Chapter 13
WHEN I REGAIN CONSCIOUSNESS, my eyes feel so very heavy, so I keep them closed.
And then I realize I must be dreaming.
For I feel weightless, and my body drifts as though it were floating.
At least I’m not falling , I think distantly. Or having some nightmare about the night my whole life was ripped from me.
I think it curious how muted and strange everything feels. Sounds seem too far away. Or perhaps too close? There’s a whooshing that sounds nothing like wind and a pressure on my skin that has no temperature.
And finally, I register the sensation at my heart. That warmth that seems contained. Out of my reach. Yet vital somehow. My entire life force held within one spot.
And then I remember Threydan.
My eyes shoot open.
I blink several times before I can make sense of what I’m seeing. Light threading down from above. Thick shapes hovering above me. A large void spread out in front of me: darkness in every direction as far as I can see. Which admittedly isn’t that far.
I try to stand, to move my fingers. Pinch myself awake.
But then I realize I’m restrained.
I look down, my head moving more sluggishly than usual. Some sort of iron weight rests on the ground, dirt flecks stirring when it shifts. My arms are bound in front of me at the wrists, and as I try to free myself, to thrash, bubbles drift upward.
Bubbles?
The realization sends my pulse hammering away at lightning-fast speeds.
I’m underwater.
I’ve been underwater for stars’ know how long, and yet I’ve been breathing just normally. Or at least I was before I realized my predicament.
Now my lungs have increased their pace.
This is a horrible nightmare.
Except …
That heat within me, the numbness to temperature in my limbs. That all really happened, didn’t it? Some frozen, sleeping man did something to me. The faint taste of bile still sits on my tongue.
I don’t know what’s real and what’s not at the moment, but I know one thing. Regardless of whether or not I’m dreaming, I do not want to be down here.
I lift my head, realize the floating blocks above me are ice. I’m still in the frozen northeast. The water should freeze my limbs into immobility, yet I cannot feel it.
But my cheek still stings from where the man cut me on his spearpoint.
Right after I came out of that ice tomb with Kearan.
Kearan.
They’ve taken him or killed him.
And that thought, while it once would have not made a difference to me—now I feel incensed.
That is a member of my crew. He is no one’s for the taking. Not while I’m still alive.
I need to get out of here.
My cutlass is gone, of course. So are a good majority of my knives. But surely, I had far too many on me for those men to find them all.
I slip my fingers into my boots, only to come up empty. I try for pockets in my clothing, but the water has made the fabric stiffen, and it’s hard to reach inside my coat with my hands bound. I hear something move behind me, and I go very still.
Sound travels faster underwater, doesn’t it? It could be something very far away, I reason.
You can’t be afraid of the dark when you’re the monster lurking in the shadows.
That’s always been true on land. But underwater?
Believe it.
I have to.
I am the deadliest thing in this ocean. I will not let panic consume me. I have nothing to fear in death.
Except, Alosa gave me a job to do. I have not yet done it. I cannot die before I save those girls.
I try to bend my arms and legs. The ropes are too tight at my wrists. My legs have little sway from the weight of iron bound to them. Thinking to pick up the iron and take it with me, I reach for it, but it’s far too heavy to budge.
I search the seabed, looking for something sharp, but there is nothing in sight save a bit of seagrass.
I have to find a knife.
Bending myself in half, I try to feel for where one single weapon could be. Those men couldn’t have found them all. I own fifteen knives, damn it.
And then, at my side, I feel the pressure of steel digging into my skin. I twist my arms, trying to reach for it, fingers scratching against my clothing. Eventually, the tip of one finger presses against steel, the pommel of the dagger. I try to grasp the edge with my fingernail, but I always keep them short and can’t get a grip.
A fish half my size swims in front of me, and I nearly scream from the surprise of it. With the scant light, it looks brown with no remarkable features, save its sheer size. It circles me once curiously before moving on.
I try again for the knife, twisting until my muscles burn and my fingers cramp. But finally, my fingers pinch at the hilt, and I pull it free.
Another ten minutes and I have my hands free of the ropes. In just two more, I have my feet free of the iron weight. I push for the surface, swimming fast as I kick my legs.
When my head breaches, I gasp in a hard gulp of air, despite not needing the extra burst of oxygen. My stomach sinks as I look ahead, seeing nothing but endless ocean on the horizon.
When I turn, I feel sick because there is still nothing. I’m in the middle of nowhere. With nothing. Just emptiness above and beneath me.
This is a nightmare.
Except it’s not.
I know it’s not. Because I am fully alert, fully aware of myself. I may be different, but I am present. No dream is this real.
Across the horizon, the sun is close to setting. I’ve never been afraid of the dark before, but it’s never been combined with the void of an ocean beneath me. It is so very quiet except for the softly moving water breaking against my skin.
I want to scream. I want to look down, for fear of what else could be below me. I’d estimate that a good thirty feet of water waits between me and the ocean bottom.
I am not afraid.
I will not be afraid.
I am what people fear.
And then I see it. Far, far in the distance to my right. A stripe of green.
Land.
Those bastards sailed me out here, dumped my unconscious body overboard. What had they said? Something about putting me where he couldn’t find me? Well, I’m going to find him. I’m going to find them . They’re all going to pay.
For there is nothing I excel at more than vengeance.
I start to swim. One arm in front of the other, kicking my feet behind me. I push my limbs as fast as they will go, swimming as though something were chasing me.
After what feels like an hour but is surely no more than fifteen minutes, my limbs are too tired to move any farther. Too limp to even hold me up. I start to sink below the ocean’s surface. And somehow, I’m still breathing as though oxygen were flowing into my lungs normally.
It feels wrong. I’m wrong. Threydan did something to me, and he needs to fix it.
I focus on nothing but breathing as I hover in the space between air and seabed, waiting for my limbs to regain their strength.
Then I swim for the surface, find land once more, and start the process all over again.
IT IS VERY, VERY late when I finally drag myself onto frozen, snow-covered ground.
I flip onto my back and stare up at the sky. Only a few stars poke between the cloud cover, but their presence is a welcome sight. Little pinpricks of light after I just spent hours hovering in the gloom of the open ocean.
I must fall asleep like that, for when I wake, my limbs feel sore and stiff from the hours of swimming. The sun is well overhead, not that it’s done much good for the landscape here.
When I try to stand, I find that I cannot move. Cannot so much as sit up.
I yank on my right arm, hear some sort of crack, and then finally feel the tension release. When I look to my arm, I note that it is covered in ice.
I’m frozen to the ground.
I should be dead three times over by now. From the water, from the cold, from the night exposed to the elements.
Yet here I am. Breathing, heart pounding, muscles sore.
Numb to everything except that sting on my cheek.
My left arm comes free next, then my legs. I have to wiggle in place for a couple of minutes before my back finally breaks free from the ground. I pat at myself as I stand, ensuring all my clothing is where it should be. The dagger I used to cut myself free is frozen into my clothing. Useless at the moment.
I try to get my bearings. There are snow-covered peaks in the distance. Evergreen trees dot the expanse in front of me. Purple flowers break through the frozen ground, flourishing where they shouldn’t, just like me now.
I’ve no idea where my camp and crew are. Dimella must be frantic with worry, but I trust her to keep everyone safe until I can find my way back to them.
I start walking.
My stomach grumbles for the want of food, but there is nothing I can do about that. My thirst is remedied by scooping up snow and letting it melt in my mouth before swallowing. I can’t feel the cold of it, so it’s very satisfying, if slow.
My eyes sting from all the salt water they’ve been exposed to. Burns and scrapes cover my fingers and wrists from tugging and clawing at the ropes as well as misplaced slices from the dagger as I sawed my way free.
My hair and skin are covered in frost. My clothing is frozen to my body. I wish I could remove the outer layers, since I don’t need them, but I don’t know how to get free of them without tearing my skin off.
My gait is more of a waddle than a walk with the way my limbs are stuck to my clothing. It makes my pace slower than it should be.
But I am not dead.
That is the important thing.
Even if it’s impossible.
As the sun traces the sky, I make my way farther inland. Finally, when night falls, I can see pinpricks of light through the trees. It’s not my crew, that’s for sure. They know better. But neither is it the camp of men who guard the tomb entrance. For there must be dozens of fires spread throughout the woods to what I think is northeast.
I pick up my pace, finally having a heading.
I make noises as I move, no matter how much I try not to. The ice crunches and my clothing rustles with every step. Though my stomach kills me, I force myself to take it slow. Observe the area thoroughly as I approach. The natives on watch make themselves known to me slowly with their small movements. One scratches his nose. Another shakes himself awake. A third rubs his hands together for warmth.
For hours, I watch, until I’m certain I see all the lookouts. Only then can I plan my path into the camp.
I can smell the cooking meat on those fires, and it presses me on when my limbs feel ready to drop. My stomach encourages me when my head feels too heavy to lift.
I crawl through the trees, passing the watch one by one until I can see into the camp. Here, I pause, taking the measure of the space. Log cabins spread before me in an endless line. It is the first I’ve seen of any permanent residences from these people. Smoke billows out of the chimneys, and I spot covered areas housing chopped wood. Toward the center of the settlement, I see what appears to be the outside of a smithy and a tannery, though it’s hard to be sure with only firelight to see by.
Not far off, two men stand guard outside of a hastily erected tent, and I wonder instantly if that is where they are holding Kearan.
There is only one way to be certain, but I’d never make it over there without being seen, or more importantly, heard. Not in my current state.
There are a series of firepits, where spits roast meats, likely food for those on watch to help them stay awake. There is one person tending to the food, stopping at each fire to turn the meat. I watch her carefully, waiting to see if she will leave a fire untended long enough for me to approach it.
She does, for after she makes her rounds, she disappears inside one of the cabins, likely to prepare more food, and I take my chance, helping myself to the mostly cooked meat. Because the heat doesn’t hurt me, I don’t have to wait for it to cool before I let it slide down my throat and fill my aching belly. When done, I check for anyone coming this way.
Most of the people are sleeping, and those in the camp are unconcerned about intruders when those on watch haven’t raised an alarm.
They’ve clearly never had a run-in with someone like me before.
I hold my hands out toward the fire, and my frozen clothing crunches as I try to get myself closer. The ice melts from my sleeves at an agonizing pace, so I decide to hell with it all.
I thrust my hand into the flames, waiting for the pain of the burn to surface, but it doesn’t happen. My skin doesn’t catch fire, though the fabric does.
Throwing caution to the wind, I step fully into the firepit, stand atop the crackling logs, and hold back a sob.
I can’t feel it. Not the cold or the heat or anything in between.
What. Did. He. Do. To. Me?
I fall to my knees, grab on to a fiery white coal with my bare hand, squeeze it within my fist, waiting for something, anything, to happen.
But the fire doesn’t burn my skin. The smoke doesn’t clog my lungs. The heat doesn’t sting my eyes.
Instead the fire sizzles and sputters under the water melting off my skin and clothing. There is no pain. No consequence.
This isn’t right.
I catch movement out of the corner of my vision, and I duck down farther into the fire. A woman approaches the tent I noticed earlier with a young boy at her side.
Kearan. I still need to save Kearan. I can’t break down now.
She disappears inside the tent, and I remove myself from the fire, patting out my clothing in the few places that have caught.
Now I have a smell that follows me, surely, but at least I don’t make a sound when I move anymore. I creep closer to that tent, waiting until the guards aren’t looking before placing myself exactly at the back. I lower myself onto the dark ground, making myself as small as possible.
Here I pause and listen.
A woman says something in that native tongue. My mind translates the words for me, but the boy, who can’t be more than ten, translates them for Kearan.
“Let’s see if you are prepared to talk now that you’ve had a chance to calm your temper.” I can only imagine the look she must be giving him. “I am Dynkinar, a Speaker for our people. This is Zarian, my translator. What are you called?”
“I’m not feeling especially chatty after you sank our ship and killed my captain. Just run me through and be done with it.”
At first, I feel comforted to hear Kearan’s voice, but he thinks me dead, and that, inexplicably, makes me sad.
The boy translates Kearan’s words back to Dynkinar.
“There is still a chance you may live,” he says after Dynkinar speaks again. “There is a chance the rest of your crew might live, but first you will answer my questions. If I like what I hear, perhaps we can talk of peace. Now, let’s try this again. I am Dynkinar, a Speaker for our people. Who are you?”
I can sense Kearan’s hesitation. He does not trust these people, but he also wants to keep the rest of the crew safe.
Finally, he says, “I am Kearan, sailing master of the former vessel, Vengeance . What is a Speaker? That like a queen?”
“No, a Speaker is one whose words hold power. One who must be listened to. There are three of us among the Drifta, but you were captured while my men were on watch, so here we are. Now, that’s enough questions from you. You will answer mine now. Tell me why you have woken the King of the Undersea before I order my people to have you flayed alive.”