Arabesque

Marin

Marin scanned the horizon. The wind picked up and whitecaps began to form as the ship cleared the Ruinart headlands and sailed into the open water of a powerfully running sea. She had no reason to look back at the shadows of the Soller Mountains or the towers of Cievv, a city that could never be her home. This was a moment for savoring freedom. She wanted to feel free. But instead, she felt empty—a traveler merely passing through her own life.

Rising gusts tugged strands of hair from her scarlet hood, blowing them across her eyes like the fine gold bars of a cage. She brushed them aside with a warrior's grace. She sniffled at the ocean air. Her eyes were wide and bright with emotion. The sailors, squinting against the wind and bright water, cast her sidelong glances as they went about their business, but otherwise left her alone.

Marin's destination was no secret. She had secured passage to Messinor in the kingdom of Hayl. Those of the Illam faith would have recognized the silver cinerary urn that lay beneath the bunk in her cabin below. They would understand this young woman's pilgrimage beyond Messinor and into the foothills of the Tayar Mountains. They would know, from the expression on her bold, angular face, that her year of mourning was nearing its end—and that she planned to be at Sey'r an-Shal, the Falls to Heaven, on the anniversary of someone's death.

She had no idea where life would take her after she discharged this sad duty. Right now she had far too much time to reflect upon how life had brought her to the deck of this ship, sailing westward with her husband's ashes.

Marin Altaïr knew it would be a long voyage. Nothing but the ocean surrounding her, she stood fixed, fearing down below the sleep that would be hard to come by.

§

The ship lurched in the rough waves and almost threw her off the bench. Marin's eyes snapped open.  It was dawn at sea, and she'd spent the night on deck remembering. Or, it would now seem, slumped and dreaming. She had never seen Hiril's face in the shadows of the bay wood. That would have been impossible. She had only trusted his voice and the experience it carried. He'd known her name because he was a siri—information was his job.

Marin stood and stretched away the ache in her muscles,bracing her legs against the rolling deck. The night had been calm enough for her to  drowse on this bench while trying to read her future in the stars. But now the sea grew choppy as a stiffer wind filled the sails, and her cloak was damp with spray, a dampness that seeped into her skin. She shivered a little, thinking of her warm bunk below, only to hear a familiar voice inside—her own voice—saying, "I've seen worse."

But had she? That was her old self speaking from a different time, much as Hiril had in her dream. Had she truly ever seen anything worse than this? The man she loved for such a short time was gone from the world, and his ashes in her cabin provided no comfort. If anything, they reminded her of tracking the kayal, of those brittle scales that fell to the ground, eventually becoming one with the soil. Was that what lay beyond the curtain in the world of the Jnoun? Nothing but ashes?

The spray from another wave made it hard for Marin to think of dry, brittle things. The power of wind and sea hurled the little ship westward across Baïr al-Zumr, the Emerald Sea. She herself was a flake of ash, floating or sinking at the pleasure of the elements. Had she seen worse? Had she seen better? None of this mattered when she had no more purpose in the world, when the elements would decide her cruel fortunes.

Oh, but she did have one more purpose. Her year of mourning was ending, and she was on a pilgrimage in Hiril's name. She owed him this much.

After all, it was her fault he had died.