The Tide’s Song
16 Autumn 218
Sav
That first unpleasant shock of realization, on seeing the gem through her activated lenses, had left her very nearly angry enough to roust everyone together and blast the news of this betrayal to all and sundry. Only exhaustion and the persistent need to know more stays her lips, though she falls asleep staring at the chest on the other side of the study.
She had, of course, performed tests the very next day, once she’s had a chance to refresh herself on the working’s details. What she’d discovered had left her more thoughtful than angry; and then the furor of moving her quarters over to the Pride’s Fall, and her delving into Kelwin’s journal, kept her mind occupied thoroughly.
It’s not until the witches have re-merged on the Tide’s Song and left the Pride’s Fall and the Rough Guppy behind that she does finally go about to each person, singly or in pairs, to inform them of the tracking rite and its confinement within the lined chest. Reactions vary, but with the immediate danger out of the way, the knowledge Sav imparts that the working was quite old, and the presence of Carter as a new member who would be watched regardless of the circumstances, the new info leaves few ripples.
Perhaps annoyingly, Carter is the last person Sav approaches with what she discovers. One wouldn’t think there’d be that many places to hide on a ship barely 120 feet long, yet whenever Carter looks close to coming near Sav, the girl somehow slips away. Yet one evening, when Carter comes down to the crew quarters, she finds Sav there, sitting cross-legged and barefoot on her own bunk, the broken power orb hovering in front of her.
Sav looks up, acknowledging her entrance calmly with a flicker of a blink. “Blackwood,” she says. “Ye might be interested in what I found about that stone.”
Carter
Carter has been restless. There was some thing about her, something relevant to her, that some of the others were hiding. Carter can’t be sure what it is, but she’s familiar with the feeling. Suspicion seeping through the very cracks in the walls, spreading through the crew, poisoning them against her. It’s like the return of an unwelcome relative - not unexpected, but still unpleasant. Uncomfortable.
Carter’s father had fallen into paranoia after the death of his eldest child, Carter’s half-sister, Ellis. Carter herself hadn’t even been conceived yet, so the story she recalls is one she has heard throughout her childhood, rather than any true memory. Different versions, of course, depending on who was doing the telling, but similar enough that Carter trusted the basic facts to be true.
Ellis had died. Slowly. Some sort of wasting illness. The Baric had called physicians, scholars, even a man with a thick Jorungun accent who claimed to be able to heal with a touch - Carter’s father had turned this last man away, though, and reported him to the closest Swan garrison. The Blackwood home was no place for witchcraft.
After Ellis’ death, the Baric had convinced himself it was an act of sabotage. Ellis had been healthy. She had been young. Her death had to be the result of some plot - some poison or witchcraft. He’d fired the kitchen staff. Had the property searched. Had Ellis’ room torn apart, looking for any explanation and in finding nothing only seeing this as reassurance that something was wrong, that there was some person, some intelligence actively planning against him.
In Holland’s version of the story, their mother was always the heroine. She had been a country girl - selected out of a line of eligible young women after the Baric’s first wife had died. And as Lady Blackwood, Carter’s mother had been praised for her intelligence and her calm temperament. For her grace and her beauty.
(Here, in telling the story, Holland would usually make a snide remark, about how he didn’t think Carter resembled their mother at all. It was the sort of barb that always pricked, even when Carter was expecting it.)
Holland had told Carter that their mother had been desperate to bring the Baric out of his own grief. She had encouraged him to take meetings with his vassals again. Assured him that Holland, then age 10, would be an excellent Baric one day.
A ‘mutual agreement was made’, according to Carter’s governess. In Holland’s version, though, having another child had been their mother’s idea, though she was well past childbearing age. A brave self-sacrifice to secure the Blackwood line.
The pregnancy hadn’t been easy for their mother. With a season still to go, the physician had warned the Baric that the Lady Blackwood’s heart was working too hard. That if she didn’t have the child soon, she would likely die.
And so Carter had been born a full turn early, cut out of her mother’s womb in the hopes of saving the Lady Blackwood. But Carter’s mother had died, anyway. She had lost consciousness as the physician had started to cut her skin, and she had never woken.
Carter can picture a beautiful face, and a tangle of sweat-drenched curls, and the peaceful smile of someone dreaming. But Carter knows this is a fantasy. She knows that she likely never even laid eyes on her mother. That the infant Carter had been quickly swept away, squalling, she being so fragile and small.
Carter’s early years had been defined by her father’s waves of grief and denial - interspersed with sharp, sudden paranoia - and her brother’s resentment and small cruelties.
Now, on the Tide’s Song, Carter sees echoes of this stress. This fear. Conversations ending as she enters a doorway. A sudden immediacy to other tasks that pulls people away from her. Hushed, urgent voices rising up from the hold. The polite dismissals of her offers to help…
Carter doesn’t push. To protest might make her seem more suspect, and eventually the cloud of suspicion would either waft away or coalesce into action. If it were the latter, Carter would manage it then. For now it was better to wait.
And so Carter had waited. She’d refocused on her witchcraft. It is a challenging thing to teach herself, but she hasn’t seen more than a glimpse of Sav for days. It was disappointing. Carter had enjoyed her magic lesson with Sav, and had hoped for more, but it had been spoiled, it seemed, right at the end, when Sav had removed a large gemstone from Carter’s bag, and asked if she could study it further.
Carter had thought little of it, in the moment, though, Sav’s tone had changed slightly, and the air in the room seemed to shift. That night, Carter had convinced herself she’d imagined the response. That Sav was more likely just tired, and her chivvying Carter from the room was because Sav needed to rest. But Carter quickly realized it was something deeper, and directly related to her. Something Sav would speak about, hopefully, when she was ready, and then, whatever it was, at least Carter would know.
Now, as Carter enters the bunkroom, she’s surprised that not only does Sav remain seated on her bunk, but she addresses Carter directly, telling her she might be interested in what Sav had found about the stone.
Carter sits on the cot opposite Sav. She moves slowly and deliberately, leaving space, as if Sav is a game-bird that Carter might frighten into flight.
“What did you find?” Carter asks, as she sits. She cracks a smile, “Not counterfeit, I hope. My brother would be furious.”
Sav
The mild jest is met unsmiling, Sav either missing the gesture toward humor or deliberately ignoring it. The cracked orb in front of her arcs toward the side, where she catches it with one hand, tosses it to the other, and then tosses it into midair, where it gets caught by the invisible force before it’s once again tossed to her right. “Certainly no a fake,” she agrees. “If ‘twere simply paste, the tracking spell laid ‘pon it would be a waste of money. And there’d be more signs of wear an scratches ‘pon the gem, as the spell looks tae be nigh two decades old.”
The sphere halts, spinning in place in the air as Sav places her hands on her thighs and looks levelly at Carter. “I’ve heard of such spells used in Ithar tae keep track of right costly valuables, which a stone of that size an’ purity does fulfill. So that, at least, hauds up. But ye’ll no object tae me removin that before it gets returned t’ye, will ye? Or at the least sellin’ it somewhen and returnin the value of it t’ye.”
Carter
At the mention of the tracking spell, Carter can feel a flush starting across her cheeks and nose. Not guilt, but embarrassment. The realization of an error. An unintended mistake that put herself and everyone on the ship at risk.
“I’m sorry, Sav,” Carter says, simply. “I didn’t realize, though I should have with all the time I spent packing. And so carefully.” She shakes her head, “It feels like I spent years preparing, really. But I hadn’t even thought about witchcraft then.” Some of Carter’s hair has come loose from its pins, and Carter rakes her fingers through it, trying to control it. She looks away from Sav, feigning distraction and starting to pick through her belt pouches. Carter is not really looking for anything, but busying herself, in the hopes that Sav will track the movement, and hear her statement, and not notice the blush.
“I was thinking about space, and weight, when I planned what to take from the vault,” says Carter, quickly, filling the space with her voice. “I knew it wasn’t likely I’d be back, and while I thought the Torch-cursed thing would be hard to fence, I didn’t give any thought to…” she laughs a little, “What a stupid thing. Of course my father would have tracked it. He was always so—” Carter stops herself and chooses her next words carefully. “My father was always very cautious. He was a man under stress, and one who often worried.”
Carter removes a ribbon from her belt, and ties her hair back, quickly yet elegantly. The loose waves now pulled away from her face, which no longer feels warm.
“Of course please take the spell off. Or sell it. Break it down into…I don’t know, whatever you use to make that white powder that stops wounds bleeding.”
Carter smiles, and for a moment, she thinks perhaps the mistake has been found and corrected before any real damage could be done. But she’d had the gemstone with her since leaving the Blackwood estate. It had only been a grasp or so, but…
“Actually,” says Carter, settling into her borrowed bunk, tucking her skirt beneath her so that her boots won’t dirty the bedding. “Could you tell me anything more about whatever tracking spell is on it? How precise is it? And would a person have to know of the spell’s existence in order to track the stone?”
Sav
Sav is quiet for a spell, her head tilting slightly as she keeps her gaze steady on Carter’s face. The girl’s demeanor is far more important to her at the moment than miscellaneous actions—though hard-won instinct still keeps a light finger on the motions in her peripheral vision, alert to abrupt movements that might indicate a weapon drawn or sudden flight.
“I cannae compare it to other tracking, as ‘tis the first of its kind I’ve seen,” she says slowly. “As ‘tis laid upon an object for someone else tae use, I cannae imagine ‘tis held solely within the mind of the caster—perhaps another object might be used to track it. And I cannae begin tae guess how someone would be able tae track it without knowin that somethin like the spell exists for that purpose. I suppose were someone to be lookin for spensy gems in the area they might sense it, though not lookin specifically for that one—I’ve heard one of t’others speak of such. Beyond that I dinnae care tae make any further guesses.”
She’s quiet for a moment more, leaning back on her hands, the orb still spinning. “Nor can I begin tae guess why someone who grew up with all they could wish might choose tae leave their home an gie up all they’ve had wi’out bein driven from it, neither.”
Carter
“Thank the Harvest,” says Carter, “I was worried it would be some kind of…beacon that would draw the enemy to me. I was thinking about how I had it with me when I was on the Harrington—” in that moment, Carter’s mind is back on the ship, watching the arc of Poppy’s braid spraying droplets of blood like ink from a pen. Carter’s voice catches, and she clears her throat. “Thank you, too. For believing me—” she pauses, smiles, “—or at least giving me enough of the benefit of the doubt that no one has thrown me overboard yet.”
At Sav’s change in topic, and the resulting feeling of relief, of suspicion shifting away, Carter smiles at Sav, starting to speak quickly, to accept this offer to explain herself. “I know it seems strange but…” Carter purses her lips, and decides another angle.
“You’re from Galoring. The Spindlemark Quarter,” she says, with a small gesture to Sav. “I can hear it in your voice. And you and I are, what, roughly of an age? And we were born in the same city, perhaps even in the same year.
“I used to walk through the Spindlemark with my father. We would see the children’s plays, which Holland was much too ‘mature’ for but my father loved for the farce. He used to make donations to the theatres and the orphanages. Mostly gold, but occasionally books and toys that Holland and I were through with, and I always thought… how kind of him. To give away the things we no longer needed. To be so benevolent and so generous.” She holds a hand in the air, gesturing. For a moment there’s the echo of a children’s toy - only a flickering outline - a small carriage. The image disappears as Carter closes her hand, but in its place, she’s produced a single gold piece. She holds it out, admiring the way it catches the torchlight. A recently minted coin, with the Baroness’ profile pressed into one side.
“My father would remind me that it was only through the Torch’s light that we were born into a ‘good family’,” Carter’s tone is ironic, but she smiles a little, at the thought of her father. “He…he really did mean well, my father. He truly saw himself as the caretaker of the estate, and of our vassals and our knights, all of the smallfolk working the land…
“I enjoyed doing that, too. I always cared about the estate more than Holland did—” Carter catches her sentence and then shakes her head, slightly, “I digress. We don’t need to talk about old family grievances. You were asking why I left.
“It’s because…not one day altogether, but just, over time. Over walks through the Spindlemark Quarter and conversations with crippled Swan soldiers younger than I was… I realized it wasn’t fair. These soldiers had no say in the war they were sent to - they’re fighting and dying because of their loyalty to Tyr Isendel, and who is to say that Tyr Isendel knows what is the best thing for the entire Barony?” Carter flicks the coin in the air and catches it in her hand again, “I mean, look at Holland, he’s barely in the Barony this past decade, and yet as soon as he passes back across the Isendelian border, he’s Baric. Just because of this…coincidence of birth.”
Carter closes her hand over the coin, folds her hands neatly over her skirt. “I was wondering that, about you, too,” says Carter. “It’s clear you didn’t grow up with the…um…more rural group. But you’re very far from Spindlemark. What made you leave your home?”
Sav
Her face tightens as Carter speaks of her childhood—the “benevolent and so generous” former Baric, the references to a “good family” and “smallfolk”—but she says nothing, uncertain how much of the usage of the terms is sincere, ironic or simply unthinking.
Instead, she lifts a brow. “Then who’s the one who does ken the best thing for the entire Barony? Some other noble? The Briarbirds? Ye? What is the goal ye’re fightin for, exactly? Fairness?” Her tone isn’t hostile, but it is deeply skeptical. “Fair” isn’t the way of the world. One has only to look at it to know that. It maybe does the girl credit that she indeed sees the unfairness and is trying to do something about it, but one person wouldn’t change that.
Her lips cant in a wry smile at the last question. “A war I had no say in. ‘Tis a convenient place for the Baroness tae shuffle off the sweepings cloggin’ up the street.”
Carter
Carter nods. “I could say I understand, but I don’t. I never could,” She shrugs, but it isn’t a dismissal, or an apology. Only acknowledgement of the truth of the thing.
“And no, my goal isn’t fairness so much as it’s… education. And from that, over time, hopefully more equitable treatment of all of the citizens of Isendel,” she pauses, “This sounds incredibly arrogant, because I’m speaking in such broad strokes, but I have ideas. And I only learned them in my own young adulthood. And it was only because I sought it out. Because while Holland was gone, I wanted to be a good Baric and I thought learning, if that’s where we started, those who are learned—” she cuts off her own ramble, “I don’t want to run Isendel. I want to change Isendel. I want to make it better for Isendelians, not just for the family Isendel!”
By this point, color has risen high in Carter’s cheeks, the deep pink burning through her makeup.
Carter looks down at her lap. Her hand has tightened into a fist around the coin and she can feel its smooth edge pressing into her palm.
Carter pushes on, her words growing in conviction, though she keeps her voice low. “I know it sounds idealist, and it is. And I also know that, while I’ve had experience talking and playing politics on a small level, running an entire Barony is far more complex. So complex I probably don’t even have the scale in my mind yet.
“But the military shouldn’t be made of conscripts, forced to fight for a ruler they don’t care about against soldiers forced to do the same by their own corrupt Barons. Or whatever it is they have in Jorung, instead,” she abandons her speech and laughs a little, “Some massive tattooed giant I’m sure.”
Carter takes a moment, and retrieves her notebook from her satchel. It’s water stained now, and some of the pages have been creased so badly that the book no longer stays closed without its cord. She takes a deep breath and looks at Sav.
“Would you tell me what it was like, please? Fighting in the army? And you’re not there any longer, so why…” she shakes her head. “If you want to.” She takes a deep breath and looks at Sav, fighting against her own instinct to keep the girl at arm’s length or to wave away her own sincerity.
“Or not. Whatever you like,” another polite laugh, and Carter turns her attention back to her notebook, which she places, still closed, on the bed next to her. “It’s not a part of any grand machination,” Carter says, “I just want to know how you became who you are, now. This brilliant, calculating, powerful…” Carter stops herself before she says ‘witch’.
“…young woman,” says Carter, attempting to smooth over her own hesitation.
Sav
Ah. So she did think she knew the best thing for Isendel—or at least, knew better than the current Baroness. Well, that’s probably not saying much; thinking one’s own ideas are better is probably just a thing that happens with any position of importance, or even just individual decisions. Look at the ship’s council meetings, after all.
As Carter’s impassioned words flow on, a curious dichotomy of emotions creeps up on Sav. She feels weary and, for perhaps the first time in her life, old as Carter speaks of changing an entrenched, endemic system that had caught Sav in its teeth and ground her between its cogs, a system she had evaded largely by wriggling out and sidestepping it altogether rather than attempting to shift it. Machines of metal or wood or math, no matter how vast and intricate, were understandable—predictable once you figured out the components that went into them and the forces that acted on them, with replaceable parts that worked the same. Machines of people were systems made up of a myriad unique components that might decide to act one way one day and another way the morra; even changing out a linchpin person might not trigger cascading effects, as the downstream people could just decide not to heed. She had largely given up on trying to effect change by changing people. To hear someone (very likely older than her, even!) welter on, bright-eyed, about shoving aside structures that had in her experience never given an inch flares up a cynicism that surprises her even as it buffets her.
And yet… how much would her life have changed if she’d had access to an education and people who noticed her mind early on? Or any of the Two Shoes? Or her mother, even? If they’d had schools instead of soldiering to teach them? A strange, almost painful yearning for what could have been seeps around the edges of the cynicism filling her. By the intensity of her gaze Carter is either a phenomenal actress or truly believes in what she says, too.
She hesitates at the questions about her conscripted time. Then the effusive descriptors of Sav—from a stranger!—spill out, and her eyes flicker. “Nay, I dinnae reckon I will.” To give away pieces of herself so freely to one barely acquainted? The mind shudders. She snatches the still-floating cracked orb out of the air and drops it into her bag, bare feet slapping the floorboards as she stands. She pauses for another moment, looking Carter up and down, and finally nods. “If ye’ve any further questions on the Stuff, ye can find me in the study.” And with that, she pads away toward the stairs, further down into the hold.
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