Whisper of Waves

8

1 Mirtul, the Year of Shadows (1358 DR)

THE CITY OF MARSEMBER, CORMYR

Willem Korvan watched his mother sift through the stack of drawings, growing increasingly agitated with each glimpse of the contents of one sheet of parchment after another. Had they been drawn in her son’s precise, delicate hand, she would have felt quite differently. Instead, the drawings showed the unrestrained, almost careless, loose style of Ivar Devorast.

Willem knew she didn’t understand the contents of the drawings. She lingered over one that even she could see was reminiscent of a crossbow, though if the hastily sketched figure of a person standing next to it was drawn to scale, it would have to be a crossbow of mammoth proportions.

“Monstrous,” she whispered as she turned that one drawing to get a better look at it.

“Mother?” he said, startling her. “What … um … What are you doing there?”

She let the papers fall back into place on the table and turned to the open door, plastering a false smile on her face.

“Just cleaning up in Master Devorast’s room, my dear.”

“It’s not necessary for you to call him that, Mother,” he said.

She shrugged.

“He’s twenty-two years old, for goodness sake. If anything it would be … it would be Mister Devorast by now,” he said, leaning against the doorjamb. He looked at her without a trace of suspicion, though he should have noted that she held no rag or duster, no sign that she was cleaning the room. “I’m sure you can call him Ivar.”

Thurene nodded, reached out her hands to her son, and said, “Come, my dear.”

Smiling, he stepped forward into her embrace. Thurene kissed her son on the cheek, though she had to stand on her tiptoes, and he had to bend considerably at the waist to make that possible.

They pulled away from each other at the same time and Thurene said, “Old habits die hard, my dear. It was the appropriate form of address when we were first introduced, and well, I guess it just stuck. Besides, Mas-Mister Devorast never seemed to mind.”

Willem shrugged, his eyes drawn to the stack of drawings.

“Ivar doesn’t listen, anyway,” he said. “He probably hasn’t heard a word you’ve said since he moved in.”

Thurene’s smile faded, but Willem couldn’t help the look of undisguised admiration on his face as his eyes played over Devorast’s wild imaginings.

“They’re quite a mess, aren’t they?” she said, twisting her neck around in an severe way in hopes of drawing her son’s eyes from the paper. It didn’t work. “Nothing like the way he keeps his room. So clean, so … featureless. He’s the only boarder we’ve ever had who hasn’t put a moment’s thought into his decor.”

“I think you’ll find Ivar unconcerned with pretty well everything but his work,” Willem said. “He’s a very serious man, and it shows in his drawings.”

Thurene glanced down at the drawings and said, “But so messy.”

“Don’t confuse the hand with the intent, Mother,” said Willem. “The work he’s done while at the college is beyond any of the other students. He makes me look like a-”

“Don’t,” Thurene interrupted. “You are not in competition with this young man, with his wild drawings and mad ideas. Your potential … Well, I mustn’t beam.”

Willem chuckled and said, “You’re my mother. Beam if need be.”

Thurene touched his arm with real affection and turned him gently back toward the door. Together they left the spartan room and the drawings behind them.

“You will go farther than your friend Ivar, my dear,” Thurene said, holding her son’s arm as they walked out onto the narrow landing, “and I’m certain you will do better than your pitiful father. You will save us both. You will save your family name. I’ve never been more sure of anything. As long as you remain strong and make the best choices … The things you have-your face, your refined manner-you will leave that Ivar Devorast, that stoic, indecipherable, odd little-”

Willem stopped short, startling her again, and she appeared about to ask him what was the matter when she noticed Ivar Devorast standing on the staircase not three feet in front of them.

Willem’s face flushed and his heart sank. Surely Devorast had heard every word she’d said, and though his mother had no concern for Devorast’s feelings, Willem couldn’t bear the thought that she might have embarrassed herself and his friend.

“Master …” Thurene started, then her tongue seemed to twist in her mouth. She tried again with: “Mister … Duh-”

“Ivar,” Willem said, in an effort to come to her rescue, “there you are. I was hoping I’d run into you.”

Devorast stood perfectly still, both feet on one stair and looked at Willem, simply waiting for him to continue. The young man’s red hair was unkempt, his simple, unattractive clothing-a style popular in the Year of the Bow, Thurene enjoyed pointing out-were stained with charcoal and ink.

“You’ll be at the reception, I hope,” Willem said.

“Reception?” Thurene asked as if it was the first she’d heard of it.

“Yes,” Devorast answered, his deep voice at once aloof and commanding.

Willem nodded at Devorast, then looked down at Thurene and said, “The college is hosting a reception for the recent graduates. We were told to bring some samples of our work to show to some important people invited by the college. It could mean a placement for both of us, if all goes well.”

Thurene put a hand to her chest.

“Oh, Willem, my dear, that’s lovely,” she said, not bothering to keep the tiniest part of the excitement she felt from showing in both her voice and her face. “A placement. With the Court, perhaps?”

Willem chuckled again and said, “From your lips to Tymora’s ear, Mother. Perhaps the Court or perhaps a private concern. Fortifications and such for me, I hope, and likely a spot with a naval architect for Ivar here.”

Thurene’s excitement faded from her face when she turned to Devorast and said, “Ships, is it, then?”

Devorast nodded, but said nothing. He still hadn’t moved a muscle.

“Ivar’s designs for shipboard weapons are … are already attracting a great deal of attention,” said Willem. “If he brings the sketches he has in his room, well, he’ll place for sure.”

They both looked at Devorast for a reaction, but he gave them nothing but a glance at their feet. Willem realized a second before his mother did that they were standing at the top of the stairs, blocking Devorast’s way up, and all he wanted was for them to move.

They stepped aside and he passed to the door of his room where he stopped, turned to them, and said to Willem, “Knock when you’re ready to go.”

Willem nodded, and Devorast closed the door behind him.

“A placement,” Thurene said as she followed her son down the stairs. “Gold and position enough to keep the house without the parade of student boarders I’ve had to endure since your bumbling fool of a father died. Gold and position enough for anything.”

Willem felt a heaviness in his chest, as if someone was standing on the space above his heart.