Chapter 33 A Prison of Promises
Let not the serpent's whisper deceive your ears. Serenity lies in obedience, not the forked tongue of doubt.
As we near Staygia, Rowan’s words ring like hollow bells in my ear. Trust. Such a fickle and fragile creature. Unsuitable for the wise, impossible for the broken.
What are Rhyland’s intentions? What plans weave in and out of his beautiful mind?
There's not been another quiet or private moment for us since he spotted the sails at our back.
The ship trails us for the next two days, growing closer and closer.
The Morningstar. Cyprian identifies her as a crew of mercenaries known to offer their rather vicious services to the highest bidder, and they're flying the crest of House Black, which can only mean one thing.
The sea-forged have gathered on the quarterdeck, ready to dissect our predicament and see if we can’t stitch it back into something that resembles a solution.
“The question is not who now, but which? Which Black are we dealing with?” Cyprian ruminates. “We have Solomon. It could be any of them. The father, Egon. The bastard, Harlow, or the youngest—the terror in the north, what's his name again?”
Reave snorts. “Not much of a terror if you can't even remember his name, Cy.”
Laughter picks up but a hard look from Rhyland quiets them all.
He’s stressed. I can see it in the soft lines around his eyes, the quiet pull of his mouth when he thinks I'm not watching. Something is eating at the pirate, but what? Rowan’s words are haunting now.
Deafening, in the quiet way they burn through me, highlighting every hidden cleft and burrow, the places I shoved my mistrust down to make room for the new, overwhelming emotion I hold for the pirate god.
But therein lies my problem—I don't see how they can exist together, yet prying either out by the roots seems like an impossibility.
They've both left their marks on me.
But none of it feels more real than the moment the coast of Staygia sprawls out ahead of us.
It peeks through the mist of the distant coast, high mountains at her back that enwrap the city like the edges of a deep bowl.
She’s a slate of white marble: strong, proud pillars, hulking temples and a wide acropolis.
More buildings weave and stretch back into the land like a never ending spread of white frost over a rumpled valley.
A high wall surrounds the heart of the city itself with a bronze gate at the front, but it looks like sections weave around the outskirts, unprotected.
Lower districts, I imagine, for the poor and unseemly.
The path to the main harbor looks difficult to navigate.
We need to reach the port strip, but the pass is bottlenecked by a long stretch of high cliffs that open to a large, glassy bay.
Two hulking statues stand like sentinels at the pass’s mouth.
My heart squeezes in my chest to realize I recognize the face of one—Harial. Pointed ears. That perpetual smirk carved into the white stone. Of course, they worship the Old Gods here. Harial might be their patron. What a poor choice.
By now we’ve realized the Morningstar isn't alone. She leads a fleet of three smaller ships. The Ambrosia, the Tempest, and the King’s Folly.
“Didn't you promise to cast the old shit weasel overboard if they pursued?” I'm only half joking when I sidle up next to Rhyland, who hasn't seemed to take his eyes off our unwelcome company since he spotted the first set of sails on the horizon.
A low, pleasing laugh slips from him, but there's a hollow undercurrent when he turns to me.
I expect him to reach out, to touch my face, trace my jaw and collarbone with his warm calluses, but he doesn't. Instead he looks off ahead of us at the approaching city, its outline caught under a fine layer of morning fog.
“We'll need him for what's to come. Along with our other prisoner.”
It takes me a moment to process the words, wrack my brain for who else we have stowed away down there, when Aizen and Archer appear, both toting an arm of the red sea captain who looks admittedly terrible in this light.
And the stench from him—gods, it's a struggle to keep from slapping my hand over my mouth and retching.
Searle.
I didn't pay much attention to him during my trip below and conversation with Solomon. He blinks against the pale dawn, unused to the sun. His face is ruddy and pocketed and his crimson beard’s grown even more wiry and unkempt.
The deep scarlet coat he wears, which had already been in rough shape when we first met, is near rags, and I note with a shiver the tightly wrapped stump where his right hand used to be.
“What do ye want, Talon, ye craven bastard?” he slurs and stumbles despite the support of a well-muscled twin propping him on either side.
“He's drunk.” I say it with a flicker of surprise. Who in the hel is giving the ship prisoners booze?
A twin chuckles softly at the look on my face. “We aren’t monsters, Avalon. We’d never deprive a fellow sailor.”
A lopsided grin splits Searle’s face, revealing a scatter of missing teeth when his head lolls my way. “Aye, lass. Tis the only way to be when yer locked in a godsdamned brig next to a raving fookin’ lunatic for neigh on a month.”
Rhyland scoffs loud enough to draw back everyone’s stares. “Please. I remember your grandfather putting me through far worse when I landed in this realm and washed up on his island.”
“The sins of the fathers, eh? A worthy punishment indeed, if we're all to be ‘eld, tried, ‘n condemned for the deeds of ‘em.”
If Rhyland were a cat, I imagine his tail would have begun twitching. He pushes a hand through his already tousled hair; the runes on his forearms glint starkly blue, and he levels Searle with a look I know too well. Impatience.
“Since we are not our predecessors, I believe a measure of forgiveness is in order. You stole my ring and suffered the consequences of such. Now I give you the opportunity to earn my grace, perhaps even my favor.”
Searle squints. “Favor does little in the way of sunken ships and stolen crewmates, pirate god. I was cheated ou’ of the Serpent’s Breath and now she rests at the bottom o’ the sea, poor girl.
” Real tears well up in his eyes. He lifts a sausage like finger to dab at them and I’m torn between uncomfortable laughter and a quake of real pity.
“The deal for your ship was struck fair and square.” Reave materializes from the fading shadows, nearly bleeds from them.
I jump at the sound of his voice, gripping the rail tight and clenching my teeth together.
Searle's face twists with rage. He tries, and fails, to turn in the direction of the shadowy sailor.
“I was drunk!”
“You're always drunk. In fact, it would have been taking advantage if I'd have made the deal with…” Reave pauses to study Searle mockingly, a begrudging sweep of sunglow eyes—up and then down. “...whatever the sober version of you is.”
Searle blurts out a series of howling curses before Rhyland’s blade flicks up to rest under his chin. It happens so fast—one moment it’s tucked carefully at his side, the next it hungers at the man’s throat.
Searle flinches, recalling the bite of steel, and struggles to swallow. “Fine, fine, what do ye want from meh?”
“The crew and I have visited Staygia’s capital a handful of times but always from a hidden pass west of here to avoid both pirate hunters and one of the queen’s monsters that’s rumored to guard the main shore.
Unfortunately for us, that pass has been found and barricaded.
All those looking to enter the games must come by way of the central channel.
This is said to be her first trial to thin the herd and weed out those who likely wouldn’t survive the colosseum to come.
Word has it, you’ve taken the channel before, under another sail, another captain.
You could tell us what guards it, how to survive it, and maybe use your famed strategy skills to help us shake our pursuers while we do it. ”
The red pirate captain’s face goes sallow like he’s pushing leaden sludge around his mind.
This is a mistake, relying on him to help. It has to be. He’s a washed up old drunk.
“So, yer wantin’ to play chicken with o’ sea serpent then?”
The sharp cut of Rhyland’s shoulders stiffen but his interest seems piqued enough because he leans forward and asks, “What did you have in mind?”
My fear of the sea, of the dense water and roaming creatures below, returns tenfold when Searle is finished laying out his plan.
‘The Swirl’ as he calls it, a section of the bay where the queen's Sea Serpent patrols, will be our obstacle. According to him, there’s an unmarked point—a magick barrier of sorts—that the monster cannot pass, but if a ship sails over it they are fair game for destruction.
I’m reminded of the móri, how Ireus confined them to the Shadowed Sea where they wait for unsuspecting ships to pass.
The Mad Queen must have enacted a similar sort of magic.
Just how powerful is this woman? I’m sure we’ll find out.
Searle’s plan doesn’t end with just slipping by unharmed.
That would be far too easy. His plan is to wreak havoc on our pursuers in the process.
Assuming they’re unaware of where the magickal boundary lies, we’ll lead them straight into the fray and turn hard to port—less than a league from the barrier—hoping the ships behind us fail to correct their path in time.
Again, I think of how absolutely mad this is, relying on the depraved pirate captain to remember exactly where the boundary is. To trust that he isn’t leading us all to our deaths in some wild revenge scheme.