Free Reaper Of Sorrows (Book 1) by James A. West Page A

white silken rope stretched from the mast to the deck, more decoration than serving any use. A gilded raptor jutted from the prow, caught in perpetual flight.
    Within the circle of wagons, the merriment continued. Captain Treon watched the proceedings with a narrowed eye, while the rest of the men clapped and shouted encouragement to the dancers wheeling about the various campfires, while a handful of their sisters played a frantic but merry tune on panpipes.
    Nesaea ran her hand along the hull of the ship-wagon, fingers dancing lightly over graven reliefs of people and fanciful creatures. Amidships, she halted at a winged leopard, twisted an inconspicuous rosette below its paw. There came a soft click, and the seams of a hidden hatch showed themselves, sharply defined by a welcoming glow within. She eased it fully open, and a ratcheting mechanism produced a short ladder. She climbed up and in, beckoning him to follow.
    Not knowing what to expect, Rathe went after her and found himself standing in a cabin fit for any shipmaster. While his gaze roved over the elaborate furnishings, all built to a small but useful scale, Nesaea turned a diminutive windlass that drew up the ladder and closed the hatch on the celebration outside. In one corner stood a writing desk and chair, overshadowed by book-lined shelves; in another stood a wardrobe with elaborately carved doors. Toward the stern, a small table and two matched chairs sat across from a tiny stove and an iron rack laden with cookware. Beyond a sheer curtain waited a bed, lighted by flameless orbs of golden radiance.
    He moved nearer to the fist-sized glass spheres. They gave off light, but no heat. After considering what she had said more fully, he asked, “Are you a sorceress as well as dancer, singer, bard, and musician?”
    She laughed, a lazy finger toying with a dark curl of hair at her neck. “I am many things, but no conjurer.” She inclined her head toward the radiant orbs. “As to the Eyes of Nami-Ja—the god of light on the far jungle isles of Giliron—they are but useful trinkets gifted to me by a wizard after hearing me sing. I dare say, my reward was greater than his.”
    Rathe disagreed, and Nesaea blushed at his praise. He added, “I didn’t know the Maidens of the Lyre travelled so far as Giliron. It’s said that such a voyage to those far western islands is fraught with pirates and terrible creatures of the deep.”
    “The Sea of Muika is no more dangerous than any other. As to why I was there, suffice it to say that it was not my choice, but leaving was. Returning would mean my death.”
    Rathe’s eyebrows shot up. “You must have made quite the impression. Giliron is not known for its upstanding citizenry, let alone punishing them. You must tell me—”
    Nesaea stilled him with a raised hand. “I didn’t bring you here to prattle about my life, but to speak of your fortune.”
    Rathe bellowed laughter. “I have no desire to hear how I will spend my days in Hilan, growing old and forgotten, probably dying in the jaws of some foul beast I always believed was a legend.”
    Nesaea fixed him with an unwavering stare.
    Rathe resisted as long as he could, then said, “Why do you wish to tell me these things?”
    “As to that,” Nesaea replied, failing to completely hide her disquiet, “when I feel such compulsion on my heart, I follow it.”
    “So will I wed a beautiful woman, or give my soul to a toothless crone?” he chuckled. His experience with mystics and the like suggested that men, no matter their station, always learned they would end up with the former.
    “I will not paint so clear a picture, but rather divine the essence, the flavor , of the remaining days of your existence.”
    “Do what you will,” Rathe said, losing what little interest he had. He knew well enough what his life held.
    Nesaea cleared an area between the stove and table, then rolled out a sea-blue, hexagonal carpet embroidered with all manner of arcane symbols.