Can you hear the song, boy? Can you hear it?
In the centre of Fishmarket, in a square surrounded by stalls loaded with the bounty of the sea, hagpriests were conducting a ceremony under a statue of the Maiden made from varisk stalks. They stood on the raised base of the statue, and behind them were three Kept, skin oiled and bodies strapped tight. The priest’s faces were covered by masks painted in bright reds, greens and blues. They were Bern, as all priests were, dressed as the Women of the Sea: Maiden, Mother and Hag. Kneeling before them was a girl holding a baby. A crowd had gathered to watch the committing of mother and child, but when Joron glanced at Meas he caught an expression on her face hovering somewhere between revulsion and fear.
“We should get out of here,” she said, “before they start.” But it was too late. The seaguard had blocked every exit from the market square and the priest in the long mask and ragged robe of the Hag was raising her voice.
“Listen all! Stop all! Stand and watch this soul committed!”
The crowd, already standing, staring, became silent.
“Listen all! Stop all!” shouted the priest in the short robes and ruddy-faced mask of the Maiden. “This girl attended the laying week. And found many who would ask her favour. And she gave her favour. And the Maiden smiled and favour bloomed within her.”
“Listen all! Stop all!” shouted the priest in the long robe and mask of the Mother, drawn and serious. “This girl brought her bloom to pass. Her belly swelled, and when the Mother tested her strength she was not found wanting. And she gave birth to a healthy and strong child. Hail the firstborn!”
The crowd returned the shout: “Hail the firstborn!” And when the shout died away the only sound left was the crying of the child’s mother.
“Hold up the child, lass,” said the Hag. The girl did, peeling the baby from her breast. It screamed as she took it in both hands, holding it above her head.
“As the waves are monuments to the power of the Hundred Isles, so the fruit of the laying is our strength,” said the hagpriest. “I pronounce you firstborn and cursed born. But fear not, child.”
The Maiden and Mother echoed, “Fear not, child,” as the Hag took the babe from its mother. “A ship rides in the harbour, built from the bones of our wrecks; keyshans fall in your name and you will ride the bones as a corpselight. So your body dies, but your soul lives in the ship.” The Mother priest stepped forward, removing her mask and taking the girl’s elbow, helping her stand.
“My baby,” said the girl, bereft, forlorn.
“Your baby serves the three now,” said the Mother. “And you I will call sither and Bern. And you shall join us at the spiral bothies and have your pick of the Kept and rise in power through the magic of your fertility and strength. For you are no longer of the Berncast.”
The Maiden priest stepped forward, also removing her mask.
“And I will also call you sither. And I will dress you and teach you the ways of the court and the ways of men.” She stared out into the crowd. “Now tell truth, sither. Do you know the father of your babe?” The girl shook her head, but she glanced into the crowd and her eyes alighted on a boy whose stare back was so intent Joron had no doubt he was the child’s father. Joron was not the only one who noticed the glance; both the Maiden and the Kept behind her saw. “So you lay with many?”
“Many,” said the girl, her head bowed.
“Then I congratulate you for following our customs as the Women of the Sea desire.” The Maiden squatted and dipped a feather into a pot of blue paint. “For the Northstorm,” she said and flicked the feather. A line of paint appeared on the girl’s face. Then she repeated her actions for south, east and west, criss-crossing the girl’s face with blue before turning to the crowd. “Now, good people,” she shouted, “let us go to the harbour and the committing block and send this child upon its great journey, for it will be fleet!”
The Mother kept a tight hold on the sobbing girl’s elbow.
“And while you celebrate the renewal of light above our glorious boneships, I will take this girl to become Bern!”
A huge shout of approval rose from the crowd, though when Joron looked at Meas behind him he saw she was clenching her fists so tightly her hands looked bloodless and her face bent with fury.
Of course.
That child had been her once.
Everyone knew the story. As a babe Meas had been taken to the committing block, to ride Arakeesian Dread as a corpselight, but it was no fine day like this. It was a dark day full of ill omens. The ground had moved in the days prior, and strange lights had been seen in the sky. As Meas was taken up to the block and the rites were said, the link between block and ship made, the sea had vanished, running out of the bay, stranding the ships, leaving the sea floor exposed and all its toothed and clawed horrors flipping and gasping. And when the hagpriests had tried to continue with the rite, the sea had returned, as if in fury that none had understood its warning. A great wave had come in, wrecking ships and town alike. As far up as the second bend of the Serpent Road had been awash. The priests who had brought Meas to the block had died, but the babe, miraculously, had been found washed ashore, safe and squalling, and none dared touch her with the knife then.
Though none had wanted her either.
The crowd started to stream towards the committing block in the harbour and Joron looked to Meas once more. She was staring at the statues in the centre of the market square where the ceremony had taken place and the girl’s family and well-wishers were shaking her hand and wishing her good fortune at the spiral bothies. Most were Berncast, missing arms, legs, fingers, faces twisted, eyes gone, bodies palsied.
“They think she goes to glory,” said Meas, “but she will never be much more than a servant.”
Behind them the Bern who had played the Maiden was talking to one of the Kept, who then went across to one of the seaguard. There was no mistaking what was happening. The Kept subtly pointed out the boy, who stood stock still, staring at the girl and ignoring everything but her. In turn, she could not keep her eyes from him. Where she was unmarred, he had a blood birthmark, livid red across his cheek.
“Twiner,” said Meas. “That boy.”
“Yes?”
“He comes to our ship.”
“But he has done nothing to be condemned.”
“Go to him.” Meas was staring at the seaguard. “Do it now.”
And Joron was moving, pushing against the current of the crowd like a fish fighting a river to get home to spawn. When he reached the boy, who could not have been more than fifteen, he took him by the arm and the boy tried to fight him off.
“Child, my shipwife wishes to speak to you, so you will come with me.” Mention of a shipwife was enough to cow most in the Hundred Isles and the boy stopped resisting, let himself be led back to where Meas stood watching the seaguard, who had set their own course for the boy.
“Shipwife,” said the boy and bowed his head. “How may I help you?”
“What is your name?”
“Gavith,” he said.
“Well, Gavith, I take my ship to fly the waves soon, and I will need a cabin boy.”
“I am honoured, Shipwife,” said the boy. He still could not look at her, such authority plainly frightened him. “But I must stay here, for I am to join the Kept.” Then he looked up, a happy glint in his eye. Meas attempted to contort her face into an expression of kindness, though she could not quite manage it. “You are the father of the child just taken?”