The Guild of the Cowry Catchers, Book 1: Embers, Deluxe Illustrated Edition
Abigail Hilton
The Guild of the Cowry Catchers
Book 1 Embers
Deluxe Illustrated Edition
By: Abigail Hilton
* * * * *
Smashwords Edition
Published by: Abigail Hilton
Cover Art by: Sarah Cloutier
Map by: Jeff McDowall
© 2010 Abigail Hilton. All rights reserved. This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This material may not be reproduced, modified, or distributed without the express prior written permission of the copyright holder. For permission, contact the author at [email protected]. Artwork is displayed by agreement with the artists. All artists were paid for their work and hold the copyrights to that work.
Special thanks to the people who read this book as I wrote it.
Amy
Anita
Hughes
Jeff
Mistie
Molly
Patsy
Table of Contents
A Note on Artwork
Other Books
Map
The Characters
Chapter 1. The Captain of Police
Chapter 2. The Minstrel
Chapter 3. The Prisoners
Chapter 4. A Dead Shelt’s List
Chapter 5. A Traitor and A Child
Chapter 6. Mystique
Chapter 7. Insult and Injury
Chapter 8. Reprimand
Chapter 9. Mine
Chapter 10. Silveo Gives Advice
Chapter 11. Ocelon Town
Chapter 12. The Contents of a Warehouse
Chapter 13. Tea with Flag
Chapter 14. Flirtation and Chocolate
Chapter 15. More Talking
Chapter 16. Lost Ground
Chapter 17. Aftermath
Chapter 18. Maps and a Library
Chapter 19. What Happened in a Closet
Chapter 20. A Knife and a Rope
Chapter 21. Home Waters
Chapter 22. A Local Guide
Chapter 23. A Debate about Choices
Chapter 24. Port Holovarus
Chapter 25. Shinies and Lord Holovar
Chapter 26. Thank You
Chapter 27. The Meerkat
Chapter 28. A Picnic
Chapter 29. A Sad Story
Chapter 30. Mance
Chapter 31. Missing
Chapter 32. Final Warning
The End
About the Author
Artists
Glossary
Shelt species of Wefrivain
A Note on Artwork
This is an illustrated book. Many (though not all) of these illustrations are rich watercolors that do not display well in black and white. To enjoy this book fully, I urge you to open the document at least once in one of the numerous free eReaders or apps that have been created for computers, phones, and tablets. Although the illustrations are still beautiful in black and white, they are at their best on a color screen.
Books by Abigail Hilton
The Prophet of Panamindorah
Fauns and Filinians
Wolflings and Wizards
Fire and Flood
The Guild of the Cowry Catchers
Embers
Flames
Ashes
Out of the Ashes
Shores Beyond the World
Other Books
Crossroads: Short Stories from Panamindorah
Maps
Map for color screens.
Map for black and white screens.
The Characters
Chapter 1. The Captain of Police
Beauty is goodness.
—Morchella, sacred text
The Priestess entered her temple through the inner sanctum and paused for a moment at the edge of her sacred pool. A smear of blood from last night’s sacrifice had discolored the white marble at the pool’s edge, and she polished it clean before turning away. Layers of crystal and colored glass in the roof admitted diffuse sunlight that dappled and swam on the walls. The Priestess drew a deep breath and opened a silver inlaid door, the only visible exit from the room. She passed through a curtain of colored beads and bells, down a short passage, unlit and filled with incense smoke, through two more curtains, one opaque and gauzy, the last light and sheer.
She stepped into the outer sanctum—an octagon, with pools all around the edges. Pillars with clear crystal overlay and pavonine cores supported a vaulted roof, capped with a dome of tinted glass. Colors reflected from the pillars and roof onto the milk white walls, broken by rippling cords of light reflected from the water. Silver incense stands, twice the height of a shelt and wrought like coiled dragons, stood in pairs around the throne. The seat of black coral rose above them, inlaid with mother of pearl in intricate scenes of conflict and triumph. White-clad harpers sat at either side of the throne. Their instruments were fashioned of turquoise gemstone, the strings flashing silver.
The Priestess had ordered sweet incense in her outer sanctum a quarter watch earlier, and at the sound of the curtain bells, the harpers began a soft melody. She entered to this music and ascended to her seat. The Priestess gathered her sleeveless ivory robes, shimmering with faint color, and sat down. She put her bare elbows on the arms of the throne, folded her hands, and fixed her eyes on the shelt whom she’d called to audience.
“Gerard Holovar.”
“Your Highness.” He bowed deeply, eyes respectfully downcast.
Gerard was taller than she had expected. Like the Priestess, he was a grishnard. He had a human upper body with fur below his waist and the two legs and tail of a griffin. Gerard looked to be in his twenties, powerfully built and tastefully dressed, with hair as black as her coral throne and large, dark eyes. He was one of her watch masters, the lowest ranking of her officers.
The Priestess changed what she’d planned to say. “Have you ever been in my temple, Gerard?”
“Highness, you know I have not.” His soft, low voice resonated in the chamber.
“How do you find it?”
“I have never seen a temple that was not beautiful. Yours is surpassing so.”
The Priestess inclined her head. “A good answer. Do you know why you are here now?”
“Because I exercised successfully the command that fell to me in an unexpected situation.”
The Priestess laughed. “A clumsy way of saying you killed over fifty pirates with only a half dozen subordinates for aid.”
Gerard nodded.
“And you brought back prisoners.”
“Admiral Lamire did that, Your Highness.”
“Only because you threw them into his lap.”
“Watch masters cannot technically transport prisoners, Your Highness.”
“An excellent point, but I do not often have princes as watch masters.”
Gerard’s black tufted tail flicked behind him. “Nor do you now, Your Highness.”
She waited a moment, but he did not continue. “Holovarus is a small but respected kingdom,” said the Priestess. “As the heir to your father’s holdings, you could have started as a lieutenant, if you really wanted a career in the Temple Sea Watch.” She spoke gently. “Why start at the bottom, Gerard?”
His tail flicked again. “Surely you know, Lady.”
“I want to hear it from you.”
“I have been disinherited, because my choice of mates was not to my father’s liking. My younger brother will inherit.”
She could detect no emotion in his voice, no hint of what he thought about it. “Look at me, Ge
rard.”
He raised his head. To look directly at the Priestess was irreverent and impious unless she expressly gave leave. Their eyes met. She saw him swallow. The High Priestess of Wefrivain rose and came down from her dais. Her robes, like pale dragon scales, fell around her, tracing her long curves. Her mahogany hair shone glossy where it tumbled from its silver clasp onto her shoulders.
Gerard fell back a pace as she approached, a little below his height now that she stood on the floor. “Have I offended, Mistress?”
“Not at all. My name is Morchella. You have permission to use it. My captain of Police has been missing for a red month. It is time to consider him dead, and I have decided that you will replace him. In that role, you answer only to me. Not to anyone else, including Silveo Lamire. Is that understood?”
Gerard nodded, his expression suddenly wooden.
“I’m putting you in charge of interrogating those prisoners,” she continued. “Find me Sky Town, Gerard.”
When he had gone, Morchella went thoughtfully back into her inner sanctum. She found a wyvern, a sea dragon, gliding around her sacred pool. The animal had a serpentine body, with webbed, clawed feet, and scales that glistened an iridescent aquamarine. He kept his leathery wings folded as he swam, but raised them a little when he spotted Morchella. The wyvern put his clawed front feet on the edge of the pool and raised his slender snout. “You sent for me, Mistress?” His words rasped around long teeth.
“Yes.” Morchella raised her robes about her and sat down on the edge of the pool to dangle her bare legs in the water. She had pearl-white fur below her navel and pink pads on her creamy paws. “Hoepali, isn’t it? You’re the deity at my temple on Holovarus.”
“Yes, Mistress.”
“I’ve just spoken with Gerard, the heir.”
Hoepali gave a toothy sneer. “Not anymore. He’s been disinherited.”
Morchella nodded. “Your loss; my gain. He’s done me a great service in the Sea Watch—killed about fifty Resistance pirates after being cut off from his ship in a rowboat. With only the rowers, he boarded the enemy ship while it was busy with the Fang and attacked the pirates. Those on deck died to the last shelt, but he caught some in the hold and took them prisoner. By the time Admiral Lamire managed to board, Gerard was able to hand the prisoners over to him without a struggle.”
The wyvern laid his head on the pool’s edge with a bored expression. “Sounds like something he would do.”
“Does it?” Morchella leaned back on her hands and stared at the ceiling. “Such a thing from Thessalyn’s lover—I would not have expected it.” She glanced at the wyvern sharply. “Do you know why he married her?”
“He got her with child,” said the wyvern lazily.
Morchella shrugged. “If Holovarus is like the other island kingdoms, then it is swarming with court bastards. Two or three would never stain a royal heir, and they’re certainly no reason for a brilliant young grishnard to throw away his kingship.”
Hoepali heaved a sigh. “You don’t know Gerard, Highness. He’s in love with his honor. He didn’t have two or three bastards. He had only one, and that was with Thessalyn. He was determined to marry her.”
Morchella caught at one word. “‘Had’?”
Hoepali looked up meaningfully through his long eyelashes. “I asked for the child.” He licked his lips, delicate as a cat.
Morchella’s eyebrows rose. “I see.”
“It pleased the king, as you can imagine—confirmed to him that Gerard had committed a grievous crime to marry outside his wishes.”
Morchella looked at Hoepali narrowly. “It pleased you, too, I can see.”
The wyvern curled his lip. “I gave direct omens that Gerard should not marry Thessalyn. He asked at my temple, and I gave my answer. He defied me.”
“How did Thessalyn and Gerard take the death of the baby?”
“Oh, you know something of her, I expect. She could think no ill of us. I really don’t know how he took it. Hard, I hope.”
Morchella watched the wyvern for a moment. “You may have to give up your grudge. I’ve made him my new captain of Police.”
Hoepali raised his head out of the water and looked her full in the face. Then he sank back down and lashed his tail beneath the surface. “You’re a female.”
Morchella laughed. “You think I promote every handsome sailor to my inner circle?”
“If you really want to keep him about you, put him in your private guard. He’s simple, Mistress. He won’t last outside.”
“I can tell from one interview that he’s not stupid. He’s resourceful, and he’s a survivor. I need someone like that over the Police.”
Hoepali shook his head. “I don’t mean he’s stupid. He’s just…all of a piece. He doesn’t bend. He’ll never survive among your officers.”
“He’ll bend to me,” said Morchella. “Nothing else matters.”
Hoepali shrugged with his wings. “Do as you wish. Collar him and keep him on a chain in your inner sanctum for all I care.”
Morchella frowned. “You presume too much on my good humor, Hoepali.”
He bowed his glistening head. “A fault of mine, Mistress. I apologize for my impertinence.”
“Goodnight, Hoepali.”
When he was gone, she went to the other end of the sanctum and rapped twice on the floor. A wyvern no longer than her forearm shot from beneath into the pool and vaulted out of the water with one beat of its leathery wings. It landed with a soft, wet plop in front of Morchella. Its voice came in an exited yap. “Yes, Mistress?”
“That order I gave earlier about Thessalyn—is there still time to reverse it?”
The messenger glanced about nervously. “Yes. If I go immediately, Mistress.”
“Go.”
Morchella lingered a moment, staring into the empty pool. Outside, the sun was setting, playing streamers of soft, colored light across the gently undulating water. “Thessalyn… Gerard, you do not know it, but you have saved her life tonight.”
Chapter 2. The Minstrel
The minstrels of Wefrivain are quasi-religious figures, schooled in the old stories. Their role in society is not only to entertain, but also to encourage religious devotion.
—Gwain, The Truth About Wyverns
Gerard found his friend and mount, a griffin named Alsair, waiting for him outside the Priestess’s Sanctum. Wordlessly, they walked through the Temple complex and then out into the streets of Dragon’s Eye.
“Well?” demanded Alsair as they started into the press of shelts coming and going in the late afternoon rush.
Gerard shook his head.
“What did she say? What was it about?” Alsair butted Gerard playfully with his beak. Their heads came to the same height when they were both standing. “You can’t say nothing, not after an audience like that.” They had been together since childhood. Gerard’s silences were legendary, but Alsair had always been good at making him talk, and when that failed, Alsair could always fill the silences.
Gerard shook his head. “Not now.”
They were coming to the market. Throngs of shelts hurried home as the day ended. They were mostly grishnards. A few shavier fauns—pegasus shelts—moved furtively in the press. They were probably the slaves of great houses. All the shelts—both grishnard and faun—had long, tufted ears that flicked back against their heads at the flies and the noise.
As Gerard and Alsair drew closer to the docks, the numbers of non-grishnard shelts increased. A filthy urchin, probably a pickpocket, darted across the road, and they saw the flash of his red fox tail. “There goes a long-lost relative of our dear admiral,” muttered Alsair nastily. “Shall we invite him to the ship and ask their relation?”
Gerard did not honor this with a reply. Silveo Lamire was a fox shelt. Rumor had it he’d risen to his post from the slums around the docks.
“Did he do you a favor by trying to kill you?” asked Alsair. “Was the priestess impressed with what you could do with one row boat
and a few rowers? Especially when you’d been intentionally stranded among enemies?”
“We don’t know Lamire intentionally stranded me,” said Gerard. He strongly suspected it, but he did not know.
“Well I do,” said Alsair. “He locked me in the hold.”
“Anyone could have done it, perhaps even by accident.”
“You know as well as I do that Lamire ordered it,” growled Alsair, “and someday, I’ll pay him back.” He made a sharp clicking noise with his beak.
Gerard frowned. “Stay away from him, Alsair. He’s afraid of griffins, and Lamire is the sort of shelt who gets vicious when he’s frightened.”
They stopped in front of an inn—the grandest on the waterfront, with high, arched ceilings reminiscent of some noble’s audience hall. Two hulking grishnards loitered near the entrance, making sure that none of the dock’s riffraff bothered the patrons. Every shelt within was almost certainly a grishnard. Alsair snickered. “Do you think they’d toss Lamire off the dock if he came here without his insignia and bodyguard?”
“Probably.” Gerard pushed open the door. “I don’t want to talk about him anymore.”
“But you haven’t,” complained Alsair. “Only I have.”
“Hush.”
At the far end of the long, elegant common room, someone was singing to the music of a harp. Her voice had the haunting quality of doves at dawn or the high and lonely cry of a falcon. She sang one of the temple songs about wyverns and their coming to the islands of Wefrivain. She sang all the verses—the very old ones, unfamiliar to most shelts. She sang of the terrible wizards—shape-shifters, mind-parasites, slavers. They had come upon the islands in ages past, and they brought fear and pain and death. She sang of how the Firebird had sent the wyverns to free the shelts of Wefrivain. The song might have been dry as dust in the mouth of some temple harpist, but for her the song opened like a flower.
“Go stretch your wings, friend,” Gerard told Alsair. “Hunt on the ocean. I’ll envy you.”
Alsair snorted. “You won’t even think of me.”
