COMMAND THE TIDES - Wren Handman Page 0,2

boots, with a dagger in his belt, and blood on his hands.

Chapter One

IN MIRANOV, IT WAS SAID that on a night when the sky seemed determined to meet the sea, Ashua was weeping. Taya had always thought it was a stupid expression. It was only weather, and saying it was more than that seemed like a desperate attempt to humanize the uncaring elements. When a sailor drowned, Ashua wasn’t bringing him back to her bosom. He had fallen off a boat.

She moved to the window and flicked aside the curtain, peering out into the dark street. She had stayed up later than she meant to tonight, but it was impossible to tell the hour—rain was pouring down, and thick clouds were completely obscuring the moon. It could have been one hand above the skyline or fully in the middle of the sky, and she would have no way of knowing. Still, the shops beside hers had all put out their lanterns; hers were the only ones on the whole block still lit. It had to be late—even the baker’s across the way was dark, and they were wont to keep their lights on well into the night hours.

Lightning flashed, and the bluish light made the cobblestone street look like a rushing river. Thunder crashed, and she thoroughly embarrassed herself with a shriek of surprise. Dropping the curtain, she marched back to the chair where she had been working and picked up the project that had kept her up so late. The order was due the day after tomorrow, and she had burned through almost an entire candle finishing the delicate hem. It was a waste of good wax, and work she could easily have done in the morning, but she had been too on edge to sleep. Something about the storm was getting to her.

She shook her head, frustrated by her own foolishness, and blew out her lone candle. The action lost its edge of defiance as she scrambled out of the pitch-dark room, taking the stairs from her home down into her shop at double-time. Each stair protested loudly in its wooden voice, and the familiar noise was soothing. At the bottom of the stairs she stepped into lamplight in a room so familiar she could have closed her eyes and told a person where anything was located, or walked around it blindfolded. The wooden walls gleamed with a gentle red hue, shining slightly from the care she put into them every week. The floor was equally spotless, any dirt from customer’s shoes meticulously cleaned before it could soak in and stain the wood. The counter running along one wall had once belonged to a butcher, and despite relentless cleanings, had never lost the sickening-sweet smell of blood. Along the far wall, cloth dummies had been set up with examples of her work, and a curtain in the back hid both fitting rooms and workrooms from view. Behind the counter were boxes and drawers, carefully labeled, with her collection of trims and buttons inside. She moved over to the counter and carefully folded the finished skirt, laying it beside the matching bodice. Tomorrow she would fasten them together, and the blue ribbon that had come in that morning would be a good finisher.

A flash of lighting lit the room, and she realized she had forgotten to draw the blinds, never mind dousing the lanterns. She cursed herself for the waste, wondering how she had gotten so wrapped up in this project. Lamp oil was none too cheap these days, what with the unrest in Sephria, and it was doing no one any good lighting the stormy street.

Her footsteps echoed eerily as she crossed to the door, and she found herself unaccountably on edge. She had lived on her own for two years now—a storm shouldn’t send her skittering like a child. Yet she found herself glancing nervously over her shoulder into the depths of the stairwell, looking for hints of movement in the gloom. Lightning flashed again, revealing the empty stairs, and her own foolishness. The storm must have been right overhead and thunder rolled as she reached out to untie the curtains. She fumbled over the knots, managing at last to get them untied and closed. She swore at herself, hating to feel ridiculous, but unable to stop the tide of unease. She swallowed a lump in her throat and wrenched the outside door open, sending it crashing against the wall in her haste.

The rain was coming down