21. Faith and Folly
Faith and Folly
T he harbour is a hive of activity, bustling with sailors unloading cargo, shouting dockworkers, and the sharp tang of brine in the air.
Beneath the noise, beneath the movement, a suffocating unease lingers as the same thought loops in all our minds.
Did the others survive the journey?
We move through the throng, our urgency at odds with the ordinary bustle of the port.
Each glance over a shoulder, each pause of hesitation, carries the weight of unasked questions.
We make our way to the inn where we were told to meet Alex.
The common room is noisy, filled with the hum of conversations and the clink of mugs.
Bran wastes no time approaching the innkeeper, a stout man with a sharp eye for newcomers .
“We’re looking for Alex Mumford,” Bran says, his voice steady despite the tension in his jaw. “He left word for us to meet him here.”
The innkeeper doesn’t answer right away. The world seems to slow, the din of the common room fading into a dull hum as we wait—each second stretching unbearably long. My breath catches in my throat, and though no one speaks, the weight of our shared fear presses down like a stone.
The innkeeper studies Bran, his expression unreadable, dragging the moment out further.
And then he exhales, leaning in slightly. “Mumford? Hmm, no’ sure,” he mutters. Then, quieter still, he recites: “Born in the West, yet I wander with ease… ”
Bran hesitates, the faintest flicker of something—relief, maybe—crossing his face before he responds. “ My laughter echoes on the salt-kissed seas. ” His voice is sure, but there’s an edge to it. A warning not to play games with us.
The man grunts in approval. “Yer da’s gone. Left word wi’ the harbourmaster, he did.”
Bran exhales, nodding. “Thanks.”
We step out of the inn, the noise behind us doing nothing to drown out the frustration boiling in the group.
“Sweet shite on a biscuit.” Bran paces, as his mind seems to race ahead.
“He’s just gone ?” Callan mutters, throwing his hands in the air.
Bran grunts. “Let’s go get answers before panicking.”
For the first time since we set foot in this harbour, something settles inside me—not entirely at peace, but steadier.
They made it.
That is all that matters right now.
We stride toward the harbourmaster’s office, but the man himself is barking orders at a group of dockworkers when Bran approaches. He stands tall, unaffected by the man’s sharp gaze. Their conversation is barely audible from where we wait.
“If ye’re here for a berth, ye’ll need to wait,” the man says to Bran, barely sparing him a glance.
“I’m not here for a berth,” Bran replies, his voice firm. “I’m looking for Alex Mumford. He left word for his son, Bran. ”
The harbourmaster pauses, then looks him over. “He did, did he?” Then the man clears his throat and gets close to Bran’s ear. Bran produces a compass from his pocket, which seems to satisfy whatever question he’d asked.
“He left instructions,” the harbourmaster says, gesturing toward his office. “Covered transport for you lot, and anything ye’d have wi’ ye. Also, left coin to see you through. Gave little else, but he seemed to know what he was about.”
“Where did he go?” Bran presses.
“Ireland,” the harbourmaster replies, narrowing his eyes. “Said yer paths would cross soon enough.”
Bran’s jaw tightens, but he nods. The harbourmaster hands him a small pouch of coin and a folded note. “Here. He left this, too.”
Bran returns with the note. One with his name scrawled on the front.
His fingers tremble slightly as he unfolds the letter, but the moment his eyes scan the words, his entire body sags with relief. His chest rises and falls in a heavy exhale, the tension that had coiled in his shoulders finally breaking.
For a second, he just stares at the letter, his knuckles tightening around the edges as if anchoring himself to the words before him.
“They’re all alive. All and well.” His voice, though thick with emotion, carries the weight of absolute certainty.
A breath I hadn’t realized I was holding escapes me, my limbs suddenly weak with the sheer force of relief. Finn lets out a quiet exhale beside me, and Callan rolls his shoulders, the tightness in his expression easing—but only slightly.
Bran lifts the letter slightly, his grip firm.
“My father did indeed leave for Ireland. It doesn’t say why, but I know he wouldn’t make an unnecessary decision.
” His expression hardens, his voice steady, decisive.
“But this changes nothing for us. We still need to forge forward. Our destination remains the same—we continue to Portugal.”
Callan’s eyes narrow. “That’s it? He just left ?”
“Do we even know it’s really from Alex?” I ask, stepping closer. “This could be a trap for all we know—anyone leaving us a message.”
Bran doesn’t flinch under the barrage of questions. Instead, he lifts the note, scanning it carefully. “He’ll have left something. Something only I can find.”
“And if that’s not the case?” Callan presses .
Bran doesn’t answer. He walks to the edge of the dock where the sunlight is strongest and holds the note up to the light.
For a moment, it looks like an ordinary scrap of paper, but as I step closer, I make out a faint wolf’s head, its features sharp.
Beneath it, four words glow faintly in the sunlight:
We endure, we prevail.
Bran exhales softly, folding the note with care. “That’s his mark. It’s him.”
Silence settles over the group, thick and uncertain. Callan crosses his arms, his expression hard. “And we’re just supposed to trust this?”
Bran turns to Finn suddenly, his gaze steady and direct. “Do you trust my judgment on this?”
Without hesitation, Finn meets his eyes and nods. “Aye, I do.”
Bran’s shoulders relax slightly, and he looks at us. “Then we trust the plan. My father has never let me down before, and he’s not about to start now.”
Callan mutters something under his breath, but doesn’t argue further.
Casey sighs, rubbing the back of his neck. “All right. We trust the plan. We’ll stay the course. I trust you too, Bran.” Casey gives him the faintest smile, which Bran returns in kind.
We settle into the corner of the dock, waiting for the next steps. Bran stands a few paces away, his gaze fixed on the horizon, his hand absentmindedly brushing the note in his coat. The tension lingers, thick and heavy, despite the despite the assurances laid before us.
I sit on a crate nearby, elbows on my knees, head lowered. Finally, I break the silence, voice low and trembling with frustration. “I’m trying so hard to push forward, but I don’t know how much blind faith I have left in me.”
To my surprise, it’s Bran that crouches in front of me.
“I feel it too,” he says, his voice low but fierce. “The uncertainty and doubt clawing at the back of my mind. Wanting something solid when all we’ve got are whispers and shadows. I’ve never been so torn in my life.”
He continues. “What matters now is that we keep stepping, even though it feels as if the ground could fall away at any moment.”
All that I find when I look at him is steadfast sincerity.
“You’ve been through fire before, and you came out stronger,” he continues. “We all see it. And I know we’ll see it again. ”
His words hit something deep, cracking the wall I’d built around my frustration. A reluctant smile pulls at my lips, and I let out a shaky laugh. “Who could resist feeling better after that?”
Bran grins, standing and offering me a hand. “Now get up. We’ve got a long road ahead, and I’d rather not face it without your sharp tongue keeping us all in line.”
I take his hand, and he holds mine as he says, “ We endure, we prevail .”
I loop my arm through his and repeat his words with quiet conviction. “ We endure, we prevail .”
With that, we turn toward the brigantine moored at the dock.
The ship is smaller than I expected but sleek and sturdy, its masts stretching skyward like black spires.
The name Bán Sídhe is painted in bold letters along its bow.
One by one, we load up, horses included, the creak of wood and the rhythmic thud of hooves filling the air.
Curiosity gets the better of me as I approach a deckhand near the gangway. “Excuse me, sir. What does the name of the boat mean?”
He raises an eyebrow, a smirk playing at the corner of his mouth. “ Sir, is it? Ah, that’s rich. Ye hopin’ a bit o’ sweet talk’ll get ye far? We’re crammed on this floatin’ tub for a good stretch—plenty o’ time to learn how to handle a man proper, if ye’ve the nerve for it.”
I blink at him, my lips parting in disbelief before settling into a firm, unimpressed line. My brows lift just enough to convey silent exasperation—the same look a mother gives a child when they find themselves toeing the line of trouble.
Before I can retort, Finn sidles up beside me, one hand resting on the hilt of his weapon, the other pulling me in against his side. His voice is smooth but edged with quiet authority. “Answer her question, and mind yer tongue—before I decide ye’re better off without it.”
I don’t have to look at Finn to know how he’s staring at the man—it’s written in the tension coursing through his body, in the way his presence feels heavier, more certain, as if he’s just waiting for an excuse to make good on the threat.
The deckhand straightens sharply, the teasing edge vanishing as he swallows hard. “Aye, well,” he clears his throat, glancing between us, “Bán Sídhe,” he replies, his thick Irish accent making the words roll like a song. “Means ‘ white fairy’ . ”
Another deckhand passing by snickers and calls out, “Naw, cap’n calls ’em banshees! Says they’re death bringers, he does. Thinks name alone’ll warn off wrong-doers. Superstitious feck, full o’ notions, that one.” His mirth lingers as he continues past us.
The first deckhand seizes the moment to scurry away, casting a nervous glance at us before disappearing below deck.
When I glance at Finn, his glare is sharp enough to slice through the rigging, his golden-brown eyes dark with warning. Every muscle in him is taut, like a man barely holding himself in check.
Without thinking, I reach for his hand and squeeze, just enough to steady him.
At first, he stays rigid, but after a moment, his fingers shift—slow, deliberate—curling around mine with certainty.
I glance back at everyone, expecting a quip or a sharp remark, but they’re all quiet. Casey’s fingers tap anxiously against the hilt of his dagger. Bran avoids my gaze entirely. Even Callan stands silent, his brow furrowed.
My voice cuts through the silence, steady but soft. “It’s just a name.”
“Hell’s own britches,” Bran grumbles under his breath, just as Casey groans. “Of course it is. Of course, it’s called a damn banshee.”
I raise an eyebrow at both of them, lips curving into a ghost of a smirk. “Well,” I say dryly, “guess it’s a fitting vessel for us, then.”
Bran groans again, dragging a hand down his face. “Couldn’t it have been something a little less… I don’t know—ominous? Nothing screams ‘ we might not make it to our next destination ’ quite like our ship being named after a screeching death spirit.”
“What would be more to your liking, pray tell?” I counter, tilting my head with exaggerated thoughtfulness. “The Buoyant Bosom? The Twin Treasures? The Corset Conqueror?”
Casey snorts so loudly I think he might choke. “HMS Plump Peaks? Oh, no—wait. The Glistening Gudgeon.” His grin is wide enough to split his face.
Finn interjects in his usual calm drawl, “The Lusty Lancer.”
That earns a laugh from me, but before I can respond, Callan clears his throat. He doesn’t look up, just mutters under his breath, “ The Veined Voyager .”
The laughter dies instantly, and every head turns toward him .
Bran looks at Callan, then at the rest of us, and finally throws up his hands with a wide grin. “Well, hell. Callan wins out, but I have to give it to Triona for second place with The Corset Conqueror. ”
Callan shrugs, completely unfazed. “Takes a keen mind to name a ship,” he says, the ghost of a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth.
Bran claps him on the shoulder as they walk ahead. “Aye, mate. And you have a far filthier one than I’d expected.”
The rest of us follow, the tension from earlier easing slightly as we settle into the rhythm of the task. Whatever lies ahead, we have a ship, a direction, and each other—our path set, even if the destination feels uncertain.