964 – 978 ASF

Along with gambling, superstitious tales, and lynching riverbirds, another time-honored tradition of Rivonan culture is showboatsmanship—literally. Even to this day, watercraft are used as symbols of status and power. And Relga Craythe used this to great effect when she made her grand entrance into Rivonan society, sailing into Great Forks on a vessel she had built herself; one that could withstand the open waters of Lake Liron. In doing so, she spoke a language—made a statement—that turned the heads of everyone in the country.

Not everyone immediately believed she was the twenty-eight-year-old lost princess of Rogar Craythe, returned to claim her throne and lead her country in war. She had the looks, yes—the signature misty eyes, tumbling raven-black hair, and high cheekbones of the royal Craythe line—but the nobility demanded more evidence, to which she presented the royal signet of the late Kerraguard-Captain Harland. To seal her credibility, the White Crow stepped forward and affirmed the claims, revealing her conspiracy with Harland to keep Relga hidden.

Even as more believed in Relga, a solid core of the nobility resisted the idea of allowing a woman alone to rule. Writing from the year 1642 ASF, with many women of the world interspersed across many professions (I’m one of them!), it is easy to forget how society viewed and treated women up until Relga. Her actions (as we will soon see) spurned the wheels of change that slowly, over many generations, shifted minds and hearts to what they are today.

To those nobility who resisted, Relga asked them a simple question: who else? There were no other Craythes, no other descendants who had as strong a claim as she. And what had the nobility done, after the death of the last king? Squabbled amongst themselves, fought for scraps, looked out for none but their own, all while the Bear and Doe pressed further and further in at the borders? Each year their enemies pulled the noose tighter around Rivona—slow, patient, one calculated step at a time—until one day their armies would be at the walls of Great Forks. Again Relga asked: who else but she, with her lakefaring vessel and a plan to hunt the Bear and Doe and mount them on the wall?

Few could argue with this, or with the first step of her plan: to build a lakefaring fleet, blending her designs with those of Great Forks’ shipwrights. It was a gamble with Rivona’s dwindling resources, including Relga’s own crown. Indeed, she skipped out on her own coronation ceremony, choosing instead to pour the resources into more lakeships.

To crew her growing fleet, Relga welcomed anyone old and able enough to fight—even women, many of whom were inspired by the returned queen. Her forces bolstered and her ships manned, Relga sailed out into the open waters of Lake Liron, beyond the sight of land. Then, using the stars for guidance, she pointed her fleet northwest, towards the Khorven coastal city of Malvut. By doing so, she slipped past the bulk of Khorven’s army and the eyes of their scouts—so that when her lakeships landed, Malvut was caught by utter surprise. Relga was the first off the ships, leading her forces straight to the lord of the city. After butchering him, she looted the city for all its worth and then, before Khorven’s army could respond and retaliate, escaped back into the open waters where none could follow.

A thorough and undisputed victory for Relga—but a victory not unlike those of her ancestor, Rugon the Ruthless. The first king of Rivona had used a similar strategy with his revolutionary riverships of war, raiding and pillaging and withdrawing before ground forces could arrive. Now Relga was applying it on a grand scale—for good or ill. One thing was different, though: Relga was not fighting for glory, sport, or conquest. First and foremost, she went to war for the rivers and ravens, to protect the wilds that had formed her, nurtured her, raised her.

I understood Relga’s connection a bit better as the Conquest trundled up the Snakeshallows. The riverlands are home to many sounds: wind in the willows, the squawks of ravens and storks and everything in between, a chirping orchestra of toads and insects, among much else. But every now and then a fog would settle in, blanketing the sky, gathering between the trees, slipping into your every breath, and the riverlands would fall into an ominous silence. One that seemed to be watching. Listening. As if you spoke out to the riverlands, something might answer.

My chief suspicions weren’t with the riverlands, though. After Captain Meskani’s words yesterday, I began stealing glances at her—and the more I observed, the more I noticed strange behaviors. How she only entered or exited her cabin when she thought nobody was watching. How she yelled orders at everyone except her first mate, the Khorven man, whom she only spoke to with a low voice, often with a gesture towards her cabin. How, when we made a short stop at Crosswater, and guards came aboard to inspect the cargo for illegal goods, she hovered near the cabin, puffing frequently from her pipe.

Meskani was hiding something, I decided. And whatever it was, it was inside her cabin.

If the rest of the crew held suspicions, they didn’t show it. Instead, they spun the gossip wheel round and round, except now it was featuring more and more ghost stories and dark ales, what with nothing but wild, dark riverlands in all directions. Late at night, they spoke of Relga and the Raven, of course, but also of stories of murder, betrayal, and curses; of darker creatures that stalked the wilderness. Soon most of the crew were glancing twice over their shoulders, keeping the lights on, and whispering during the night hours. Myself included.

So you can imagine the unrest when Captain Meskani announced the herthe would be taking the route to Lone Fork—undoubtedly one of the most haunted waterways in Rivona. Even if you didn’t buy into the superstitions, one wrong turn could land you in the Lost Rivers, a graveyard of watercraft. But Meskani doubled down, saying that Lone Fork charged half the dock tax as Wetwood Cove. If they passed through that port, it would eat up all their profits. Lone Fork was their only option—and she’d kick any more fearmongerers off her ship.

I was no seasoned riverman, but this choice seemed…odd. More and more I wondered what was in Meskani’s cabin, and how it was affecting our course through the backwaters of Rivona.

But even these backwaters Relga wished to protect in her war against the Bear and the Doe. With her fleet of lakeships, she could strike along Khorven and Faela’s coasts without warning. With each victory, she poured the spoils of war back into her fleet and the defenses of Great Forks. With each victory, her fame and strength grew.

The Bear and Doe soon learned her tactics, moving their armies so that they could more quickly respond to Relga’s raids. But this played right into Relga’s hands. She, in turn, shifted her own tactics, sending ships manned by skeleton crews within eyesight of enemy ports. A feint. As Khorven and Faela rushed their armies to respond to the bait, Relga launched full-on ground assaults against the land they left behind—pieces of Rivona’s old borders. One by one, the queen reclaimed her country.

To Relga, this was all dizzying. Exhilarating. The power amassing around her was like the currents of Lake Liron—rising suddenly from deep below, propelling her upward, forward. But soon she grew used to the thrill. Craved it, even. Some legends go as far to claim Relga never once sat on her throne, so busy was she. Perhaps, however, it wasn’t the rush she craved, but the Rivonans that flocked to her. Relga surrounded herself with them at all times. She charged into battle with them, drank to their good health in feasting halls, and even pulled some into her bedchamber.

Was she simply seeking thrill and pleasure, or something deeper? Was she accounting for something missed in her childhood? Whatever it was, Relga hungered for it.

I couldn’t read anymore about Relga at this point. I needed to know what inside Captain Meskani’s cabin, and not just because of my traitorous curiosity. I had the creeping feeling something illicit was going on under the covers. Illegal goods, maybe? If Meskani was transporting something like Dreamer’s Powder and was caught, everyone on the ship would get locked up for life. I’d sooner throw myself off the ship and take my chances in the riverlands.

In this regard, the Captain’s choice to take the Lone Fork route proved useful. One night along that far-flung river, a heavy fog descended down upon us, submerging everything in muffling, prickly dark. The crew were shouting things about omens and curses, but I could hardly hear them. I couldn’t even see my own hand in front of my face. It was perfect. When the captain left her cabin, off to go shush her crew, I slipped over to the door under the cover of night and fog.

I had only planned to crack the door and peak inside. I did just this, but then my eyes caught movement along the side wall inside. Chains rattled from within. There was a muted grunt, the sound of someone trying to speak through a gag.

I pushed my way in and beheld what I assumed was the true cargo of the Conquest. A big man, his skin a splotchy pale blue and white, with antlers growing out of his skull. He was stripped to just his simple trousers, his arms and legs chained to the wall. Gagged and blindfolded, too.

I froze. Who was this? A wanted criminal? A prisoner? A slave?

Before I could determine an answer, the door to the cabin opened, and the wind blew in the smoke of the captain’s pipe.