Chapter 16 – Wind-silvered Wake
Moonlight gilded the waves as Kelan gazed astern at the ship's shimmering wake, a river of liquid silver rippling out in their path. The two-masted merchant ship Sea Falcon cut steadily through the dark water, sails taut with a favorable night breeze. The young man stood near the stern rail, one hand resting on sun-warmed wood now cooled by the evening air. He watched the turbulent white foam trailing behind the vessel, mesmerized by how the moonlight transformed it into an otherworldly glowing band. Each crest of the wake caught the light and flickered, as if the ship were painting a shining path across the sea.
It had been two days since they'd left the familiar shores of Kelan's homeland behind. In that time he had learned to find solace in this night-time ritual of staring back at where they had come from. There was comfort in the gentle hiss of the water being parted by the hull and the creaking rhythm of timbers shifting with the waves. Above, the sky was a dome of brilliant stars and a few wispy clouds; below, the sea stretched endlessly except for the churning luminescent trail of their passage. Kelan took a deep breath of salt-tinged air. It filled his lungs and seemed to clear his mind. He realized he was finally, truly on his way.
Only a week ago, he had stood on a very different shore—heart hammering with uncertainty—as he'd said farewell to the life he'd always known. Now, with each league sailed, that life receded beyond the horizon like the coastline that had vanished two nights past. A pang of homesickness tugged at him unexpectedly. He wondered if his mother and father were safe and well back in Rhovan, if they missed him yet. He fingered the small wooden amulet hanging under his shirt, a keepsake his mother had pressed into his palm at their parting. Closing his eyes, he tried to picture her face and send a silent wish across the dark expanse, hoping somehow she would feel his love. The vastness of the sea between them made him feel both very small and strangely free.
A faint thump of footsteps on the deck made Kelan open his eyes. One of the night crew strode by, a coil of rope slung over his shoulder, making rounds to check the rigging. The sailor nodded politely to Kelan—a passenger but also young and earnest enough to have helped with minor tasks. Kelan nodded back with a shy smile. So far, the crew had been accepting of his presence. Captain Cressa had introduced him simply as "a scholar bound for Auristaz" when they embarked, which was true enough, if incomplete. It spared Kelan from too many prying questions. Few onboard likely knew of the Mind Touch or that Kelan possessed its nascent spark within him. He himself was still grappling with what exactly it meant.
The captain's courtesy had eased his way more than once already. On the day of departure, she'd personally shown Kelan to a small cabin just off the companionway—spartan, but entirely his own. It was more than he had expected on a crowded merchant vessel and he suspected she'd ousted some junior officer to provide it. The thought made him a bit self-conscious; he wasn't used to being given special treatment. Yet Captain Cressa seemed determined that he have a safe and focused journey. She had made it clear that while he was free to assist the crew as he liked, it was not required of him. That left Kelan in the awkward position of being an idle passenger on a working ship, something he quickly found he did not enjoy. Thus, at dusk of the first day, he had volunteered to help scrub the deck and coil lines alongside a few sailors. They had been surprised but not displeased, and Kelan ended the day with blistered hands and a tentative camaraderie with the crew.
Now it was late, well past the hour when most souls aboard would have sought their hammocks. But Kelan's mind was too full for sleep. He leaned on the stern rail and cast out his senses. The moist breeze ruffled his dark hair and brought the briny spray to his lips. He could taste salt on his skin. The sea and sky felt immense tonight. The gentle rocking of the ship beneath his feet was becoming a familiar comfort; he was starting to find his "sea legs," no longer stumbling with each unexpected lurch.
Kelan closed his eyes again, not to summon memories this time but to simply feel the present moment more keenly. In the darkness behind his eyelids, he listened to the lullaby of the waves and the distant hum of the crew's voices forward by the bow. A few men and women softly sang an old shanty as they worked through the night, their melody carried on the breeze. He did not recognize the language—perhaps Auristazi, flowing and lilting—but the emotion in it transcended words. It spoke of longing and home and wanderlust all at once. He let the music wash over him, breathing slowly, trying to empty his mind of its swirl of thoughts.
This was one of the exercises suggested by Master Elian back in Rhovan: "To be present, to observe without judgment." Kelan recalled the calm voice of his first teacher in the ways of the mind: "A racing mind cannot touch another with clarity. Stillness, Kelan. Find the stillness within." Elian had taught him only briefly—just enough to set him on the path and convince Kelan's parents to send him away for proper training. But those lessons in a quiet temple garden now seemed invaluable out here amid the restless sea.
He inhaled to a slow count of four, held the breath gently, then exhaled, matching the rhythm of the waves against the hull. With each breath he imagined the tension flowing out of him, joining the ripples on the water and dissipating. On the third breath, he felt a familiar faint tingling awareness in the center of his forehead and deep in his chest—a sensation he had come to recognize as the prelude to touching the edges of that other sense. The Mind Touch. Tonight it came easier than it ever had on land. Perhaps the solitude and vastness of the open ocean made it less daunting to open that inner door a crack.
For a moment, Kelan sensed more than heard the heartbeats of those nearby. The sailor who had passed earlier was now up by the tiller; Kelan sensed the man's presence like a dimly glowing ember of warmth. Forward by the bow, a cluster of embers signified the other sailors singing—each human presence a subtle impression in Kelan's mind. He did not hear their thoughts exactly, nor feel their precise emotions; he wasn't that skilled or intrusive. But with eyes closed he could just perceive the gentle contours of consciousness around him, like feeling the heat of a fire without touching the flame. It felt… comforting. He was not alone out here—he was part of a living, breathing whole: a ship with its crew, each person like an organ in a greater body, working in unison to cross this living sea.
A swell hit the hull at an odd angle, causing the ship to roll abruptly. Kelan's eyes snapped open as he gripped the rail to steady himself. He laughed under his breath—perhaps he had grown a bit too confident in his sea-legs. The stars above swung back into place as the Sea Falcon righted herself, carrying on steadily. Kelan peered down at the foamy wake again to regain his physical bearings. The silver sheen had shifted with the angle of the moon, but it was still there, tracing an unbroken line behind them.
He imagined that wake stretching all the way back to the harbor they'd departed from, an unerring path home. But that was just a fancy; in truth, within minutes the churning waters behind them settled back into the vast ocean, leaving no trace of their passing. There is no going back the way we came, he reminded himself. The only path was forward, into the dark unknown ocean ahead.
And ahead—somewhere beyond the starry horizon—lay Auristaz. The very name of that distant land made Kelan's heart quicken. Auristaz, realm of the matriarchs, home to the Lyceum where he would train his mind and learn the full extent of this gift—and its burdens. In his childhood imaginings, Auristaz had been a semi-mythical place across the waves from which rare spices and cloth came to Rhovan's markets. He recalled a traveling storyteller once describing the city of Vay'Sala, seat of Auristaz's Queen: a place of white marble temples and gardens of cinnamon and cardamom, where wisdom was valued above wealth and women ruled as was their ancient custom. At the time, Kelan had thought it a mere fable. Now he was literally sailing into that fable, making it real.
His thoughts were interrupted by a soft voice nearby. "Beautiful night, isn't it?" Startled, Kelan turned to see Captain Cressa herself standing a few paces away. He had been so absorbed that he hadn't heard her approach—a testament to her light step.
"Yes, Captain," Kelan replied, straightening up. "It's gorgeous. I didn't expect anyone else to still be awake at this hour." His voice was quiet, as if loudness could shatter the fragile peace of the night.
Captain Cressa stepped to the rail and looked out at the moon's glitter on the waves. In the faint light, her strong, weathered features were cast in silver and shadow. "As captain, one never truly sleeps at sea," she said with a small smile. "I make do with naps here and there. I like to see how the ship fares at night with my own eyes now and then."
Kelan nodded. He had already witnessed that Cressa seemed indefatigable; she was first on deck at dawn and still checking the rigging at midnight. He wasn't sure when she ever rested.
Cressa studied him for a moment. "How are you holding up, Kelan? This is your first sea voyage, I believe."
"It is," he admitted. "I… I think I'm doing alright. The first day I felt a bit ill, but I found if I keep busy on deck and focus on the horizon, the queasiness passes." He didn't mention that having something to concentrate his mind on—like those meditation breaths—also helped.
"Good," she said approvingly. "You're adapting quicker than many landsmen." She turned her gaze back to the wake. "I often find young passengers out here at night on their first voyage. Watching the place they came from fade away. It's a lot to leave everything behind, isn't it?"
Kelan swallowed, surprised at her perception. "It is, Captain." After a pause he added, "I'll admit, I was thinking of home just now. And of what lies ahead."
Captain Cressa chuckled softly. "That's only natural. The sea has a way of stirring up reflections." She rested her hands on the rail. "When I was a girl leaving Auristaz on my first long voyage, I cried every night for a week from missing home," she confessed unexpectedly. "By the time we returned, I cried to leave the ship because I'd fallen in love with the freedom out here." She shot him a sidelong glance. "Not that I expect you to become a sailor, mind you. But you may find this journey changes you in ways you don't expect."
Kelan considered that. "I've felt that already, in small ways," he said quietly. "Back home, I… I often felt restless, like a gull in a cage. Now at least I'm moving toward something. That's freeing, but…" He hesitated. "It's also frightening. I don't know what exactly awaits me in Auristaz, only that I must go there to learn about this gift I carry."
Captain Cressa nodded slowly. "You carry it for all of us, whether you know it or not," she murmured cryptically. Before he could ask what she meant, she continued, "Knowledge and mastery—these will come in time. Don't rush the horizon, Kelan. Dawn comes when it's ready, not before." Her dark eyes met his, and in them Kelan saw both kindness and the steely assurance of one used to commanding. "Your task for now is simple: learn what you can on this voyage, about yourself as much as anything else. Arrive at Vay'Sala safely. The rest will follow."
He took a moment to absorb her words. They were sensible, yet held a depth that made him suspect she knew more of the Mind Touch than she let on. But he did not pry. Instead he offered a slight bow of his head. "I will try, Captain. Thank you."
She smiled briskly. "Very good. Now, it's late and we'll have an early start at first light checking our course. You should get some sleep while you can, hmm?"
Kelan realized fatigue was indeed creeping up on him now that his nerves had settled. "Aye, Captain. I will." He gave the moonlit sea one last, lingering look. The wind-silvered wake seemed to wink at him, as if encouraging him onward. "Good night," he said to Cressa.
"Good night, Kelan," she replied, already turning to quietly confer with the helmsman at the tiller.
He made his way across the deck, careful in the dimness. Before descending the companionway to his cabin, Kelan paused and gazed up once more at the star-strewn sky. Somewhere among those stars was one that hung over Auristaz at this very moment, shining on the land where his new life would begin. The thought filled him with a mix of trepidation and hope.
As he ducked below deck and felt the gentle sway of the ship cradle him, Kelan silently vowed to himself: he would make the most of this voyage. He would arrive ready to face whatever waited in Auristaz. With the sound of the ocean's whisper echoing in his ears, he crawled into his narrow bunk. His last conscious thought was of silver moonlit waves carrying him forward, ever forward, into the unknown.
Chapter 17 – Captain Cressa's Courtesy
Early dawn light found Kelan perched on a stool in the galley, carefully balancing two steaming bowls of porridge on a tray. The ship gently rolled beneath him as he steadied himself and ascended to the quarterdeck. Captain Cressa had invited him to break his fast with her that morning—an unexpected honor that set Kelan both at ease and on edge. He didn't want to spill breakfast all over her.
As he stepped onto the quarterdeck, the captain waved him over to a small wooden table that had been bolted in place near the stern. The spot afforded a clear view of the horizon and the ship's path, allowing Cressa to keep an eye on things even while dining. "Thank you, Kelan," she said warmly as he set the tray down.
He handed her one of the bowls and a spoon. "It's simple fare, Captain—oats and dried fruit. The cook said he'll fry up some salt pork later, but I thought this might tide us over."
"This is perfect," she replied. The captain gestured for him to sit on the bench opposite. Kelan did so, mindful to keep a respectful posture despite the informality of sharing a meal.
They ate in a companionable silence for a few minutes, watching the sun's gold edge peek over the calm morning sea. The breeze was gentle and the Sea Falcon's sails were trimmed just enough to keep them moving steadily eastward. Overhead, a few seabirds wheeled, their white wings catching the dawn.
"How did you sleep?" Captain Cressa asked eventually, breaking a piece of ship's biscuit to dunk into her porridge.
"Quite well, thank you," Kelan lied politely. In truth, his sleep had been fitful and filled with half-remembered dreams of home and sea, but he did not wish to burden the captain with that. Instead, he added honestly, "It's actually easier to sleep with the ship's motion now. I think I'm getting used to it."
She nodded. "Good. We have fair weather today, so it should be a smooth sail. By my reckoning, we'll pass the Isle of Rhovanthis around midday." Seeing his questioning look, she explained, "It's a small island, uninhabited, but a landmark on the route. After that, it's open water until the Auristazi coast."
Kelan felt a flutter in his stomach at the mention of Auristaz. Each marker along the way made the journey more real. "How long do you expect until we reach Vay'Sala?"
Captain Cressa smiled. "If these winds hold, perhaps another ten days. Give or take a day." She sipped water from a pewter cup. "The Sea Falcon is swift, but I don't push her too hard unless needed. There's a stretch before the mainland where storms can surprise even in good season, so we'll keep a prudent pace and our eyes open."
Kelan nodded, recalling the mention of storms. He had yet to see truly rough weather at sea and found himself both curious and apprehensive about it.
They continued chatting lightly—the captain shared a few anecdotes about this route, pointing out when they might see whales or dolphins which frequented the warmer waters ahead. Kelan listened intently, absorbing her every word. It struck him that back in Rhovan he would never have imagined himself casually sharing breakfast with a ship's captain, let alone a woman of such rank. Yet here, it felt natural. Captain Cressa's easy manner dissolved the usual barriers of station.
As they were finishing their meal, a call came from the masthead lookout: "Sail ho! Ship off the starboard bow!"
Cressa immediately stood and strode toward the starboard rail, her half-eaten bowl forgotten. Kelan followed, heart quickening with the prospect of seeing another vessel on the high sea.
The lookout shouted again, voice carrying down from above, "Two points off starboard, Captain. Looks to be a merchant brigantine, heading westward."
Cressa pulled a small brass spyglass from her belt and extended it. She peered through, scanning the far horizon where the morning haze was lifting. "Ah, there you are," she murmured. After a moment she smiled and collapsed the spyglass. "It's the Sapphire Zephyr. I'd recognize that figurehead anywhere."
"You know the ship?" Kelan asked.
"Aye," she replied. "Captain Marek's vessel. He's an Auristazi trader, likely coming from Vay'Sala heading to the western isles. We've crossed paths before." She glanced at the sails. "His heading will bring him quite close to us. Perhaps within hailing distance in an hour or two."
The crew, upon hearing the news, exchanged some excited chatter. Weeks at sea often passed without encountering another soul. The prospect of a friendly meeting clearly lifted spirits. Kelan himself felt a surge of anticipation—another ship meant news, perhaps letters, and certainly a break in monotony.
As the morning wore on, the silhouette of the approaching brigantine grew clearer. By its sail configuration and flag, it indeed matched Captain Cressa's identification. The Sapphire Zephyr bore a dark blue pennant with a silver wind-spiral emblem—presumably its house flag. The Sea Falcon in turn hoisted the Auristazi colors—a teal banner emblazoned with a white heron—so the other ship would recognize them as countrymen.
On Captain Cressa's orders, the helmsman adjusted their course slightly to draw nearer the other ship while still keeping enough distance for safety. Both vessels eased sails to slow their speed. By late morning, Kelan could make out crew figures on the other ship's deck and the ornate carving of a leaping dolphin at its prow. The two ships bobbed on gentle swells perhaps a hundred yards apart—near enough to speak through trumpeted voices or signals.
"Run up the hail, Mr. Teren," Cressa commanded her first mate.
A sailor on the Sea Falcon's bow lifted a speaking trumpet and called out across the waves: "Sea Falcon greets you, Sapphire Zephyr! Captain Cressa sends her regards!"
After a moment, a booming reply came from the brigantine's quarterdeck, aided by their own horn: "Sapphire Zephyr returns the greeting! Captain Marek at your service, Captain Cressa!" The shout was followed by a flurry of activity on the brigantine's deck. Through the spyglass, Kelan saw a stout man in a blue coat at the Zephyr's rail waving.
Captain Cressa turned to her first mate with a grin. "Prepare to come alongside at low sail. We'll trade words and perhaps a treat or two. Mind the current."
A series of commands rang out on both ships. Expertly, the two crews coordinated to bring the vessels close enough for a longboat exchange. They didn't actually tie together—such a maneuver was risky on the open sea—but they came within a cable's length and held parallel courses.
The Zephyr launched a small dinghy with a rower and one passenger—presumably Captain Marek himself—who made their way across the gap of water. Captain Cressa ordered a rope ladder over the side, and within minutes, the visiting captain clambered up onto the Sea Falcon's deck, slightly winded but smiling broadly.
He was a barrel-chested man with a neatly trimmed gray beard. "Cressa!" he roared amicably, stepping forward. "I couldn't believe my eyes when I saw your falcon figurehead in the distance."
Cressa clasped forearms with him in greeting. "Marek, it's been too long. Welcome aboard."
Sailors from both ships cheered lightly at the successful rendezvous. It was a festive interruption to the day's work. Kelan hovered near the mainmast, unsure if he should make himself scarce or stay. The captain caught his eye and beckoned him over.
"Marek, allow me to introduce Kelan. He's a passenger in my charge, bound for Vay'Sala," Cressa said. "Kelan, this is Captain Marek of the Sapphire Zephyr."
Kelan bowed his head respectfully. "Captain Marek."
The older man gave Kelan a curious once-over, noting the plain but well-made tunic Kelan wore and his youthful face. "Bound for Vay'Sala, eh? A scholar or a diplomat's son, perhaps?"
"Something of a scholar," Kelan replied modestly, not elaborating.
Cressa gestured with a hospitable sweep of her arm. "Come, Marek. Join me for a late morning tea. We have fresh citrus still, if you can believe it."
"Oh ho, a luxury!" Marek laughed. "Lead the way."
Within minutes, the crew had arranged a small gathering under the awning of the quarterdeck. Captain Marek's rower had remained with his dinghy, but a few of Marek's senior crew had now also rowed over bearing gifts: a basket of gleaming fish, freshly caught at dawn, and a skin of what was likely good wine. In return, Cressa instructed her steward to send over a few loaves of Rhovan bread and a cask of salted beef from their stores for Marek's crew—trading provisions in generosity.
Kelan found himself assisting the steward in pouring hot tea (steeped from precious dried lemon verbena leaves) into tin cups for the captains. They sat at ease on a bench, talking animatedly. Marek recounted his journey west—he had departed Auristaz three weeks prior, delivering glassware and ceramics to far-flung colonies. Now he was returning home with holds full of timber and grain.
"We had a calm voyage mostly," Marek said. "Stopped by Rhovan's port of Calta on the way out. A bit of unrest there—some dispute between the guilds and their prince, but nothing that affected trade directly." He took a grateful sip of the aromatic tea. "Ah, that's excellent."
Kelan listened intently. News from Rhovan, even incidental, pricked his ears. Calta was not his home city, but any mention of his country made him yearn for more details.
Captain Cressa raised an eyebrow. "Unrest, you say? Perhaps that's the rumbling we heard before departure—that Rhovan's new tariffs were causing strife. We loaded our Rhovani goods quickly and got out before any trouble."
Marek chuckled. "Wise as ever. They'll sort it out or not, but that's Rhovan's problem. Auristaz has kept itself clear of such squabbles."
Marek then began to tell a humorous anecdote of a near-miss with a whale that had surfaced right alongside his ship, startling everyone. The two captains laughed over the telling, and Cressa responded with her own tale of a mischievous dolphin that had stolen fish right off a line one voyage. Kelan found himself smiling—these were the tales of seasoned sailors, and their camaraderie was genuine and deep-rooted.
It struck Kelan that this meeting was more than coincidence; it was almost ritual. Out here in the emptiness of the great sea, two shipmasters met as old friends, sharing hospitality and news. In a world without quick communications, this was how information flowed: person to person, over a cup of tea or a mug of ale on a gently rocking deck. The courtesy of the exchange not only broke the monotony, but served a practical purpose. Already, Cressa had gleaned intel about conditions in Rhovan and Marek likely hoped for news of Auristaz from her.
Captain Cressa did not disappoint. "Tell me, how fares Vay'Sala? We've been away some months now."
Marek stroked his beard. "All well when I left. The council of matrons was preparing for the equinox festival. There was talk of the Lyceum expanding their programs—something about inviting a delegation from overseas, maybe from the Rhovan Alliance, ironically."
Kelan's heart skipped. The Lyceum, that was where he was headed. He yearned to interject a question, but held his tongue in the presence of these elders.
"Is that so?" Cressa gave a thoughtful hum. "Auristaz opening its doors wider. Times are changing."
Marek nodded sagely. "Not too much, mind you. The Queen and the council keep a firm hand. But they see value in some exchange. Perhaps even young men like your Kelan here will become a more common sight at the Lyceum." He winked at Kelan, who felt his cheeks warm.
Captain Cressa glanced at Kelan with a reassuring smile. "I suspect he will do well there, even if he stands out a bit." Then she set down her empty tea cup. "Marek, will you take lunch with us? We can cook up that fine fish you brought."
"I'd be delighted," Marek agreed, patting his ample belly. "Nothing better than a meal with old friends. And I'll not pass up fresh fish!" He turned to Kelan. "Young man, have you ever had red snapper grilled with citrus and pepper? No? Ah, you're in for a treat."
At Captain Cressa's nod, Kelan hurried off with the steward to deliver the fish to the cook, along with a precious lemon from the captain's stores and instructions on how she wanted it prepared. The cook clicked his tongue in approval at the quality of the catch and set to work over his brazier. The savory smell of fish sizzling soon wafted through the midships, drawing appreciative comments from crew on both vessels.
As lunch was being readied, Kelan returned to the quarterdeck. There he saw Captain Cressa and Captain Marek standing side by side at the rail, gazing out at Marek's ship. The Sapphire Zephyr maintained course nearby, her crew no doubt enjoying a short respite. A few of Marek's sailors had been allowed to visit the Sea Falcon as well, swapping yarns with Cressa's crew on the forecastle. On the Zephyr, Kelan spotted some of Cressa's men who had gone over to deliver goods now chatting with the other crew. It was like two families briefly merging.
The two captains were speaking in lower tones now. As Kelan approached politely, he overheard Marek say quietly, "—heard rumors of raiders in the southern straits. Unconfirmed, but keep watch when you near there."
Cressa nodded gravely. "Thank you. I will."
Marek placed a hand on her shoulder in a familial gesture. "You have some precious cargo, I gather." His eyes flicked to Kelan meaningfully, though he kept his voice down. "I'd hate for anything to happen on your final leg."
Kelan pretended not to notice the subtext, but his curiosity flared. Precious cargo? Was Marek referring to him or something else? He had little time to ponder as the cook appeared with a platter of the grilled fish, golden-brown and steaming, garnished with wedges of lemon and a sprinkle of crushed peppercorns.
"Shall we?" Captain Cressa said cheerfully, dispelling the brief shadow. She guided Marek back to the improvised table where the meal was laid out. They ate with gusto, sharing the delicious fare. Kelan was invited to join them and, at Cressa's insistence, did so, though he mostly listened.
Their conversation drifted from trade winds to family. Marek mentioned his wife and daughters waiting in Auristaz ("They always want exotic trinkets from every voyage; I must find something in these crates of grain to surprise them!" he joked). Cressa spoke of her sister who managed their family's dock business in Vay'Sala. Kelan was heartened to hear these personal tidbits; it painted a picture of Auristaz as not just an exotic destination but a home with normal families and concerns, albeit under a different structure.
All too soon, the time came to part. The sun was climbing high, and both captains had to consider their schedules. They stood and clasped arms once more.
"This has been a welcome respite," Marek said earnestly. "Thank you, Cressa. You always did know how to host even on a rolling deck."
"And thank you for the news and company," she replied. "Safe travels, old friend. Fair winds and following seas to you."
Marek turned to Kelan and unexpectedly gripped his shoulder. "Best of luck to you, lad. Perhaps we shall meet again in Vay'Sala. I'd be curious to see what becomes of you at that Lyceum." His eyes twinkled kindly.
Kelan smiled. "I'd like that, Captain. And thank you."
With that, Captain Marek and his crew returned to their dinghies. The vessels exchanged a few final signals—Cressa giving orders to dip the Sea Falcon's flag in salute, and Marek's ship answering in kind. The crews on each ship cheered and waved as the distance widened, the Sapphire Zephyr catching a westward breeze and pulling away.
Within an hour, the horizon was empty once again save for the endless blue, as if the meeting had been a dream. Yet the lingering warmth in Kelan's chest and the extra fish for supper in the galley proved it had been real.
Resuming her command duties, Captain Cressa passed Kelan on the main deck while checking a line. She paused briefly and said in a soft tone, "Moments like these remind us why courtesy matters, even out here. A little kindness and respect go a long way at sea—and on land." She gave him a nod that seemed to carry a lesson.
Kelan nodded back. "I see that now."
As the captain moved off, barking a good-natured order to an absent-minded sailor, Kelan realized he had just witnessed something important. Captain Cressa's courtesy was not merely polite behavior; it was an extension of her leadership and humanity. Through simple hospitality, she had reinforced bonds, exchanged vital information, and ensured goodwill that could one day be returned when needed.
Carrying a coil of rope he'd volunteered to tidy, Kelan made his way toward the bow, feeling the midday sun on his face. The sea stretched out before them once more, but he no longer felt it was an empty void. It was a living highway where friendships could spark like fire on the water.
As the Sea Falcon surged onward toward the next phase of their voyage, Kelan reflected on the morning's events. He thought of the Code of the Mind Touch he had yet to learn in full, and suspected that somewhere in its philosophy there would be a tenet about respect and empathy. Captain Cressa had just shown him what that looked like in practice.
He smiled to himself as he began to hum the tune of the sailors' earlier shanty. The journey continued, full of lessons in unexpected forms. And Kelan felt a little more prepared for whatever the coming days—and the shores of Auristaz—might bring, armed with the knowledge that courtesy and kindness could be as powerful as any magic of the mind.
Chapter 18 – Stars Above, Numbers Below
The firmament above was a breathtaking spray of stars, more numerous and brilliant than Kelan had ever seen from land. It was the middle of the night watch, and under the cloudless sky the Sea Falcon glided over calm waters with a gentle breeze. Kelan found himself standing beside First Mate Teren near the ship's bow, craning his neck to absorb the vista of constellations.
"There's the Scorpion, just rising," Teren murmured, pointing out a distinct cluster. Kelan followed the line of his finger and nodded as he spotted a curve of stars like a hook low on the eastern horizon. He had never learned the stars systematically, only knew a few by folk names.
On an impulse, Kelan asked, "Mr. Teren, how do you use the stars to navigate? I've heard sailors can find their way by them, but I don't understand how."
The first mate, a wiry man with sharp eyes and a graying ponytail, glanced at Kelan. In the faint starlight, Teren's lined face softened with a slight smile. It seemed the youth's earnest question had touched on a subject he loved. "Aye, we do navigate by the stars when we can see them. Would you like to learn a bit?"
"Yes, very much," Kelan replied, trying to hide his excitement.
Teren signaled to another crewman to take over his idle task of coiling a loose halyard. Then he reached into a storage box lashed near the foremast and pulled out a curious instrument—an arc of brass with fine markings, fitted with mirrors and a movable arm. Kelan recognized it from description as a sextant, one of the most advanced tools for celestial navigation.
The first mate carefully placed the sextant in Kelan's hands. It had substantial weight. "Ever used one of these?"
Kelan shook his head. "Never. I've only seen a drawing of one in a book."
"Well, this one's an older design but does the job." Teren guided Kelan to face northward, where a particular star shone brighter than the rest about halfway up the sky. "Do you see that star there, the steady bright one above the bow? That's the North Star. We call her Naia. She barely moves in the sky, always pointing north."
"I see it," Kelan said. The star's cool light seemed to hang almost solitary in that patch of darkness.
"In our latitudes, Naia is our best friend. Her height above the horizon tells us our latitude—how far north or south we are." Teren gently adjusted the sextant's index arm and handed it back. "Look through the eyepiece. I've set it roughly—tell me what you see."
Kelan peered through and saw two images: one of the North Star near the center, and another of the horizon line, as if reflected by a mirror. As he moved the instrument slightly, the star image moved up and down relative to the horizon.
"We align the star with the horizon in the sextant's mirrors," Teren explained. "Go on, turn the knob slowly until the star just touches the horizon in the view."
Kelan followed the instruction, carefully twirling the micrometer knob. The star's tiny pinprick of light slid down in the field of view until it seemed to sit right on the line of the horizon.
"Got it," Kelan said softly, holding his breath to keep the instrument steady.
Teren leaned in and glanced at the sextant's scale under the moonbox lantern he had hung on the rail. "Good. That angle is about... let's see... 25 degrees and some minutes. That means we're roughly at 25 degrees north latitude by Naia's measure."
Kelan frowned slightly. "What does that mean exactly?"
The first mate smiled. "Latitude is how far north or south you are from the equator. Zero at the equator, ninety at the pole. Each degree is about 60 nautical miles. We started around 33 degrees north back in Rhovan. Now at 25, we've gone quite a bit south. Auristaz's main city sits around 18 degrees north, give or take, so this sounds about right for our progress."
Kelan marveled. "Just by measuring that angle, you can tell that?"
"Aye. As long as you know the date and time as well, you can use different stars or the sun. But Naia's the simplest at night in the northern hemisphere—always gives you your latitude."
He withdrew the sextant from Kelan gently and placed it aside. "Now, that's only one piece of the puzzle. Knowing how far north or south is good, but what about east-west? That's trickier—longitude requires precise time or other methods. We rely mostly on dead reckoning for that."
"Dead reckoning?" Kelan recalled hearing the term.
Teren motioned for Kelan to follow him toward the quarterdeck, where a low lantern illuminated a small navigation table built into the railing. Unrolling a chart that was secured with brass clamps, Teren pointed at their penciled course line across a blue expanse. "Dead reckoning is how we estimate our position day by day when we can't get a direct reading. We track three things constantly: our compass heading, our speed, and the time we've maintained each course. With those, we plot our progress on the chart."
He tapped a neat notation on the chart that read "Day 10, 8 bells: 24°50' N, 57°10' W (DR)". "For example, here's our dead reckoning position at sunset. We had been sailing nearly due south (that's 180° on the compass) at about 6 knots for the past four hours, then we turned east-southeast after sighting that island Rhovanthis."
Kelan saw tiny arrows and numbers marking these changes on the penciled line. "And the stars—like just now with Naia—let you correct that?"
"Exactly," Teren said. "When we get a star sight or a noon sun sight, it gives us a more exact fix for latitude. We adjust our estimated position if needed. Longitude—east-west—we can only estimate by dead reckoning unless we do lunar distance or if one of those fancy chronometers is aboard, which we haven't got. Captain's talking of getting one next year, though."
Kelan absorbed all this, fascinated. The mix of cosmic observation and arithmetic appealed to him. It was like turning the poetry of the heavens into the prose of numbers on a page—a transformation of wonder into something practical. Stars above, numbers below.
He looked up again at the sparkling sky. A streak of light darted across—perhaps a falling star. Somewhere out there was the great ocean's other side and the continent that held Auristaz. Yet here, in the middle of nowhere, humans could pinpoint their location with bits of knotted rope, grains of sand...with bits of knotted rope and grains of sand. As if to illustrate that very point, Teren signaled to a crewman at the stern.
"Time to take a speed reading. Ready the log!" he called.
In response, a sailor at the taffrail took up a coil of thin rope. At the end of the rope was a small triangular piece of wood—the log. Knots were tied in the rope at uniform intervals. Kelan watched with keen interest as the sailor tossed the wooden log over the stern into the sea. It trailed behind, unspooling the rope rapidly. The first mate handed Kelan a small sandglass—an hourglass timer of brief duration—already turned so that sand trickled within. "When I say mark, invert it," Teren instructed.
Kelan stood by, heart thumping slightly at being part of this seaman's ritual. Teren waited a few heartbeats, watching the rope play out, then said sharply, "Mark!"
Kelan flipped the sandglass, and the fine sand within began slipping through the narrow waist. The sailor holding the rope braced it lightly, letting it run freely but keeping slight tension. As the last grains were about to run out, Teren raised a hand. "Stop!"
The sailor instantly grabbed the rope, and another crewman clamped it. They began hauling the log back in, hand over hand. Teren took the sandglass from Kelan and peered at the rope. Three full knots and part of a fourth had run out during the timed interval.
"Three and a half knots," Teren declared. Indeed, each knot in the rope represented one nautical mile per hour of speed—hence the very term knots for measuring speed at sea. "That matches our estimate from the sails and wind." He shot Kelan a proud look. "You handled that well."
Kelan felt a small swell of pride at being included in the task. He realized he'd just helped measure the ship's speed in the age-old way: a bit of floating wood, a rope, and a sandglass measuring an interval of time for ship speed. Stars above to guide direction, numbers below to mark progress—order amidst the mystery.
"Thank you, Mr. Teren," he said earnestly. "For teaching me. It's remarkable how it all comes together."
Teren chuckled. "Aye, navigation is as much art as science. Many a young sailor finds poetry in it. Me, I find comfort—there's logic to follow even when the sea seems chaotic." He rolled up the chart and capped the inkwell on the navigation table. "You've a sharp mind and genuine curiosity, lad. You remind me of myself, pestering the old navigator with questions when I was green." He clapped Kelan's shoulder lightly. "Now off with you. This old salt still has a watch to stand. You should catch some rest."
Kelan realized fatigue was tugging at him, but his mind buzzed with everything he'd learned. "Yes, sir. Good night."
As he made his way back towards the hatch, Kelan paused for one more glance upward. The North Star twinkled steadily, and the band of the Milky Way stretched like a gauzy ribbon. These were the same stars that shone over his home and over Auristaz alike. The thought gave him a strange sense of continuity—that no matter how far he traveled, there were constants he could orient himself by, be they stars or principles.
Cradling that comfort, Kelan descended to his cabin. He slid into his hammock, which swayed gently with the ship's motion. His head was full of constellations and calculations, but also a budding confidence. If he could grasp a bit of the mariner's craft in a few nights, perhaps he could likewise master the disciplines of the Mind Touch in time.
In the darkness, Kelan closed his eyes and let the rhythm of the sea ease him. He imagined his mind as a ship sailing through a vast ocean of thoughts, needing both inspiration and method to reach its destination. Stars above, numbers below—wisdom and practice, dream and reality. He would need all of those to become what he was meant to be.
With that reassuring metaphor drifting in his thoughts, Kelan finally surrendered to sleep.
Chapter 19 – First Lesson in Stillness
Sunlight filtered through the small round porthole of Kelan's cabin, painting a golden circle on the wooden wall. The Sea Falcon rocked gently in a mild swell. It was mid-morning, and the sounds of the crew's routine work drifted through the ship—footsteps overhead, the distant call of the bosun, gulls crying out over the masts.
Kelan sat cross-legged on a folded blanket on the floor of his cabin, his back against the bunk's wooden frame. He was attempting to meditate, as he had begun doing each morning since Captain Cressa's gentle urging a few days prior. He focused on his breath: a slow inhale, then a measured exhale. His eyes were half-closed, his hands resting loosely on his knees.
"Be still… be still…" he murmured to himself, echoing the simple instruction Captain Cressa had given him at dawn. She had found him restless on deck at sunrise—his mind still churning with the excitement of last night's navigation lesson—and had suggested they practice a brief exercise in stillness before the day's duties.
"To the mind that is still, the whole universe surrenders," she had said quietly, quoting an old proverb. Kelan didn't know the origin of the saying, but the captain spoke it with such reverence that it settled in him like a stone dropping into a pond, sending ripples of calm. She then guided him: "Sit comfortably, close your eyes, and breathe. Let your thoughts flow past like clouds; do not chase them."
Now Kelan was trying earnestly to follow that guidance on his own. He inhaled deeply through his nose, drawing in the slightly tarry smell of the ship's timbers mixed with salt air. For a few moments, his mind cleared. He noted the coolness of the air entering, the warmth leaving. A faint creaking of a nearby bulkhead became just another part of the symphony of the present, not a distraction.
On the exhale, he consciously relaxed his shoulders. He felt tension draining down, as if trickling off him and soaking into the wooden floor. With each breath cycle, he focused only on that action, observing the way his chest rose and fell, how the fabric of his shirt brushed against his skin with the movement. When a stray thought tried to intrude—I wonder what's for lunch?—he acknowledged it and let it drift away, refocusing on breathing.
At times, a wave from outside would jostle the ship, and his body would sway. Instead of resisting, Kelan tried to let himself move with it, maintaining balance without breaking his inward concentration. The first couple of times, his heart skipped with distraction, but soon it too became part of the experience: the world moving, him remaining centered.
After several minutes, Kelan realized a profound quiet had settled in his mind. The usual babble of thoughts, plans, worries, and memories had slowed to a near standstill. The sensation was akin to standing in a still pool of water after fighting a current—peaceful and oddly powerful. In that quiet, he became aware of subtler things: the sound of his own heartbeat, the whisper of air through his nostrils, the gentle warmth glowing at the core of his being. It was as if by silencing the superficial noise, he could suddenly hear the background music of existence.
Unbidden, a gentle feeling welled up—something like contentment or gratitude. Kelan's lips curved in a slight smile. He realized this was what Master Elian back in Rhovan had meant by "the state of restful awareness." Elian had tried to teach him in their few sessions, but Kelan had never quite reached it amidst the anxieties of leaving home. Here and now, on a ship far out at sea, he touched it at last: a state where he was fully present, neither drowsy nor agitated, simply aware and at ease.
He wasn't sure how long he stayed in that state—perhaps only a minute or two, perhaps longer. Time felt unimportant. Eventually, a sharp burst of laughter from a sailor on the deck above broke through, and Kelan's everyday consciousness returned. He blinked, realizing the sun-spot on the wall had shifted with the morning's advance. His legs were a bit stiff from sitting, but otherwise he felt remarkably refreshed.
Kelan stood and stretched, marveling at how clear his mind was. The slight headache he'd woken with (a result of too little sleep and too much late-night thinking) was completely gone. In its place was a calm focus.
He stepped out of his cabin and onto the main deck. The day was bright and nearly cloudless. Crew members bustled about their tasks: a pair scrubbing the starboard rail, some others patching a small tear in a sail. The usual morning hubbub was underway. Yet to Kelan, it all seemed a touch less chaotic than usual, as if his inner stillness made him observe the activity with a calmer eye.
Captain Cressa was up near the bow speaking with the first mate. Kelan approached, waiting politely for a lull in their conversation. When Cressa caught sight of him, she greeted him with a smile. "Good morning, Kelan. You look well." Perhaps she noted something different in his demeanor.
"Good morning, Captain," he replied. "I… took your advice earlier. I spent some time in stillness." He wasn't sure why he felt slightly shy saying it; perhaps because the experience felt personal and new.
Her smile widened, crinkling the corners of her sea-grey eyes. "Ah, I can tell. You've a bit of calm about you now. Wear it like armor—this world will try to disturb it soon enough." She said this half in jest, half in earnest warning.
She was right, of course. Just then, a shout rang out from the midships: "Heads up! Swinging the spar!" Kelan and the captain instinctively ducked as a long wooden yard being moved swung by, carried by four crew. It narrowly missed clipping an inattentive sailor who yelped and jumped aside, drawing a round of chuckles.
Captain Cressa shook her head with a wry grin. "See what I mean? Peace lasts only so long on a working ship."
Kelan laughed lightly. But indeed, he noticed he didn't feel as startled or irritated by the sudden interruption as he might have a week ago. He felt…steady.
"Captain," Kelan ventured, emboldened by her good mood, "back in Rhovan, Master Elian taught me a little about quieting the mind, but I never truly got it until now. Did you… did you learn these practices as well? You seem very familiar with them."
Cressa leaned on the railing, looking out at the blue expanse of water. "When I was a young officer, barely older than you, I had quite a temper and a restless mind," she said after a moment. "Not uncommon for youth. An Auristazi navigator I served with taught me some meditation techniques to help me focus—he was actually a retired Lyceum scholar. At the time I thought it nonsense, but…" She shrugged. "Let's just say long voyages offer plenty of time to practice. It did me a world of good. Over the years, I refined those practices in my own way."
She turned back to him. "So no, I'm no adept in Mind Touch as you will be, but I know the value of a still mind. I suspect you'll find that foundation will support everything else you build at the Lyceum."
Kelan absorbed that. It made sense; controlling one's mind would be crucial to using powers of the mind.
Just then, First Mate Teren approached with a clipboard of parchment. "Pardon, Captain. The daily log figures, when you're ready."
Cressa nodded and took the clipboard. As Teren moved off a pace, she gave Kelan a quick pat on the arm. "Well done this morning. Keep it up each day. Now, duty calls."
"Thank you, Captain," Kelan replied, stepping back to let her and the mate work.
He felt buoyant as he went about his own small duties—coiling stray lines and helping swab the deck after lunch. When occasional irritations arose, like a stubborn knot or a sailor's curt remark, Kelan found himself breathing deeply instead of reacting, and the annoyance passed like a cloud from the sun.
His first lesson in stillness had taken root. It was a humble beginning, perhaps, but an essential one. Each time he found that quiet center, he felt the Mind Touch within him respond, like a flame steadying in a glass lantern. He could almost sense that the mental exercises were strengthening some inner muscle, preparing him for greater control and awareness.
By evening, as Kelan stood at the stern watching the sun melt into the ocean, he repeated the proverb under his breath: "To the mind that is still, the whole universe surrenders." It certainly felt a bit like that now—the horizon glowed with orange and pink, and above, the first stars began to wink into being, reflected in his calm eyes. In that moment, with a still mind and full heart, Kelan felt in tune with the universe around him. And he was ready for whatever new lessons the coming days would bring.
Chapter 20 – Potato Peels and Philosophy
Late afternoon sunlight slanted through the galley's open hatch, illuminating motes of dust and the steam rising from a large boiling pot. Kelan sat on a low stool in the ship's kitchen, a potato in one hand and a small knife in the other, diligently peeling. At his feet lay a growing pile of brown potato skins curling like parchment shavings. The homey scent of boiling tubers and onions filled the confined space, tinged occasionally by the sharper aroma of pepper and coriander from the spice rack.
Across from Kelan sat Old Sella, the ship's cook—a stout woman in her fifties with strong arms and a perpetual squint. They both rocked gently with the ship's motion as they worked. Sella was slicing carrots with quick, practiced motions. Every so often, she cast a critical eye at Kelan's potatoes. "Don't take off half the potato with the skin, lad," she chided kindly. "You're not carving a statue. Like this—" She demonstrated on one of Kelan's partially mangled potatoes, paring it efficiently.
Kelan chuckled. "I'm trying, Sella. In my defense, I haven't peeled many potatoes in my life."
It was true; as the son of a cooper in Rhovan, he'd helped his family with plenty of chores, but cooking had not been one of his duties. Still, he'd volunteered for galley help today, partly to repay the cook for her delicious meals and partly because he found the kitchen a cozy refuge for contemplation. There was something grounding about doing simple manual tasks.
Sella snorted. "Well, you peel enough on this voyage and you'll become an expert. Useful skill for a young man on his own." Despite her rough tone, Kelan knew she was fond of him. Over the past weeks, she had often slipped him an extra biscuit or the choicest bit of stew meat, calling him "growing boy" as justification.
Kelan trimmed his current potato more carefully, trying to mimic Sella's technique. Outside the galley door, the sound of evening sea shanties drifted in as some off-duty sailors began their nightly leisure. The rhythmic thumping of feet on deck above indicated a dance had started. The upbeat mood was contagious; Kelan found himself humming as he worked.
On a cluttered shelf nearby, glass jars of spices rattled softly with the ship's sway. He glanced at them curiously—there was cumin, and turmeric, and one labeled "star anise" containing strange star-shaped pods. The fragrances mingled in the warm air. "Those spices," he began conversationally, "they smell wonderful. Did they come from Auristaz?"
Sella looked up and grinned, showing a missing tooth. "Aye, most of 'em. Pepper, cinnamon, ginger… Auristaz ports get spices from all over. See that jar of cloves? Came from islands far to the south of Auristaz. Expensive, those." She wagged a finger. "You handle that jar with care if you pass it; worth more than your week's wages, I'd bet."
Kelan's eyes widened. Such tiny dark nails of spice, so valuable? "Really? Cloves are that expensive?"
The cook nodded sagely. "Not as dear as they once were, but still not cheap. There was a time only kings and queens could afford a handful. Now at least merchant sailors like us get to taste some in our food on special days."
Kelan remembered stories of the spice trade back in his history lessons. "Back in medieval times, spices were among the most valuable goods in the world, weren't they? I recall reading that marketplaces of old Europe were redolent of cinnamon, clove, nutmeg, ginger, pepper, all those, now that they had come in along trade routes."
Sella raised her brows in surprise at his scholarly turn of phrase. "Hah! Listen to you. You sound like a learned scribe." She chuckled. "But you're right. Spices have driven men mad with greed and longing. Wars fought, voyages of discovery launched, all for a taste of the exotic."
She tossed her sliced carrots into a bowl. "I've seen a spice bazaar in Auristaz once, long ago. It was a riot of color and smell. Sacks of saffron and cardamom and chili, piles of dried herbs. The air was so thick with aroma it made my head spin—sneeze, too, when a barrel of pepper got opened!" She laughed at the memory.
Kelan smiled, imagining it. "I hope I can visit one of those markets when we arrive. I'd like to send some spices back home to my parents. Something rare that they'd never have tried."
Sella's face softened. "That's a fine idea, lad. A pinch of true cinnamon or a bundle of vanilla pods, perhaps. Good gifts that don't take much space."
They fell silent for a bit, focused on their tasks. The only sounds were the scrape of Kelan's knife on potato skin and the chop chop of Sella's knife through vegetables, accompanied by the gentle burble of the stew pot. Outside, the sailors' singing had shifted to a slower, soulful tune now wafting below decks.
The quiet and the repetitive work invited reflection. Kelan found himself thinking about how different life was aboard compared to his home. Each day here had a tangible purpose: steer the ship, cook the meals, maintain the vessel. In Rhovan, he'd often felt directionless, his mind wandering to daydreams rather than focusing on his father's craft.
"Does the work ever get boring to you, Sella?" he asked suddenly. "Doing the same cooking each day, at sea for weeks?"
She paused her chopping, considering the question. "Some might think so. But I've been sailing for thirty years, cooking nearly every day, and I rarely tire of it." She wiped her broad brow with a rag. "There's a rhythm to it. And freedom too. No two days' meals are exactly alike if you pay attention. One day the flour's a bit different, or I invent a new sauce from the scraps I have. The fish stew tonight," she gestured to the pot, "has a bit of that dried lemon rind Captain had. Never tried that before. Might be awful, might be brilliant."
Kelan appreciated her perspective. She continued, "Also, I see the smiles on the crew when they eat. They work hard out there; a hot meal is what keeps 'em going. That makes it worth it. It's like…like tending a garden. The plants might not thank you in words, but the bloom and fruit show their thanks."
He nodded slowly, peeling another potato as he mulled that over. "I think I understand. My father is a cooper—barrel-maker. He once told me he takes pride in every barrel being sound and sturdy, even if to others one barrel is just like the next. He said knowing that his workmanship might keep someone's ale safe in a voyage or their roof supported in a storm made him feel part of something larger."
Sella gave an approving grunt. "Your father sounds a wise man."
After a moment she added with a sly glance, "So that's where you got your way with words. A cooper's son, eh? Guess that's better than a prince; at least you know what honest work is."
Kelan laughed. "My back certainly knows. Many a day I spent hauling staves and hammering hoops in his workshop."
They shared a comfortable silence once more. The pile of peeled potatoes was now sufficient. Sella gathered them and dumped them into the pot with a splash. The stew hissed and settled into a rolling simmer. The cook sprinkled a palmful of salt and stirred with a long wooden spoon, then motioned for Kelan to lean in.
"Here," she said, offering him the spoon after drawing some stew up. "Tell me what you think. Enough salt? Too much pepper?"
Kelan carefully sipped the offered taste. The broth was rich and hearty, with a warming hint of spice. He detected the citrus note of lemon rind and a gentle heat from pepper. "It's delicious," he pronounced. "Maybe a bit more salt? But the flavor is wonderful—savory, with a little tang."
Sella nodded and tossed in another pinch of salt. "Good tongue. You'll make a fine cook for yourself one day, mind you."
He handed the spoon back, pleased. "If the whole mind-magic thing doesn't work out, I'll open a tavern, perhaps," he joked.
Sella chuckled, then turned thoughtful as she covered the pot. "This 'Mind Touch' of yours… what do you hope to do with it, lad? If you don't mind me asking."
Kelan set down his knife, considering the question that had nipped at his own mind often. "I'm not entirely sure," he admitted. "I know I can sense feelings, maybe even surface thoughts sometimes, though I've tried not to intrude. I might be able to communicate mind-to-mind if I train, or help heal emotional hurts, or detect truth from lie... There are many possibilities. Part of me worries about using it wrongly. Part of me is excited to use it to help people—perhaps to advise leaders or mediate conflicts, or heal trauma."
He paused, tracing a finger along a groove in the wooden table. "Honestly, I just know I have this gift for a reason. It feels like a responsibility. I want to use it honorably, like for something good. But what form that takes, I guess I'll learn in time."
Sella listened quietly, her rough hands now still. She nodded sagely. "That's a sensible view. A tool's purpose often becomes clear in the using, not before. A knife can carve art or cut throats—depends on the hand and heart behind it." She gave him a shrewd look. "Your heart's good. I've seen you these weeks—quick to help, humble enough to peel spuds with an old woman, and you don't carry cruelty in your eyes. Whatever the high learned ones at the Lyceum teach you, I suspect you'll use it well."
Warmth bloomed in Kelan's chest at her words. He respected Sella, and her affirmation meant a lot. "Thank you, Sella," he said softly. "I… I'll try to live up to that."
She waved a hand as if brushing off a compliment, but she was smiling. "Oh, I'm just a cook, what do I know? But mark my words, young Kelan: stay humble and curious, like you are now, and you'll do fine. It's those who think themselves grand or think they know it all that end up in trouble—be it at sea or anywhere."
Kelan recalled Master Elian saying something similar: Arrogance clouds the mind's eye. It was heartening and a bit uncanny how the simplest wisdoms repeated across different people in his life.
From above decks there came a whoop of laughter and applause—likely the end of the shanty dance. The sun was nearing the horizon; soon it would be dinner time for the crew.
Sella stood with a faint groan (her knees, she often complained, were not what they used to be). Kelan stood too, helping her fetch bowls and utensils. As she busied herself ladling stew into a big serving tureen, she suddenly said, "You know, life's strange… Here we are, talking about great plans and deep philosophies, all while peeling potatoes. Who'd think such heavy talk could go with such a mundane chore?"
Kelan laughed. "Perhaps it's easier to ponder life's mysteries when your hands are occupied with simple tasks. Makes the thinking part feel more natural."
The cook nodded. "Aye. Many a truth I've realized while kneading dough or scrubbing a pan. There's something about honest labor that clears the head." She gave him a sideways glance. "So don't go thinking you're above all that because you've a fancy mind gift. Sometimes the best thing a troubled mind can do is chop wood or, indeed, peel potatoes."
"I'll remember that," Kelan said, tucking the insight away. He suspected that at the Lyceum, amid intense study of the mind, he might do well to recall these humble lessons. If overwhelmed, he might find solace in mundane tasks or recalling the earthy wisdom of people like Sella.
They carried the heavy tureen of stew together through the narrow passage toward the mess deck. The savory aroma preceded them, and already a line of hungry sailors was forming with bowls in hand, laughing and joshing each other in anticipation of the hot meal.
Kelan helped Sella serve. As each crew member came by, she gave a generous ladle of stew and often a witty remark. Kelan followed with the bread loaf, slicing off thick crusty pieces to accompany the stew.
"Mind the cloves, Davin, don't crack a tooth!" Sella teased one sailor, who retorted, "Worth it if it tastes as good as it smells, Ma Sella."
When Kelan served the first mate, Teren, the man nodded in thanks and commented to Kelan, "You've been busy down here, I see. This stew has your handiwork in it?"
Kelan grinned. "Some of my peeling, yes. The excellence is all Sella's doing, though."
Teren slurped a quick sample from his bowl and gave an exaggerated sigh of delight. "Outstanding as always. You're learning from the best, lad."
As the crew scattered to eat, Kelan finally filled a bowl for himself and sat on a bench in a corner of the mess. He ate slowly, savoring each bite. The stew was hearty, with tender chunks of fish and vegetables, and every so often a burst of that lemon and spice that made it far more flavorful than the bland fare he'd expected at sea.
Listening to the sailors chatter around him about trivial daily concerns—weather, a lucky hand in cards, a seagull that stole a bit of rigging—Kelan realized something. In peeling potatoes and talking with Sella, he had found not only companionship but insight. The simplest of activities had yielded nuggets of philosophy. And perhaps that was one of the quiet secrets of life: wisdom isn't always found in grand libraries or lofty debates alone, but also in kitchens and workshops, in the repetitive, honest tasks that make up daily living.
He finished his stew and mopped the bowl with bread, stomach full and heart content. As he stood to help with cleanup, Kelan felt more connected than ever to the people around him—these sailors, the humble cook, even the family he had left behind. Different as their paths were, they all partook in the same fundamental human rhythm of work, nourishment, and reflection.
In that sense, peeling a potato and pondering one's purpose were not so unrelated after all. Both could feed you—one the body, and the other the soul.