, the Post's honeyplum cider usually won every year.

Claddage Day was quite the affair in most towns, with snow games for the children on the green, and food and dancing in the town hall. After a town-wide supper, the winner of the competition was announced, and the donations were presented to the Sisters, to be used for supplies and necessities for their orphanages and schools for the low-born

This year, I celebrated Claddage Day by waking from a turbulent nightmare, bundling up in my father's coat, throwing on the knotwork scarf Evers had made for me, and going for a dawn wander. Alone.

I was out on the quarterdeck, ignoring my cold toes and gazing at the first pale ribbons of sunrise, when Raggan came out of the Bridge. He was cradling a mug of sailor's tea in his mittened hands, blowing the steam from it as he crossed the quarterdeck to join me at the railing.

"'Ello, Miss. How fares the sea? Behavin' 'erself?" he asked, giving me the large, cheerful grin that had become almost as much a part of my day as the roll of the ship.

I grinned back at him. "Seems to be."

It was subtle, but I caught him easing his weight off his right leg. He had explained once that he took a round to that knee during the war, and now it was as good a weather gage as a hygrometer. "Storm coming?"

He nodded. "Two, maybe three days. Just a squall, I reckon."

"Ah," I murmured, then turned back to watching the sun gradually set fire to the bank of dark clouds scudding along the horizon.

"Might I make an impertinent observation?"

I smiled a little. "Only if it concerns my sparkling wit."

Raggan chuckled at that. "Aye, your wit does sparkle surely, Miss, but..." he pulled a pair of large mittens out of his pocket and held them out. "You seem t'have lost your mits."

I stared at the mittens. They were worn and misshapen from use, but the wool was still thick and well felted. I bit my lower lip. I had been aboard long enough to know what a high commodity those navy-issue mittens were to the men on the Stryka. Claddage Day might mark the end of winter on the calendar, but that didn't mean winter would be inclined to follow orders. It was entirely possible that there would be many days of snow and wind ahead of us. "I couldn't – "

Raggan shook his head. "Nay, Miss. You'd be insulting the poor blighter what offered 'em. Besides. 'E's got an extra pair from home. Go ahead."

"Fine," I muttered, drawing my frigid hands from my pockets and snatching the gloves, hastily pulling them on. "Who must I thank?"

Raggan shrugged and took a last sip of tea. "Whoever t'is, t'is a gentleman of great mystery and character," he said, a twinkle in his eyes. "And that's my bell. I'll bid you good morning, Miss."

He tipped his hat, turned, and headed back into the Bridge as the second bell began calling the morning watch to their posts.

As he walked away, I took a better look at the mittens he was wearing. They were dingy and faded from salt and sun, and they had been heavily darned in places, but I could still make out a faint chevron pattern of red and yellow. I smiled at first. I had the feeling I had discovered my 'gentleman of great mystery and character.' Then I sobered. Those weren't Navy issue. Come inspection, he would have a mark against him for his uniform being out of order.

Feeling guilty, but a great deal less alone, I shoved my hands back into my pockets, mittens and all.

9th of Nema

"Land'o! Land'o!"

After waiting three long, hungry weeks to hear those two little words, the effect was like a swift kick to the stomach. Everyone - civilians and sailors alike - went scrambling to the foredeck, peering at the southern horizon.

It was anticlimactic. All that could be seen without a long glass was a bank of fog, but Orrul swore he could make out steep black peaks rising among the clouds, and the Angpixen was heading straight for it, so the civilians all decided that the Rimrocks must be hiding beneath that scrap of haze.

It wasn't long before the legends began circulating – most of them from Orrul. Tales of gruesome phantom ships that haunted the Aerilline Ocean. Ships made of bones, crewed by men who neither ate, nor slept, nor died, trapped forever in the will of the Djaemos who sought vengeance for being exiled to the 'depths of the Great Deep'. Every crew they enslaved brought them closer to breaking free of their bonds and rising up against all that was good and right in the world. And the Djaemos would be only too happy to add the Stryka's fine crew to their number...

Lorren told him to stop scaring the children, but she watched that bank of mist with the same wary expression as everyone else.

I had to confess; I wasn't immune to the mystery that surrounded the islands. I stood at the port-side rail, a little curl of dread and anticipation unraveling in my middle.

What waited for us beneath the fog?

What waited for me?

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Djaemos: (Jay-moss) East Altyran for demon.