Now that the oars were drawn in, the big sheet of cloth from the crossbeam was unfurled. It billowed and flapped as the sailors scurried to secure ties.
“Amazing,” Roan said, peering up at the sail. She’d been saying that every few minutes since they came aboard. Roan was fascinated by how they steered the ship, how it broke through the waves, how the dwarfs propelled the vessel with poles, and how they stroked in unison, keeping time by singing. Roan didn’t appear to mind how terrible the singing was. She even seemed stunned that the ship floated on water, as if the woman who’d invented the wheel, the pocket, the hanging chair, the pottery table, and the improved copper ax didn’t know wood could float. To be honest, Persephone had her own doubts after watching them load twenty-three barrels and thirty-two crates, all of which appeared to be very heavy. “The wind is actually pushing us across the surface.”
Persephone couldn’t care less, so long as they got where they were going, and did so soon. All the bobbing and rolling had left her regretting the second helping of Dherg porridge from that morning. What had tasted good going down certainly wouldn’t on its way back up. Arion was worse. Pale and moaning, the Fhrey curled over, hugging her legs, her bald head rolling from side to side on her knees.
The Dherg had stuffed them out of the way along with the barrels and crates, near the front of the ship, the part of the vessel that rose and fell the most. Persephone was certain this wasn’t by accident. The sailors didn’t like them and hated Arion. They hadn’t said so, but that was part of the problem. The sailors hadn’t said anything, not to them. The sailors spoke only to Frost and Flood, and only in the Dherg language. At first, Persephone thought they might not speak anything else, but she caught them sneering when Moya made a comment about one of the sailors having porridge in his beard. A moment later, the sloppy eater scrubbed it out.
Frost and Flood had reverted to their own language as well, grumbling as if the two were busy cursing every living thing.
“Oh, Grand Mother!” Brin exclaimed. The girl had been studying Arion’s old bandages—the ones with the magic markings.
Everyone except Arion looked over expectantly.
Instead of explaining, Brin made some marks on one of the slates she had brought with her.
“What is it?” Moya asked, sitting with her back to a barrel, one of their blankets wrapped over her legs. Even in high summer, the morning wind on the open water was chilly. “Just realized you forgot to put out the campfire back home?” She chuckled.
Even out here, at a time like this, Moya has a sense of humor, Mari love her.
Brin held up the strips of cloth. “These aren’t just magic markings or pictures. These are symbols.”
Everyone failed to see the significance, though Roan appeared intrigued; of course, she would be. She was also fascinated by icicle formations and the way dandelion fluff floated.
“Symbols,” she said, as if saying the word again with more emphasis would make them understand. “They’re like what I’ve been trying to do.” She tapped the slate with her marking stone, which clicked with a hollow sound.
Roan inched closer. “They say something?”
“Yes! They’re words. They’re a message. I’m positive of it.”
“What do they say?”
Brin’s bright face dimmed. “I don’t know.”
“Then how do you know they’re words?” Moya covered her ankles with the blanket.
“Because of the way they’re drawn; they make patterns that repeat. It’s like what I’ve been trying to do. Someone else has already done it.” She pointed to a circle with a line through it. “This symbol is always in front of this square one.”
Everyone stared back with blank faces.
“Okay, okay, listen.” She flipped over her slate and pulled out a piece of chalk. “I’ve been trying to figure out a way to mark down stories so Keepers can have a permanent memory of events. At first, I tried to make little pictures of things, like I did on the walls of my house back in Dahl Rhen, only it would take forever to illustrate a whole story that way, and you can’t illustrate a name. That’s what got me, a name. How do you draw a name? A name is just sounds. But what if a symbol could represent a sound?” She drew on the slate. “If this circle represents br and this square the sound in, then together”—she underlined both—“they make the name Brin! See? So all I had to do was make a symbol for every sound. Turns out there aren’t that many. That’s what I’ve been doing, and when you do that, these repeating patterns occur, just like on this cloth. They aren’t the same as mine, of course, but they’re the same sort of thing. Someone else has already done what I’m trying to do.” She held up the bandages as evidence.
Persephone turned to Frost, who sat with stiffly folded arms, looking out over the water and appearing not to listen.
“Is that true? These symbols were in the rol. These are the markings of your people. Can you understand what they say?” Persephone asked him.
Frost glanced over with a miserable frown, as if she’d asked him to wash her feet with his tongue.
“The Orinfar?” Rain said.
“Is that what you call those markings?” Persephone said.
Frost nodded. “Stops magic.”
“But what does it say?” Brin rolled up on her knees, letting her own blanket fall as she leaned forward.
Frost shrugged. “Doesn’t say nothing. Just symbols. We have them for counting, too. Use them for measuring and keeping track of who owes what. But the Orinfar, we learn by rote. They were given to King Mideon near the end of the war with the Fhrey. The gift came too late to help us win. By then the elf queen had us on our heels.”
Arion’s head stopped rocking. One eye opened, and in a pained whisper she asked, “Who give?”
Frost thought a moment and glanced at Flood.
“Don’t look at me,” the other dwarf said. “You’re older than I am.”
“By three minutes!”
“Dee, da, dee, do, dah dah, drum,” Brin muttered as she stared at the bandages. “Dee, da, dee, do, dee, dee, dee. Dee, dee, do, dah dah, dee. Dee, dee, do, dah, drum, dee, dee.”
“What are you doing?” Roan asked.
“The markings repeat, and so that’s the pattern these symbols would make if they were sounds…or something close to that.”
Arion’s head came all the way up and both eyes opened. Suri looked up, too. Both stared at Brin.
“What?” the girl asked.
“Do that again,” Arion told her.
Brin repeated the sounds, and the Fhrey’s eyes widened.
“What is it?” Persephone asked.
“Sheen hath wee hove bragen groom,” Arion sang. “Sheen hath wee hove reen, breen, froom. Sheen ahwee, hath elochments hee. Sheen ahwee hath grooms fram thee. That’s the weave that I used to break Mawyndulë’s control on the people in your dahl. It’s what Miralyith call a ‘dampener.’ It severs an Artist’s power from the source.” She looked at Persephone and added, “Like tripping someone who’s trying to run. You break their connection to the ground, so to speak.” She said all this in Fhrey, and Persephone translated as best she could—leaving out the gibberish words which weren’t any language that she could tell.