Chapter 2

On the North and West faces of the Mahlner Mountains, there are many natural springs which cascade down the rocks and collect into streams and small rivers. The largest of these is the Joya River, running its course like a snake through the Hai Rengiln. Down through the scrubby foothills and rough cut plateaus that mark the shepherds' lands, through green valleys of grapes and olives, then North where it shallows and widens into the Reid Marshes, and finally empties into the ocean.

River traffic ends here, and shallow-bottom marsh boats carry supplies back and forth, for many leagues up the coast. But the marshes continue long past the Northern border of the Hai Rengiln, past the point where the boat traffic stops. There are people who live in those regions where the air and water grow colder, outside the boundary of protective borders. Those people who trade must use their own boats, or else walk many leagues inland to find the road. There on the edge of civilization, they are not counted; they pay no taxes, not even to the new empire.

There is a village in those Northern marshes, about a day's walk from the road, and about the same from the coastline. The village has no name, and it is not on any map, save the crude drawings of locals. It is nothing more than a collection of poor houses, built on stilts high enough to keep out a tide raised by two moons. And the people that live in those houses are poor as well, counting themselves lucky if they can sell a week's catch of fish and snails at the markets far to the South.

In particular, two such poor fishers were husband and wife, and they had a young daughter who stayed behind while they made their market trip. Cilla Karse was twelve years old, and small for her age. Her eyes were the palest shade of dark blue, like moon on the ocean at night; those eyes now looked back over her shoulder at the twilight silhouette of the village and her home. That old, creaking shack always smelled like fish and salt, and she wanted to smell something else.

Her chores done for the day, Cilla stepped lightly through calf-deep water, deliciously cold and clear as crystal. She brushed her hair back, the flipping of white-blonde almost like a low fog in the wind. Her hair smelled like fish, and her clothes as well. Even the damned water smelled like fish! She kept walking, a mesh basket slung over her shoulder.

She was heading toward her favorite long sand bar. She liked to spend her nights there beneath the blue and white moons, catching crabs and baby turtles, and then letting them go. Sometimes she would imagine herself one of the rugged ice fishers away to the Northeast, crouching low over a hole in the frozen water. Other times, she would race up and down the sand, flinging turtles out into the waves to see if their shells would skip, When the mood struck her, she would plunge into the water and become one of the pale silver fishes looking for seaweed to nibble. She enjoyed the freedom she had whenever her parents were away, and meant to make use of it.

Cilla skipped as she headed out toward the coast, sending small plumes of water into the air with each step. Head swinging side to side, she danced among the tall reed-grass. To her left, the sun disappeared; for a moment the ice rings in the Western sky were set ablaze in fiery reds and golds. Then moonlit darkness.

The young girl hummed to herself, a broken rhythm to match the spring of her stride. And the words ran through her mind:

Empty darkness, moonlight bright
Moonshells, seashells, sandshells, eggsshells

Flowing water, fishes, wishes
Wishes flying, seabirds dying, fishes crying

Empty moonlight, windy night
Storms forgotten, seashells rotten

Long ago darkness, morning light

It was a children's song--the kind that probably had a meaning long, long ago. She hummed and splashed, not really thinking about anything. Small fish darted around her ankles; there was a slight night breeze through the reeds. Her song finished, her voice quiet, there was no other sound to be heard.

But... maybe there was a sound...

There, in the grass behind her. Cilla stopped and turned, peering into the darkness. Everything was bathed in a pale silver-blue. The reed-grass swayed gently and ripples broke the clear surface of the water.

"Hello?" she called.

No answer. She shrugged and continued toward the coast.

Not many other children lived in the marshes. It was a place for poor people. Temporary. Most of them found means to move away when they had children. Into the Hai Rengiln, the Hai Mahlner, even the Hai Kirchev. Some place where the child might have a chance for a better life. Cilla had no friends her own age; no girls to talk with, no boys to dream about. She had only herself, and...

"Hello?" she called again. "Is someone there?" A shiver passed over her young body, and she hugged herself.

There had been a boy who lived nearby, years ago. An older boy, before she started thinking about boys. Maybe there would have been the beginnings of a crush if he were still around. Maybe something more. But at the time, he had teased her and tried to scare her with stories... Stories about ghosts that haunted the caves of Lufil Top, stories about monsters with long necks living in the open ocean, stories about pirates that kidnapped little girls.

She began walking again. Quietly now, listening.

The boy was gone now, only a memory. Sometimes she wondered what it would be like to see him again. Surely there must be other boys. But that one was the only one she knew of, the only one she had ever met. And that memory would enter into her fantasies sometimes, alone on the beach at night. He would be older now, but the memory was frozen in time, fixed in her mind. She could only see him as he was then, and...

"Who's there?" Cilla demanded. Almost angry, almost a whisper.

Again, no answer. She turned and ran. Her tiny heart was pounding against her ribs, deep breaths drawn sharply and painfully quick. She had never believed those old stories, had never been easily frightened. But she was frightened now. Frightened for her life. So she ran.

There had been somebody in those reeds, watching, stalking. Someone creeping quietly along behind, trying desperately not to be heard. But Cilla had sharp ears, and she had caught the subtle hints of movement almost too small to hear. It came from a lifetime among the reeds and fishes, where everything made a sound, and every sound belonged to something, distinct. Those sounds, the natural sounds behind her, had not been from wind or wildlife. They had been the sounds of slow, careful footsteps. Human footsteps. Belonging to a man who did not answer. And she ran.

Cilla did not look behind, did not want to see what was there. Her small feet sloshed in the shallows of the marsh, sending foamy ripples out in rings around her ankles, droplets of saltwater high into the air to splash her clothes. Out away from the village, beneath the cold night sky, she was the loudest sound to be heard. No sound of pursuit. Someone following would have made much more noise than she did; there was no other sound to be heard.

Winded, frightened, the young girl stopped. She listened. No sound, save the hammering in her own chest. As the waves in her wake subsided, she turned to look back, slowly. There was no one, nothing. No following footsteps, no dark and menacing figure. Just her.

"Is anybody there?" This time almost pleading.

Then a gasp and a start: a strong hand clapped over her mouth from behind, a strong arm around her waist. She struggled and flailed, tried to cry out. It was no use. She found her small body lifted easily off the ground. Twisting and turning, she kicked her heels backwards, tried to bite the hand that kept her mute.

She caught a glimpse of the man who held her. Long, ratty hair over dark pits of eyes. Then there was another who grabbed hold of her ankles. Then a thick gag forced into her mouth; then cords tied tightly around her wrists, biting; then her ankles as well. She strained against her bindings, but they just pulled tighter. She fought against the gag, but it made her choke. She turned her ocean-moon eyes on her captors, but they did not return the gaze.

"Good catch," said one. He spoke in a stringy accent, like a fisherman with a cob in his mouth.

"Fine lil'piece 'ere," said the other.

"Let's g'back t'the boat then."

Cilla found herself being carried, but it was not how her father used to carry her. She felt more like a sack of something than a person. And still she struggled and twisted, still to no avail.

"Lot's spirit'n this'n."

"Aye. You th're, quiet."

She squealed through her gag as she felt the second man reach in and pinch her. She could not get away. The fingers pinched again, harder.

What was happening? Hundreds of scenarios ran through her mind, each more horrible than the last. Again and again, she circled around those old stories of pirates. Pirates! It was all nonsense meant to scare her. They were no more real than the ghosts at Lufil Top. But... if not pirates... then who were they? It was just so strange. She could not even accept what was happening. It could not be happening! But it was. The fingers pinched her again, and she stopped struggling.

Ahead there was a wide marsh boat with several bundles tied to the deck. Standing around were two more dark figures, waiting, watching the approach. Cilla felt her heart sink: the bundles on the boat were other girls, tied like she was.

"Aye th're," said the second man.

"How's it?" asked one of the standing men.

"Lookit this'n"

Then Cilla was held out to be examined. She squeezed her eyes tight shut as she felt new sets of fingers probing her body. They felt her hair, her ears, her chin, her arms, her chest. She wanted to cry but could not.

"Fine piece," said one of them; she could not tell which.

At last they put her on the shallow boat, and another rope lashed her body down to the deck. She was on her side, and staring into the bewildered eyes of a girl with short straw-blonde hair falling in her face, a gag in her mouth as well. Cilla blinked, saw tears in those other eyes, felt tears welling in her own eyes. Still, she could not cry. She was frightened. Terrified. Her heart had not slowed since she first bolted into a run. As she felt the boat rocking gently through the reed-grass, her young mind continued to spin. Who were they? Where were they taking her? Who were the others? What would happen to them?