Chapter Four
“I’m worried.”
Lewis’s quiet voice startles me out of a daze. He stretches his lanky limbs, his straight, dirty-blond hair creeping into his tawny eyes, and for a moment, I feel as if I’m looking at Owen—only, by eighteen, Owen already looked so much older than Lewis does now, a consequence of the burden Owen shouldered as the oldest of seven.
Lewis is a year older than I am, but he has always carried himself as if he were the eldest sibling—more controlled than the rest of us, more patient. He appears so at ease that if it weren’t for the deafening roar of the tracks as we barrel across the countryside, or his clean white shirt and plain black trousers, I would think we were back on the Lightbringer . Despite the strange sensation of hurtling through the air in a cramped compartment, left to wonder what will become of us when we get where we’re going, Lewis seems indifferent to his new surroundings. He doesn’t even flinch when the train jolts, nearly throwing him from his seat.
He’s a good liar , I remind myself. He’s hiding it well, but I am his sister, and he cannot conceal his grief from me. By the way he rubs at the bare, tattooed skin of his wrist, the host of rings that once bejeweled his every knuckle gone, he looks just as lost as I feel.
Lewis jerks his chin at Margaret in the row across from us. “I think she might eat her fingers before the Nightweavers can.”
Margaret gnaws at her cuticles, glaring at the compartment door. Two Nightweavers took Charlie to what they called an ambulance car, where they could remove the bullet safely and begin healing his wound. Margaret, a gifted surgeon in her own right, hasn’t been able to sit still since we boarded. And she isn’t the only one.
Father fidgets in his seat, his mouth pressed in a grim line. Mother places a comforting hand over his, but her face is drawn as the landscape whirs past, a blur of rolling green hills and thick, overgrown woods. Across from them, Elsie consoles Albert, who, despite being three years her senior, has always relied on his brave little sister for comfort.
“We never should have let him go,” Margaret grumbles, nibbling at her thumb.
I want to say something, anything, to calm her, but nothing comes. Before we boarded the train, the Nightweaver boy took the time to heal the raw skin at each of our wrists and ankles. He even straightened Albert’s leg with a mere wave of his hand. But just because the boy made sure we were all in working condition doesn’t mean the Nightweavers aren’t hacking away at Charlie as we speak.
I grit my teeth at an image of the Nightweavers in their luxurious dining car, picking Charlie’s flesh to the bone. She’s right—we never should have let him go. But as they carried away Charlie, there was nothing we could do. We are not in chains, but we are still prisoners. We were shown mercy once, when we boarded this train as a family, and every pirate knows that mercy is never free. We’ve yet to learn the young lord’s intentions behind buying all eight of us out of a prison sentence—or worse—and I can’t help wondering if he isn’t getting more than he’s given.
“Miss,” says a Nightweaver in a blue uniform.
I didn’t hear him enter our car. Focus. Keep it together. Don’t let him see your fear.
“Lord Castor has requested your presence.” The officer’s hand lingers on his saber, his shoulders tense, his eyes alert. There’s only the seven of us here at the back of the train, seated on weathered, dusty pews, but he acts as if he were standing on a battlefield.
I fix a cold stare on him, relaxing my face so that he can’t see beyond the apathy that glazes my eyes. “Request denied.”
The officer clears his throat, tightening his grip on the saber. “Lord Castor won’t take no for an answer.”
“And yet, that’s all he’ll get.”
His throat bobs, and he withdraws the saber halfway. Sweat rolls down his cheek, and I understand: He isn’t afraid of us, he’s afraid of returning empty-handed. “He’s instructed me to escort you, miss.”
I stand abruptly, squaring against him. But instead of putting a saber to my neck, he cowers, his knuckles paling around the hilt. A smile tugs at my lips.
“And how did he think you were going to accomplish that without force?” I cut my eyes at his saber. “He did tell you not to use that, didn’t he?” I take a step toward him, and he takes another step back, nearly tripping over his own feet.
His cheeks flush. Apparently, his contempt for me is not enough to override his fear of Lord Castor. Officers on this train must not be accustomed to negotiating with pirates, and it shows in the way he sneers, his face a bright shade of pink. “Listen here, you filthy—”
Lewis is on his feet in an instant, a split piece of wood clutched in his fist. He aims the sharp, jagged end at the officer’s throat. “Something you’d like to say?”
The officer blanches. “P-please,” he stutters. “He’ll kill me.”
“Let him,” Lewis growls, passing the chipped sliver of wood to me. I didn’t notice when he broke off a piece of the pew. Clever , I think. Why didn’t I think of that?
I keep the jagged end pointed at the officer’s throat. “Why me?”
“He didn’t say.” He glances over my shoulder at Lewis, then down at the sliver of wood. “Please, if I don’t—”
“I know.” I cut him off. “There’ll be one less officer on this train. What makes you so sure I won’t take care of that part for him?”
He gulps. “Miss—”
“See what he wants.” Mother lowers my arm. Gently, she takes the sliver of wood from my hand. “If he’d wanted to harm us, he would have.”
Mother—always the voice of reason. Father has often said her penchant for diplomacy—and his lack of it—is why he surrendered the captaincy to her after she gave birth to Elsie.
Without a word, I shoulder past the officer toward the compartment door. I already disobeyed enough orders from my captain, and I don’t feel like arguing with her. Not when we haven’t spoken a word about Owen or the Lightbringer or the truth of the Nightweavers’ appearance since our reunion. Besides, she has a point. I’d rather get some answers than stay here and watch Margaret chew her hand down to a stub.
Lewis grabs my hand, his brows furrowed. “I’ll come with you.”
The officer starts, “Lord Castor specifically asked—”
“I’ll be fine, Lew.” I give my brother’s hand a squeeze, offering him a reassuring smile too weak to be convincing. I don’t look back as the officer straightens his uniform and opens the compartment door. I grit my teeth and follow him willingly into the throng of bloodthirsty Nightweavers, with nowhere to run and no way to fight.
I will not let them take me.
I pass one scowling face after another as the officer leads me down a narrow path between plush velvet chairs and white linen tablecloths, his head held high. Happy to be alive , I think.
I wish I felt the same.
My eyes drift to every plate. We kept chickens aboard the Lightbringer ; I know what their meat looks like, smells like. But the way they’ve prepared it is unlike any way Father would ever have been able. We had limited provisions at sea, but there were times when we made port along the Cutthroat Coast and Father would return with a basket of herbs and spices. Rosemary, thyme, sage, garlic powder, onion powder… my mouth waters, and I can’t help imagining how well-equipped their kitchen must be compared with our meager galley.
When we reach the far end of the dining car, I find the Nightweaver boy seated alone at a table, his chin resting on his bare fist, staring intently at the passing landscape as if he were seeking some answer in the branch of a tree or the slope of a hill. He no longer wears his cloak, but rather a sleek black suit and scarlet cravat. He furrows his brows at the officer as we approach.
“Did she put up much of a fight?”
The officer’s lip twitches, but he maintains a neutral expression. “No, my lord.”
The young lord cuts his eyes at me, smirks. “Not likely.” With a subtle nod, he dismisses the officer, who takes up post at the compartment door.
The Nightweaver boy gestures for me to sit.
I don’t.
“What do you want?” I demand, my arms crossed.
He clenches his jaw, but his frustration doesn’t seem to be with me. “This train is much too crowded for my taste.” He glares at the other passengers, but when he speaks to me, his voice is gentle. “Shall we dine alone?”
The clamor of conversation surges, and every head turns away, followed by the clanging of forks and the tinkling of glasses. The young lord folds his hands, apparently satisfied. He peers up at me from beneath thick, coal-dark lashes.
“I thought you might be hungry,” he says simply.
“And what of my family?” I ask, not bothering to keep my voice low. I know this isn’t what Mother meant by hearing him out, but I refuse to bow to his every whim while little Albert’s and Elsie’s stomachs ache with hunger.
“Provided for.”
Not likely. My eyes flit over the spread laid out on his table—buttered biscuits, fragrant cheeses, fresh fruit. Very well. I’ll hear what he has to say, and I’ll leave with full pockets.
I take my seat across from him, surveying the various jams—strawberry, raspberry, blackberry—and my heart twists. Owen would have loved this. I rub my bare wrist where our bracelets would have been, longing for the feel of braided leather.
Come with me.
If I had taken Captain Shade’s hand, I would never have seen any of this with my own eyes. I would never have known what the world could be like—at least, what it could be like for the Nightweavers.…
The young lord watches me, his head cocked. “You’re thinking of him.”
My cheeks flush. Can he read minds, too? “Thinking of whom?”
He dips his chin, his forehead creasing. “The one you lost.”
Oh. Owen … my throat tightens, and I seek out the young lord’s eyes—dark green, flecked with gold. Not red. Not like I was taught. “Your men took him from me.”
A frown tugs at his lips, and he dips his head regretfully. “Those were not my men. I was to oversee our journey to Hellion, but the order to attack your family’s ship came from the captain, not me.”
My eyes dart to a butter knife, and I let my hand wander, my fingers brushing the cool metal. His eyes follow my every movement, glittering with intrigue as I grip the knife, gently weighing it in my grasp. The captain might have ordered the attack, but Owen’s real killer—the shadow with the glowing red eyes—escaped. I can feel it, as surely as I can feel my own heartbeat drumming in my chest. It’s still out there, taunting me, practically begging me to give chase.
I have always found solace in the efficacy of a blade, no matter how small. But I cannot pierce shadow with blade. I cannot draw blood from that which bears no flesh.
I release the knife, but the weight of it remains. “And where is this captain now?”
The soft whisper of rain fills the silence between us. It trickles down the window, blurring the thick tangle of woods beyond the train. At sea, rain was both savior and warning. A storm was on the rise and we were to prepare for the worst, but if we were lucky and the Stars smiled down on us, we would have fresh water to drink. Now, as the engine chugs along with a lulling cadence, the rain is a comfort. Each drop brings with it the familiar kiss of the ocean—a reminder that I’ve not been forgotten. That the water has not abandoned me, even this far from its shore.
“Dead.” He motions for a servant to fill our empty wineglasses. “I killed him.”
My hands are numb as I grip the stem of my glass and bring it to my lips. Once a year, on the eve of Reckoning Day, we drink wine in celebration of our freedom, in remembrance of the blood our ancestors spilled so that we could be safe from the Nightweavers. The bitter taste causes my lips to pucker, but the warmth of it settles in my belly. I close my eyes, savoring the patter of rain as it beats against the window.
Dead. A shame. I would have liked to kill him myself.
When I open my eyes, the young lord is still watching me, as if he were trying to read my expression but finding it more of a challenge than he expected.
“You’re not what I thought you’d be,” he murmurs.
“I could say the same of you.”
His mouth quirks, and he looks away, searching again, as if the rain holds the answer to a question he’s long been asking.
“The monsters are real,” he says. “Monsters with sharp teeth.” His shrewd eyes find mine, and I wonder if he’s found his answer there. “Monsters with glowing red eyes.”
Something within me recoils. But it creeps forward in equal measure, like a secret burrowed deep, eager to be uncovered.
“We call them Underlings,” he goes on, but I can tell he senses the change in me—just as I notice the shift in his posture, the way he leans in, as if we are connected by some shared purpose. “For those of you born at sea, it seems the legends have us confused with them.”
I nod slowly, thinking back to all the stories I was told of Nightweavers. It seems as if Mother and Father would have known the difference between Nightweavers and the Underlings—Father spent enough time on the Cutthroat Coast to hear things, see things—but they let us believe anyway. Distrust breeds caution , Mother said. Caution keeps you alive.
“Some things are true, of course.” He takes a biscuit from the plate and dips his knife into a jar of raspberry jam. “Both our kind come from another realm: one above, one below. Both possess powers not of this world.” He spreads the jam with care, his eyes flitting up to mine. “Both seek to control.”
My fingers brush the serrated edge of a knife, and with my other hand, I lift the wineglass to sip. “Control what?”
He takes a bite, and the jam stains his lips like blood. “This realm, and everything in it.”
I think back to the stories Owen told me. The Nightweavers were sent here to punish humans for their greed. We tried to regain power, but the Nightweavers had abilities—a new kind of magic, it would seem—that we could not possess.
“Six hundred years ago, your kind— humans —opened a door that was meant to remain sealed.” He takes another small bite, chewing methodically. “You’ve no doubt heard of the Burning Lands?”
I picture the maps Owen used to agonize over, how he used to beg our parents to let him explore the land beyond the shore: the Burning Lands, bordered by Hellion on all sides, an uninhabited stretch of blackened earth. It’s said an earthquake split the barren landscape, and at the pit of the chasm, a fire rages that hasn’t died out in six hundred years.
“If that’s where the Underlings came from,” I say, “what about your kind?”
He takes a sip of wine, wets his lips. “We were sent here to eradicate them. Once holy beings from a higher realm—a glade hidden within another dimension. There we were immortal, blessed by the True King with gifts that granted us dominion over the elements, over Manan .”
Manan —the unseen. That which makes all things , my mother once said of the glittering, golden dust. Gurash-vedil , she called it—“the dust of creation.” Father used to tell us stories about human Sorcerers who controlled Manan to manipulate the wind and the waves. Others used Manan to set enemy ships ablaze, or to keep bountiful gardens aboard their vessel. It was always thought that the Sorcerers were not merely human, but rogue Nightweavers who had taken to the sea.
“When all was said and done, we were no longer pure—no longer holy.” Again, he looks out the window, intent on whatever it is he sees beyond the glass. Beyond the hills and the trees. Beyond time. “This world—the things we were required to do in the name of war—stripped us of our immortality, of our wings. We were cut off from our home, Elysia.”
The man seated at the table across from us wrinkles his nose with distaste. Sore subject , I note.
“We fought alongside the humans in the war against the Underlings.” The young lord looks at me now, as if he were seeing me for the first time, his head tilted, eyes keener than before. “But the humans turned on us. Craved our power. Eventually, they settled for the closest thing.”
I nod slowly. “The Underlings.”
He frowns. “Few humans who fight alongside the Underling armies remain. The rest fight for the Nightweavers who rule over them, and each kingdom in the Known World is represented in the League of Seven.”
“The League of Seven?”
“A united army, tasked with keeping the Underlings at bay. Those not stationed in the Burning Lands belong to internal forces, hunting the Underlings who manage to slip past the barricades.”
That same, unknown part of me burrows deeper. “Why are you telling me this?”
“I know what you saw.” He lowers his voice, and I lean in despite myself. He scans the dining car, a wariness about him that wasn’t there before. “You’re hunting an Underling—a kind we call a Sylk .”
“How do you—”
“I had my suspicions,” he interrupts. “There were signs that one of the men had been possessed in Hellion.”
Possessed. I knew it. The shadow possessed that Nightweaver aboard the Merryway , the one who slayed my brother. The Nightweaver’s body functioned as a host for the dark spirit, and when its host no longer served its purpose, the Sylk sought another victim to control. A host who could be on this very train, right now.
The young lord glances at my hand as I reach for a block of hard cheese. He’s attentive , I realize bitterly. All hope of stealing something for my family to eat is quashed.
Out of the corner of my eye, I see the officer approaching, his hands clasped behind his back. Bounding along behind him, I recognize the girl I found hiding aboard the Nightweaver ship, her long black ringlets splayed over a frilly red dress.
“Pardon me, my lord, but your sister—” the officer starts.
“ Annie ,” the young lord chides, waving away the officer. He grins at the little girl, lifts an eyebrow. “You’re supposed to stay in the cabin.”
She pouts, hands knit together. “Can I please go play?”
He tilts his head at me, a smirk playing on his lips. “My little sister has spent the past few weeks in the company of sailors,” he says. “I believe she’s caught word that you have siblings about her age.”
“Albert and Elsie?” I blink, not fully understanding.
“Please?” Annie grasps at the hem of my dress the way Elsie tugs at my arm when she wants something.
“I’m not sure if that’s—”
“I think it’s a wonderful idea.” He cuts me off, motioning for the officer. “Escort Lady Annie to the back of the train.”
The officer’s shoulders slump as he follows Annie skipping down the aisle toward the compartment door from which I entered.
“I meant to thank you,” the young lord says.
“Thank me?”
“You spared her life.”
“She’s a child .”
“She’s a Nightweaver ,” he counters, almost in a whisper. “You’ve known only fear and hatred for my kind. Yet, when you thought you found the Sylk, you didn’t strike her down.”
“It wasn’t her,” I murmur, staring at my reflection in the knife—dark circles under my eyes, sallow skin. A Sylk killed Owen. An Underling. “I tried to follow, but it was… gone.”
Gone. But still I feel it, like a presence hovering over my shoulder, whispering in my ear, Come and find me.…
He sits back rather suddenly, and I realize just how close we were. His shoulders lift, as if a burden has been removed.
“It’s not Annie.…,” he breathes, half to himself. He runs a hand through his curls, visibly relieved.
“You thought she was possessed?” I whisper.
He stares at the compartment door, brows pinched. “I wasn’t sure,” he admits.
“You can’t see them?”
He shakes his head. “And you shouldn’t be able to, either,” he whispers. “You’d be put to death if anyone knew.”
My stomach plummets. Before, I thought the Nightweavers wanted only to eat me—to kill without any valid reason. Now they have one.
“Why?” I barely manage the sound.
He surveys the dining car. When his gaze falls on me, it softens. “Your ability is thought to be part of a curse.”
Cursed. Phantom pain seizes my throat, like a noose pulled tight. Once, that word kept me safe from the torture others endured aboard the Deathwail . Then, I thought that was sailors’ superstition. But now…
“If I’m truly cursed, why would you…” Show mercy? The words stick in my throat. What reason could he possibly have for taking pity on a pirate he thinks to be cursed? Someone he has been taught to hate? Someone he should have put to death?
Mercy is never free , I remind myself. But what does he stand to gain? What price will I have to pay?
“I am no stranger to curses.” He looks about the dining car, speaking low. “My family is… different . I sent word ahead. We’d like to offer your family a home.”
I drag the serrated edge of the knife along the tablecloth, eyes narrowed. “In exchange for our service.”
“Precisely.”
“You don’t seem pleased.”
He quirks a brow. “Should I be?”
“You hold all the power,” I say. “We don’t really have a choice.”
“Ah, yes. I knew I was forgetting something.” He reaches into his coat pocket and withdraws the contract he purchased.
My heart skips a beat as he holds it over the open flame of the candle.
“If you stay,” he says, “you’ll be compensated. Or you can try to make your way back to the sea, only to be captured again. The choice is yours.”
I sink back into the chair, watching the last few scraps shrivel into ash. I rub my wrist where the fetters felt as if they cut through to the bone. He healed me. He saved Elsie; he kept us together. And now he’s given us back our freedom. What does he stand to gain?
“I do hope you’ll stay.” His glittering green eyes seek mine. “At least for a few days. If you still wish to leave after you see what life can be like at my family’s estate, our guards will not stop you. You have my word.”
I scowl, raising the wineglass with one hand, drawing away his attention, and with the other, I tuck the knife into my apron. “Why should I believe you?”
He follows the glass to my lips, his forehead creasing. “Because I’m telling you the truth.”
I snort, standing and turning to leave, but he grabs hold of my wrist. At our connection, a feeling of familiarity pulses through me. My breath hitches.
“You forgot something,” he says, cutting his eyes at my apron, where I hid the knife. He releases me to gesture at the table, but the feeling remains, full and rich, like honey flowing through my veins. “Take some food back to your family. Though I believe you’ll find they’ve been well looked after.”
I force myself to move, but I can’t shake the feeling that swept over me at his touch. Eyeing him suspiciously, I stuff a block of cheese, three biscuits, and a handful of crackers into my apron. The Nightweavers fall silent again, every eye in the dining car fixed on me with blatant disgust.
The young lord stands, and the couple closest to us flinches away. But he doesn’t pay them any mind. He wants them to see , I realize, as he takes me gently by the hand, and that same, overwhelming calm washes over me, dissolving all tension, soothing all fear. I don’t pull away when he presses his lips to my knuckles and the wave of calm floods through my hand, warm and pleasant.
He looks up at me, sparks of golden firelight dancing in his green eyes. “Forgive me, I haven’t asked for your name.”
Warmth bleeds into my cheeks. I didn’t notice his freckles before, but now I find myself counting them, trying to remember how to breathe. “You haven’t told me yours, either,” I say stupidly.
He smiles, showing perfect white teeth. “Will,” he says, somewhat self-consciously. “Just Will.”
“Not Lord William?”
He chuckles softly, his eyes crinkling. “Only to people I don’t particularly like.” His thumb brushes my knuckles, where the impression of his lips lingers. “And yours?”
My stomach flips, and I struggle to find my voice. “Aster.” I clear my throat, jerking my hand back from his grasp. “Just Aster.”
“Aster,” he echoes, his mouth quirking. He sinks into a deep bow. “A name fit for a—”
I don’t hear what he says next. The moment his eyes are obscured by the tangle of curls, I spin on my heels. I don’t look back even once I’ve reached the compartment door, but I feel his eyes on me. I picture them flickering with amusement after having looked up to find me already walking away.
When the door to the gangway closes behind me, the wind whipping at my hair, I glance down at my knuckles, where his lips left their bloodred stain. I clench my fist.
I will not let them take me.