WARNING: This story and all others included in "Dreams of Reality" are copyrighted to FuryKyriel, 1997. Any unauthorized publication of this material will be prosecuted.

Blood and Water

(Part One of Five)

There could never have been a ship like the Naronica in R¹. Built by folk still technologically in the Dark Ages, it was half the size of a modern cruise ship and gaudy as a gypsy wagon. Pumpkin-sized spell-symbols swirled across its bows, trailing swaths of green and blue in their wake. Wooden gargoyles and fairies fought for space along the molding, and each gold-tasseled sail was a different hue.
    Grinning despite myself, I shifted my backpack and waited for the call to board. It had taken me three years and four months to reach the R² coast, and even then I'd put a lot of thought into my decision to cross the ocean. There was scant room for secrets on a ship, and I had a rather large one--which needed constant feeding, no less. But rumor had it that Gandalf had crossed the Metic thirty years ago, and I was still determined to follow him. Besides, even an R² ship ought to have its share of rats. The Fury would be satisfied, if not exactly thrilled, with the fare; and the woman would enjoy the companionship of other adventurers. And, if truth be told, I'd fallen in love with the ship at first sight.
    Curiously I scanned the faces of my fellow travelers. There would be 240 of us in all, not including crew, and no airport terminal could have boasted a more eclectic bunch. Black, brown, gold, and white; long-haired, short-haired, and bald as eggs; fresh-faced teens and wiry old folks -- all we had in common was a hunger for excitement. I couldn't help wondering how many people on the dock were duals. I'd stopped seeking them out specifically long ago, once I realized that any of my kind who wanted to be found, would be -- whether I went looking for them or not. But my curiosity remained, and I knew an adventure like this was bound to attract its share of R¹ visitors. If I were the only one on board Naronica, I'd be terribly disappointed.
    "All aboard!" the call came at last, and we gathered our belongings and shuffled up the gangplank. Captain Uto, whom I'd met when I booked passage, was waiting for us atop the forecastle. Round-bellied and ebony-skinned, with a foot-long braided mustache and gold earrings, he was the perfect complement to his gypsy of a ship. "Welcome! Welcome, friends!" he called, motioning us to gather around. A few old-timers moved quickly to the front, and Uto leaned down to slap their backs in greeting (for R² natives had never developed the handshake).
    When the assembly was complete, Uto stood upright, put his hands on his hips, and beamed down on us like a doting father. "Welcome again!" he boomed, his voice rolling out like a thunderclap across the decks. "Friends, guests, all those taking passage to the far shores of Rael--your trust and your money are well placed! This ship--" he gestured like an opera singer starting a solo-- "has been in my family for six generations. And in my completely unbiased opinion--" a few of the old-timers snickered-- "it is the finest vessel to sail the Metic in three hundred years. Each mast, each sail, each deck has been individually spelled to ensure your safety. Our crew is composed of the finest-paid, best-skilled labor on both sides of the ocean; our entertainment is first-rate; and your captain himself has personally sailed nine of the Twelve Seas--and returned with souvenirs and stories enough to last us all the way to Rael"--here he winked broadly. "In short, the only thing that can keep you from a safe and happy passage is yourselves."
    There was a pause, and then his broad face sobered. "Once we leave port, the only law that will exist for you is my law. I am the benevolent dictator of this little country called Naronica, and my one decree is that you do no harm to my ship, my guests, or my crew. Abide by this, and you are free to do as you please; cross me, and you end up in the brig or in the water." The captain gave us a quick glare, then slapped his hands together and grinned once more. "Now let's get under way."

    Our first few days at sea were fairly standard. Some folks started partying the moment the ship set sail; while others, despite the multitude of spells and assurances, spent most of their time holed up in their cabins. For my part, I alternated between periods of fascination and boredom. I'd never been on a cruise before, in this reality or in R¹; but it didn't take me long to learn that one wave looked pretty much like another. I found myself half wishing for a storm, just for the sake of variety. It would have been interesting to see what happened when a storm swell met the Naronica's spell front. But the weather remained calm, the waves unremarkable, and the third night found me looking for company in the ship's saloon.
    It wasn't long in coming. I was leaning against the bar, waiting on my second drink, when a stranger sidled up to me and murmured "hello." The first thing to hit me was his scent: clean and slightly musky, with a strong hint of woodlands. I found myself smiling even before I turned around.
    As soon as I saw him though, my expression froze. The stranger was young and handsome, with warm, hazel eyes -- flecked with supernatural gold. As surprise tied my tongue in a knot, he spoke again. "I'm Enric," he said, a touch of amusement in his voice.
    "Kyriel," I managed, blinking. Considering that most of my previous supernatural encounters had ended in combat, I didn't quite know how to react. But Enric didn't seem to pose an immediate threat, and I was curious. "Um, let's have a seat in one of the booths," I offered, just as the bartender laid down my drink. I took it without ever breaking the stranger's gaze.
    "Just what I was thinking," Enric gave me a jaunty smile and spread his arm, inviting me to go first. I nodded and backed nervously away from the bar, expecting at any moment to feel a knife or claw in my back. But the dark far corner of the room beckoned, and I slid into a booth without incident. It was good to feel firm wood against my shoulders.
    Get a grip, Kyriel, I told myself, irritated and a little embarrassed by my reaction. He doesn't know what you are yet, so even if he did want to kill you, he wouldn't know how. Besides, he'd have to be insane to try something in a crowded saloon.
    As the unknown supernatural slid in across from me, I studied him carefully for any sign of a threat. If it was there, it was hidden too well for me to find it. Enric's face was calm and open, deeply tanned, with high cheekbones and slightly slanted eyebrows. His hair was a tawny brown, sun-streaked and carelessly pulled back with a strip of leather. Everything about him spoke of ease. "Don't take this the wrong way, Kyriel," he said when he was seated, "but I've been watching you since yesterday, and I still haven't been able to figure you out."
    "Which part?" I raised an eyebrow to cover my surprise. I certainly hadn't seem him before now.
    Enric looked boyishly embarrassed. "Your role, to begin with." He leaned toward me, lowering his voice to be sure no one else could hear. "I'm a werewolf, so I rely pretty strongly on my sense of smell. But I've never encountered a scent like yours before. I can't help being a little curious."
    "I guess I should be flattered." I let the corner of my mouth curl in amusement. The man had given away his own secret so quickly that I was half-inclined to think he was lying. But there was something almost puppyish in his manner, and what I could catch of his own scent tallied with what he'd said. "And what do I smell like?" I asked, leaning back a little in my booth.
    The werewolf -- if that's what he was - grinned enthusiastically. "Fire and darkness, a hint of reptile, and a strong mix of emotions. There's a lot of anger there, but it's more righteous than spiteful -- and it's well controlled. I have to say, Kyriel, it's a fascinating combination." He paused and looked at me expectantly.
    What he'd said was right on the money, but I wasn't about to give away anything I didn't have to. "Not bad," I acknowledged, rather reluctantly. "So, what else does this nose of yours tell you about me?"
    Enric chuckled. "That you don't trust me as far as you can throw me--which would probably be a pretty long way." Then he leaned across the table and sobered. "And that there's nothing devious or deceptive in you. Believe me, Kyriel, that's the only reason I've told you this much about myself. I'm not as foolish as I seem."
    "I'm glad to hear it," I murmured, using a sip from my cup as an excuse to break eye contact. It was hard to be objective in the light of that warm golden gaze.
    Enric laughed again. "I guess that means you're not going to answer my question."
    "Good guess." The ghost of Aedros seemed to hover over our table, and I closed my hands protectively around my glass.
    The werewolf shrugged and shifted in his seat. "Fair enough," he said easily. "I'd be lying if I said I wasn't disappointed, but I do understand." He bent his head to think. "Would you mind telling me something else about yourself, then?"
    "Like what?"
    "Like how long you've been in R², where you come from originally, what you're doing on the Naronica...." His voice trailed off and he spread his hands invitingly.
    Relieved he'd dropped the other point so readily, I allowed myself a smile. "About three and a half years, the United States, and chasing Gandalf."
    "Gandalf?" Enric sat up straight, his face a mixture of surprise and confusion. "He's here?"
    "He was." Pleased by his reaction, I explained how I'd first discovered J.R.R. Tolkien's dual identity, then traced the path that had brought me to this ship. My enthusiasm grew as I realized Enric appreciated the late author as much as I did. "So now I'm trying to hunt down Medlertha," I finished, and the werewolf leaned back in his booth and shook his head.
    "That's amazing," he said, and whistled admiringly. "You know, I've visited The Eagle and Child and a few of his other old haunts, but none of that compares to what you've done."
    "The Eagle and Child," I sighed, forgetting my suspicions for the moment. "I've always wanted to go to England. Is that where you're from?"
    "Close. I'm Irish." Up to this point, we'd been speaking in the language of R², which came more naturally to us here than our native tongues. But Enric had to switch to English to speak his nationality, and when I caught the first hint of his brogue I felt my stomach tingle. I'd always been a sucker for accents. Then the warning bell went off in my head and I pulled myself together.
    "Ireland," I said carefully. "You're not a part of all the fighting there, are you?"
    "Certainly not!" In the ferocity of his response, Enric really did look like a wolf for a moment. "Terrorists using religion for political ends -- it makes me ill." He shook his head and drummed his fingers on the table, letting the silence convey his disgust. Finally he shook his head and spoke again. "No, I'm not a part of that," he said, more calmly. "The fighting's in Northern Ireland. My home is in Eire."
    If Enric had meant to make a good impression, he couldn't have chosen a better response. But even that was enough to rouse my suspicions. Do you really not know what I am, Enric? I wondered. And are you really what you say you are? If I'm going to be stuck on this ship with you for two months, I'd better learn what I'm dealing with. It was time to change the subject.
    "So, werewolf," I said after a moment. "You say you trust me, and I suppose you're hoping I'll do the same for you."
    Enric raised an eyebrow. "I trust you so far. Why? What do you have in mind?"
    "Tell me a little more about yourself." I leaned back in the booth and cocked my head. "I can't trust what I don't know."
    Enric took the suggestion seriously, chewing it over for several seconds in silence. When he finally looked up, his eyes were sober and watchful as a wolf's. "And you'll keep what I tell you in perfect confidence?"
    Surprised, and more than a little unnerved, I took the time to measure my words carefully. "As long as I don't think you're a danger to me or anyone else," I said, holding his gaze, "yes, I'll keep what you say in confidence."
    Enric's nostrils flared--just barely--and I wondered what he was learning from my scent. After a moment he smiled. "All right, then. Ask away."
    I'd regained my equilibrium by now, and I smiled and laced my hands behind my head. "Hmmm, where to begin?" I murmured, although there was only one way I could possibly begin. I'd had a very good teacher. "First, I want proof that you really are a werewolf--and if you say you can't give it to me in here, I'm more than ready to go outside with you."
    Enric chuckled. "That won't be necessary, but I do appreciate your caution." He glanced around the room to be sure no one was looking our way, then nodded. "Watch my left hand." Casually he cupped his right hand over his left, covering it loosely enough that I could still see the fingers. As I watched, they curled in upon themselves, shrinking and sprouting a tawny pelt the same color as his hair. The process was over in seconds; then he turned the paw so I could inspect its rough pads and claws. "Convinced?" he asked mildly.
    I nodded, my eyes flicking back and forth between the slim paw and the cuff of Enric's sleeve, still as full as if it contained a normal human wrist. I knew already that shapeshifters didn't lose any of their body mass when they changed; and that if Enric had transformed his whole arm, the sleeve would have disappeared with it. But it was still an eerie sight. "How long does the whole process take?" I asked, genuinely curious.
    "Five to ten seconds, if I make a complete transformation." He restored the hand to its human shape and flexed his fingers. "But if I want to be able to speak and retain a bit of my human form, I can stop the process halfway. Otherwise, I look like an ordinary wolf--except for the eyes."
    "Which no one but other supernaturals can see, anyway," I finished, then glanced again at his hand. "I'm impressed at the amount of control you have--is that typical of werewolves?"
    "To some extent," Enric shrugged. "One of our three Gifts is always the level of control. I rolled a nine out of ten."
    "And the other two Gifts?" My pulse quickened. It couldn't be this easy -- unless he really was as innocent as he claimed to be.
    "The ability to talk to other canines, and psychic immunity," Enric answered promptly.
    I frowned slightly. "Psychic immunity doesn't sound like much of a Gift for a werewolf."
    "I guess you'd call it a sort of wild-card roll, but it does come in handy."
    "I'll bet." Suddenly I was even less sure of his motives than I had been. The Gifts he'd named were two I had no way of testing on board this ship, and I'd never heard of a "wild-card roll," anyway. I should have known the werewolf wouldn't tell me the truth, no matter how open he pretended to be.
    Suddenly I felt tired -- and disappointed. "Look, Enric," I sighed, "it's been nice talking to you, but I'm going to have to say goodnight now. It's past my bedtime." Quickly I downed the last of my wine and stood up.
    "Wait, Kyriel--" he reached out an arm, but I'd already stepped away from the booth.
    "I'm sure I'll be seeing more of you," I offered, backing toward the door. "After all, we'll be stuck together for two whole months."
    As I stepped outside, I couldn't help noticing the glare of a gray-robed man at the bar.

On to Part Two

architectural friezes courtesy of Randy D. Ralph at the Icon Bazaar

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