used to the smell of each other's unwashed bodies.
She and Jagu chewed their way through a bowl apiece of gritty, glutinous porridge. Then they fetched their belongings and followed the old fisherman down a narrow, crumbling cliff path to the rocky shore far below.
They had to wade out through the freezing tide to reach Chaikin's fishing boat, which lay at anchor in the little inlet.
“Wind's a fresh northeasterly this morning,” Chaikin told Jagu as he helped them clamber aboard. “Can your boy make himself useful? I could do with a couple of extra hands.”
“We'll both help out,” Celestine heard Jagu say as he stowed their bags and the precious Staff beneath an old piece of sailcloth. “Surely you don't sail her single-handed?” Jagu added as he pulled on the ropes to raise the boat's mainsail, a triangular expanse of canvas.
“When I drop you off at Seal Cove, farther up the coast, I'll be picking up my grandson.” Chaikin jabbed the air with the stem of his pipe, then clamped it back between his teeth.
“Do you take many pilgrims to the monastery?”
“Not anymore. Not since the Arkhel Clan was slaughtered by Lord Volkh.” Chaikin removed his pipe and spat. “Maybe that'll all change now.”
Jagu brought out a notebook and did little pencil sketches of the contours of the coast, marking the inlets and bays they passed. Celestine noticed that the raw northerly wind had brought a touch of color to his pale complexion; his cheeks and nose were red with the cold. She felt her own nose running and wiped it on her sleeve, as she had often seen the choirboys do at the cathedral in Lutèce. She saw him look at her in horror and stuck out her tongue at him.
“Seals!” Chaikin yelled, pointing with his pipe. Celestine forgot her own discomfort, gripping the side of the boat. Several sleek greybrownheads were bobbing up and down between the waves, watching them. The fierce salt wind blowing her hair into her eyes, she followed their antics with delight as they swam effortlessly past through the choppy waters.
“There's a colony out on one of the Drakhaon's Spines.” Chaikin pointed again to the line of jagged rocks protruding out of the sea; from their vantage point they looked remarkably like the back of a great dragon emerging from the waves.
“A word of advice for you, Father,” Chaikin was saying to Jagu. “If you keep to the Pilgrims’ Road through the forest, you'll find your way to Saint Serzhei's. The brothers mark certain trees every year to show the way. There are shrines and pilgrims’ wells of clean water to make sure you're on the right route. But don't wander off the path. Wild boar and wolves often come down from the Kharzhgylls in winter, looking for food. Oh, and the robbers…”
“A day's journey inland,” Jagu said as they tramped over the wet sand. The tide was going out, exposing a wide expanse of sandy beach, filled with little tidal streams, runnels, and rock pools. Gulls skimmed low over the shore. The air smelled of sea salt, mingled with the slightly sulfurous tang of mud.
“If only we had horses. We'll never reach the monastery before dark; it's already well past midday.” Celestine pointed to the pale sun which was no longer directly overhead.
“Then we'll just have to find one of these pilgrims’ shelters before nightfall.”
The ancient forest of Kerjhenezh covered most of the eastern corner of Azhkendir, extending as far as the foothills of the snow-covered Kharzhgyll Mountains, the natural border between the Drakhaon's lands and the khanate of Khitari, now all united as part of Eugene's empire. New spring leaves on the thick-girthed oaks were only just beginning to unfurl, but the heavy branches of the firs—larch, pine, and cedar—kept the Pilgrims’ Road well shaded and the sandy ground underfoot soft with a carpet of dried needles.
Jagu pointed to the faded white symbol of Sergius's crook daubed on the knotted trunk of a tall pine. “Ironic, isn't
She and Jagu chewed their way through a bowl apiece of gritty, glutinous porridge. Then they fetched their belongings and followed the old fisherman down a narrow, crumbling cliff path to the rocky shore far below.
They had to wade out through the freezing tide to reach Chaikin's fishing boat, which lay at anchor in the little inlet.
“Wind's a fresh northeasterly this morning,” Chaikin told Jagu as he helped them clamber aboard. “Can your boy make himself useful? I could do with a couple of extra hands.”
“We'll both help out,” Celestine heard Jagu say as he stowed their bags and the precious Staff beneath an old piece of sailcloth. “Surely you don't sail her single-handed?” Jagu added as he pulled on the ropes to raise the boat's mainsail, a triangular expanse of canvas.
“When I drop you off at Seal Cove, farther up the coast, I'll be picking up my grandson.” Chaikin jabbed the air with the stem of his pipe, then clamped it back between his teeth.
“Do you take many pilgrims to the monastery?”
“Not anymore. Not since the Arkhel Clan was slaughtered by Lord Volkh.” Chaikin removed his pipe and spat. “Maybe that'll all change now.”
Jagu brought out a notebook and did little pencil sketches of the contours of the coast, marking the inlets and bays they passed. Celestine noticed that the raw northerly wind had brought a touch of color to his pale complexion; his cheeks and nose were red with the cold. She felt her own nose running and wiped it on her sleeve, as she had often seen the choirboys do at the cathedral in Lutèce. She saw him look at her in horror and stuck out her tongue at him.
“Seals!” Chaikin yelled, pointing with his pipe. Celestine forgot her own discomfort, gripping the side of the boat. Several sleek greybrownheads were bobbing up and down between the waves, watching them. The fierce salt wind blowing her hair into her eyes, she followed their antics with delight as they swam effortlessly past through the choppy waters.
“There's a colony out on one of the Drakhaon's Spines.” Chaikin pointed again to the line of jagged rocks protruding out of the sea; from their vantage point they looked remarkably like the back of a great dragon emerging from the waves.
“A word of advice for you, Father,” Chaikin was saying to Jagu. “If you keep to the Pilgrims’ Road through the forest, you'll find your way to Saint Serzhei's. The brothers mark certain trees every year to show the way. There are shrines and pilgrims’ wells of clean water to make sure you're on the right route. But don't wander off the path. Wild boar and wolves often come down from the Kharzhgylls in winter, looking for food. Oh, and the robbers…”
“A day's journey inland,” Jagu said as they tramped over the wet sand. The tide was going out, exposing a wide expanse of sandy beach, filled with little tidal streams, runnels, and rock pools. Gulls skimmed low over the shore. The air smelled of sea salt, mingled with the slightly sulfurous tang of mud.
“If only we had horses. We'll never reach the monastery before dark; it's already well past midday.” Celestine pointed to the pale sun which was no longer directly overhead.
“Then we'll just have to find one of these pilgrims’ shelters before nightfall.”
The ancient forest of Kerjhenezh covered most of the eastern corner of Azhkendir, extending as far as the foothills of the snow-covered Kharzhgyll Mountains, the natural border between the Drakhaon's lands and the khanate of Khitari, now all united as part of Eugene's empire. New spring leaves on the thick-girthed oaks were only just beginning to unfurl, but the heavy branches of the firs—larch, pine, and cedar—kept the Pilgrims’ Road well shaded and the sandy ground underfoot soft with a carpet of dried needles.
Jagu pointed to the faded white symbol of Sergius's crook daubed on the knotted trunk of a tall pine. “Ironic, isn't
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